At last night's meeting of the Cherry Street Poets, our writing theme was to come up with a poem about "Harvest, or Gathering, A cornucopia of poetry" in honor of November Fall and Thanksgiving Holiday. I must say for some reason, I had trouble with this assignment. Try as I might I could not come up with a clever poem.
Then....I went online for some examples and among them I found the following poem by Billy Collins and decided to share it with the group. As you'll see by the poem following Billy's, I did manage to come up with something after all.
First, I present to you here, Billy Collin's poem titled "Thanksgiving Morning".



Thanksgiving Morning
by Billy Collins

The crossed multiple blades of the blender
set out to dry on a counter.
The corkscrew unsheathed and ready
to enter whatever cannot resist its twisting.
The carving knife waiting alongside
the sharpener for its abrasive touch,
The blue box of matches, the white candles.
The branch of dry leaves brought in
Along with vines clustered with red and yellow berries,
All of which points to the anonymous turkey,
soon to be trussed with string
but now soaking on the cold porch
in a bucket of salted ice water,
in brine, as they like to say this time of year.
And we must not overlook the oven,
radiating in a corner of the kitchen
set at first at 500 degrees
then lowered almost mercifully to 350,
still hot enough to lift the bird
into the condition of sacrificial edibility,
yet short of what would incinerate a book,
the oven that swallowed the witch and Sylvia Plath
and now the oven of our pleasure,
our forks and glasses blindly raised.



Okay, here's mine.



A CORNUCOPIA OF NOTHING
by Jim Jordan

We were challenged –as it were
to write a poem of Harvest,
a Gathering of leaves of family traditions,
or whatever it is that is gathered this time of year.
We were to write a cornucopia of rhyme,
or a cacophony of words whether they rhymed or not.
Even a song about the changing of the season would do.
With the gauntlet thrown down,
I “Gathered” my pen’s – the ones I most often use to write my verse,
the ones who’s ink flows smoothly and quickly and delight the page with my genius.
I took out sheets of white paper – 24 lb. with brightness of standard 98 –
it reminded me of snow
unblemished by footprints.
I sat in my comfortable overstuffed chair,
next to the lamp with the 60 watt bulb,
3 short clicks to get the light just right.
I took a sip from my glass of Merlot,
making sure to return the glass to the coaster on the side table,
even though it was a stemmed glass and wouldn’t have mattered.
I took an in-breath of air through my nose
and released it gently between my slightly parted lips.
With pen in hand I sat staring at the blank page……NOTHING!
Ten minutes passed…NOTHING!…..20 minutes…..NOTHING!
THIRTY MINUTES…..Panic set in!

A DIFFERENT PEN PERHAPS!....NOTHING….I DOODLED!....
I WENT THROUGH SEVERAL WHITE SHEETS
OF 98 LB. – 24 BRIGHTNESS OR WAS IT 24 LB. – 98 BRIGHTNESS!!!
AT THAT POINT….IT DIDN’T MATTER!!! I STILL HAD….NOTHING!
I ROSE FROM MY COMFORTABLE CHAIR AND PACED!....NOTHING!
I DRANK A SECOND GLASS OF WINE….NOTHING!.....A THIRD!!....A FORTH!!
NOTHING…NOTHING…NOTHING STILL!!!
BEADS OF SWEAT WERE ROLLING DOWN MY FOREHEAD
MY HANDS WERE TREMBLING
MY LEGS FELT LIKE RUBBER……….ok….part of that may have been the wine.
At last the clock was chiming midnight….I felt defeated…exhausted…a little hung over already.
I went over to the computer….got online…and downloaded a Billy Collins poem titled
“Thanksgiving Morning.”
That…..and Nothing more.