This poem is what I like to call "enhanced fiction."  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is probably inevitable, but intended without malice.

THANKSGIVING DINNER

All the young cousins have ants in their pants

Looking forward to visits by uncles and aunts

Mom is preparing to roast a real winner

of a turkey for the annual Thanksgiving dinner.

First to show up is Uncle Dan Fraser

who needs to meet up with some soap and a razor.

His beard collects cranberries, butter and corn,

and yet there are stains on each shirt he has worn.

His wife is with him, dear Jessie—so brave—

who’s not at all able to make him behave.

May I introduce you to Gert, my great aunt,

whom I really should love but quite simply can’t.

The woman has always complained of poor health

and yet brags about it as if it’s her wealth.

Here comes Uncle Ray, whose political views

are plumb wacko. His rantings have ceased to amuse.

Brother Tom, bless his heart, insists that we meet

the guys he’s brought with him—bums off the street.

Dear Grace brings her usual zucchini bread

I know I should eat some--I’d rather be dead.

Though no one likes it, our admiring comments

inspire her to bring it to family events.

There’s the uncle who wheezes and the aunt who hums

and old cousin Doris who always comes

to remind us each year of the reason we gather:

to give thanks for all the blessings that matter.

We’re a raggedy bunch, there’s no doubt about it.

Let’s all join hands and joyfully shout it:

One, two, three, yell:  HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

We’re here, and we are all glad to be living

in a land where we’re free to give thanks to the One

Who showed Himself to us and joins in our fun.

Everyone’s welcome here, old saints and young sinners

to the mother of all Thanksgiving dinners.

Postscript:

I ask you, folks, and please be candid:

Did your dinner last as long as this poem did?

The assignment was to write a rhyming couplet poem about fall colors.  

The Texas version I posted earlier:  Leaves turn brown.

                                                            Fall down.

                                                               It's fall.

                                                             That's all.

                                                                            wasn't quite adequate.

This is the one I sent. I have just learned it placed FIRST

CRIMSON LEAVES 

A kind of aching sadness reaches me

while watching as our sugar maple tree,

her crimson leaves like bitter, falling tears,

grows bare-limbed, stark--as in all her former years.

In the autumn of my life, may I stay bright

until I turn to gray and fade from sight.

For I discern what falling leaves can’t know:

When finally I fall I will not go

to merely dust and ashes. I will rise

to Him who made the trees, the earth and skies.

For He who suffers not a sparrow’s fall,

remembers me and hears me when I call.

I’ll rise to new life trees have never seen,

and never fade again--forever green.

A couple of weeks ago I posted my "Fall Colors of Texas" poem.  It went like this:

     Leaves fall down

     Turn brown.

     It's fall.

     That's all.

Many of my readers expressed appreciation for that work of art, and my Texas readers understood it well.

In the process of trying to write the poem I eventually entered, I wrote a couple of others that were not quite ready for competition.  This is one:

AUTUMN COLORS

In high summer days it’s hard to get serious

about the oncoming season and how mysterious,

that when trees thick and leafy in oak groves are granting

to dogs old and young, who are drawn to it panting,

rest and refreshing in its gentle cool shade,

don’t notice its leaves beginning to fade.

Bright red is the sugar maple’s glory

but gold and orange tell their own story,

of how chlorophyll’s needed to keep the leaves green.

If we didn’t know better we’d think it was mean

that this sun-scorched land would take what is pretty

And turn it plain brown—monochrome, dirty.

It makes me wonder--inspires me to utter

that the One who suffers no sparrow to flutter

without his knowledge, will be still be around

when our purpose is finished and we fall to the ground

                                 and turn brown

The assignment was a triolet poem.

  TRUE LOVE

True love, like wine, grows deep with years

   When born at noon some clear spring day.

Through sleepless nights and bitter tears,

True love, like wine, grows deep with years,

Sweet solace as our sunset nears,

   Recalling when love came to stay.

True love, like wine, grows deep with years

   When born at noon some clear spring day. 

The assignment was to write a poem, and style or form, on Ecclesiastes 2:13 which reads:  

Then I saw that wisdom excels folly as light excels darkness. 

There's probably a name for the form and style, but I don't know what it is. 

Update:  I have learned two things.  One, this is called "light verse," and two--more amazing--it took First!

A WORD TO THE WISE

and otherwise

A solemn contemplation of Ecclesiastes 2:13

A fool and his money are soon to be parted,

so goes the saying, but don’t get me started

with maxims about a word to the wise

and the fool who is wise in his own eyes…

Well, you see how this goes, there’s no end to it.

When you write poems or prose , you simply must do it.

Write using wisdom and you can’t go wrong

as it’s hard to sound foolish when writing a song

about smarts that are smarter than the usual fool

who thinks he’s so cool when he gets out of school.

Then there’s the matter of darkness and light,

and poor dumb old Adam who much prefers night

to consider his deeds—while sensual not prurient—

are best done in shadows in any event.

When your house is a mess and company’s coming

you might turn the lights low and keep the fan humming.

If your unscheduled guest is inclined to get flirty,

he might be discouraged if the house appears dirty.

But if he’s the right kind of fellow he might

appreciate reflections catching the light

from candles strategically placed here and there,

highlighting those amber glints in your hair.

Let’s just cut this out and give up the fight:

Wisdom trumps folly and dark dies in light.

SPRING JOY

The long-awaited showers come at last

and birth us forth from winter’s sheltered womb.

With lightening flash and then the thunder’s boom,

the hard rain soaks our yard to mud so fast,

my house has lost its shine and I’m aghast--

our dog’s big paws leave tracks from room to room

while I, with my rag mop, just scrub and fume

although I know this time will soon be past.

With great joy I shall welcome blessed May

when roses bloom and spread their lovely cheer.

They seem to sing and in their sweet refrain

they call to mind a long ago spring day

when my beloved said to me, “My dear,

come walk with me. Let’s stroll down Lover’s Lane.

An Italian Sonnet

Second Place 

Siloam Spring Writers

May challenge

Music to His Ears

Trees in the forest, clapping their hands,

birds scratching notes in sea coastal sands,

fig trees and fir trees, oaks and mulberries,

things on the wing and moths like pink fairies,

primroses, daisies and sassy bluebonnets

wave in the breezes while ladies write sonnets.

Creation and creatures in concert to sing

"Praise the Creator of every good thing!"

A "lyric poem about nature."  

Awarded first place in the Siloam Springs Writer's monthly challenge.

April Fools

April Fools, a little poem I wrote last year, and following that, a limerick written for an assignment.  I don't yet know how it did.

April Fools

Raindrops drip-dropping,

Easter hat shopping,

skunks gone all sappy

and really quite stinky

chasing their mates

across dark country roads.

Rabbits hip-hopping,

fuzzy and jumpy,

intent on increasing,

living up to their fame.

Boys think they’re charming

polished and gracious,

their intentions so obvious,

yet girls seem oblivious

for Spring has come

making fools of us all.

...and the limerick--Ed might be an April fool, too:

Consider the guy we called Ed

uncommonly fond of his bed.

When offered employment

said “where’s the enjoyment?

I’m taking a long nap instead.”

Our Love

We sipped

from the same chalice

sealing our promise to cherish

forever,

and when his tender lips touch mine

I still warm because our love

runs deep.

A "Cameo" poem