I’ve been sick as a dog, and am thankful I’m better. Besides mucus, I produced three sonnets, (which some critics, undoubtedly, will suggest are just another form of mucus I cough up.) (And I must admit is sure feels good to get them out of my system.)
THREE THANKSGIVING SONNETS
If you’re not thankful perhaps you’ve not been
Sick enough, needed another’s plasma
Because you’re short of your own, or got in
Love with breath while suffering asthma.
We shouldn’t need to spend midnight strangled
By our own mucus, gasping for our breath,
To thank air, but we can’t see air. So mangled
Are our minds that we need shoulder taps from death.
When you can’t cough out the crud, can’t breath in
Without whooping, no longer do you care
For promotion’s new hat, but believe in
Santa, and gasp, “All I want is some air!”
Hold your breath two minutes. See what I mean?
Things we should thank are too often unseen.
Too often we only thank Beauty when it is gone.
The Sophists lure us with bright city lights
And we forget starry nights, roosters at dawn,
And scoff at the rural, and at youth’s delights.
We think we’re so smart, when in fact we’re senile.
What else can you call forgetting where home is?
When in Rome we act Roman. See how we smile
Even while learning what sheer hell Rome is.
“You can’t go home again”, the Sophists say
To the prodigal poet asleep in his car
As he longs for dawn’s warmth long before day
And through the smog sees a bright morning star.
Yankee, go home, after prodigal sonning,
For soon as you start a Father comes running.
I was a mighty hunter, or so I thought,
And left home heading west, as advised,
And after my safari I had caught
A mighty sense of humor. Don’t be surprised
To see the head mounted there, in my study,
Up on the wall. The trophy, after tramping murky
and trudging muddy, often hurting, even bloody,
Is, midst a vast plaque, the wee head of a turkey.
The best part of a hunt is to be home
And laughing about the wild turkey hunt,
But don’t tell millionaires, for they still roam.
Don’t tell them they hunt turkey; it’s too blunt;
They miss the joke, the point, the joy. They’re unable
To sit in thanks, with turkey on the table.