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Have we given up, is it just traders,
Driving the rest of us, in their bus today,
The appreciation of our country, the building blocks,
From our countries past, will be lost, plans in motion now,
No more teaching history class.
It’s sad, at least to me, there are legal age people,
Grown raised in America, that, do not know, and understand,
The reason behind, the Thanksgiving Holiday, although,
When the Holiday is over, the talk of the town, will be,
What the taxi service charged, to bring that big spread to me.
Wow, it’s gone to that, from planning, recipes, a day and a half cooking,
The ladies, teaching their daughters, tricks of the trade, to pass to,
Their children, yes hundreds of years, celebrating Thanksgiving Holiday.
In the beginning, neighbors, families, joined and shared, a big feast,
The men, their sons, hunted all year for meat, planted gardens,
Brought wood inside for heat, and to cook. What happened? It’s gone to,
Every family, in their own home, many do not know, their neighbors,
The Pilgrims & Indians, even shared the first Thanksgiving together.
This one is up to the adults, to keep Thanksgiving a meaningful tradition.
The schools seem to be out of the, patriotism, and religious,
Teachings, exactly what kept this country together, and strong.
In this life, all we leave, are memories for others,
Some of the best, are made and remembered from Holidays.
(Just a reminder, it’s not polite to say Grace, while looking at your phone.)
                                                         ­                                                               
          The Original: Tom Maxwell © 09/28/2024 AD
MetaVerse Sep 17
Edgar Allan Poe
Never wrote a poem about a crow,
But he did write a poem about a misbehavin'
Raven.
Zywa Aug 30
Myths are real, they are

stronger than facts, tradition --


creating stories.
Play "The Servants and the Snow" (1970, Iris Murdoch), Act Two

Iris Murdoch uses the myth of 'ius primae noctis' (right of the first night / droit du seigneur) in this play

Collection "Unspoken"
MetaVerse Aug 21
We're fishes in the internet
Caught in the catch of net the day.
The smartest smartphones place a bet
That some night soon you'll meet a gray.
A U.F.O. (or, as they say
In England Land, a yoofo) flies
From where sweet baby scarecrows play
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

While sweating drops of acid sweat,
A cyborg prays away the gay.
A covid sneeze that's extra wet
Is heading thine iambic way.
Tuberculariaceae......
Is the password!  You win the prize!!
Ride on a rocket to Mars, crochet,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

If you should dance a minuet,
Throw in a twerk for Claude Monet.
I fly around a jumbo jet
While crying, "Climate change!  Obey!!"
Unqualified I fly (hooray!)
A plane that fails hardwarewise.  
Olympic athletes play croquet
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

Enjoy a ride in Santa's sleigh
Before you make your reindeer pies.
Do shake the darling buds of May,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.


MetaVerse Jul 24
Here I sit unbroken-hearted:
I tried to ****, and did, and farted.
Here I sit by fate or chance:
For *******, sitting's the proper stance.


How is yet, our soul purpose?
Aged reciprocation, a queue of wrath
Since apt, is a war with no host...
Places of passion, set to a music to never add

Odd, the taste
Of vehemence's flower
Set to sweeter haste
Implied ordeals have a certain power...

Mercy, no more...
A mirror of lewd fantasy
Seeing me step forward
Has harbored, my indignity...

Salt, I know you
Quiet, when fingers of the sun
Arrange the day, for a wind to blow
An image saving not, from a seldom, so cunning...

Professed voices
With a moment, to look and see...
A curse so sweet, presence of a choice
That has a hand, for each blindness we be...
Can't promiscuity actually get you laid?
Zywa May 13
The statues destroyed,

temples without a roof, gods --


that are still alive.
Poem 29. "Ionikón" ("Ionic", 1911, Konstantinos Kaváfis)

Collection "Held/True"
David Hilburn Mar 12
See the irony, the taste in the bible
Sweet to homage, an honor of sight seen
And believed to be, a necessary disciple
With the common root to a living whim...

Honor the dead, with the universes smile...
Saved from presences of might, that calmly collected
A hosts sedition, the showing taste of life, all the while
Has a benign portion to its find, a host is its own reflected

Spare, me the details of its decision, mutuality is a lot
Candor was for king and queen before country, which amuses children
Did is the only way to achieve a soul, as if love is an age not
Begun with solaces interest, are we a finished thought to lend?

Traitorousness aside
The voice of freedom, to collect one more kindness
If a realer simplicity is to be, the account of the times
Where has a liberty been ever so much more than a calling, to this...

Waiting for sunshine to prove?
The stoic answer to all of a day, made for sincerity
Was a willing hour, the voice we came to love?
Regaled by a sorry eye one night, that life may know a reasons charity...
What glance is greater for fate, the land or denial? ask yourself when love comes for you...
Carlo C Gomez Feb 12
~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water

~
every time
i speak my own
name i taste
the blood of
my mother's bit
lip (&) held tongue-- a self shed
to take rein

o' my father's flatiron
sur/name:
the blood, reigned (&)
i remain—
sanguine & ruddy
after all
(these broods).
thoughts on immigration, identity, class & patriarchy.
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