The Thanks Giving Poem

Do you love poems?

Are you thankful, for beautiful poems?

I really wonder how many people truly DO enjoy reading poems? (I know many of us LOVE writing poems!)

Love poems, sad poems, happy poems, funny poems?

We all have our favourite don’t we?

Poems of Thanksgiving perhaps today?

I do not have a Thanksgiving poem written … yet … I have been meaning to write one all week to respect those who celebrate this holiday. I am not of the custom of celebrating … however I have kinda worked out this much:

We have to say thank you for things.

So thank you. All of you, for saying thank you to each other – it is good manners and really quite a delight to see all the Thanksgiving giving-ness, which indicates I MUST don my Poets Cape and produce poetic verse.

From the top of my head shall we? Generally what I normally do, but I am so trash tired and should be in bed … so not expecting much – shoot forth….

The Thanks Giving Poem

‘I sat bent round and waited
For the blood to reach my head
Dark dreams still lingered lightly
As I eased out of my bed

I fell upon today
Felt sun behind the blind
And as I opened up my arms
My thanks I wished to find

For sun and rain
For loss and gain
For sickness and for health
For dark, for light
For day, for night
For poverty and wealth
For youth and age
For peace and rage
For breath until our grave

For life with all these till the death
In dreams, love, hope and grace’


And there we go – Now I am Thankful for small mercies appearing in the form of words of thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving…

(I SO really want to write THANKS GIVING – two separate words…but everywhere I look it is joined… )



At Mark Bialczak

White Sheets

If you had stayed tonight, would everything have changed?

My eyes shut tight, in dreams of light, in dreams that drink in fate.

If you had been right here, aside me as I am, you would have known how all you fear can slowly disappear.

If you had stayed a while, and kept your eyes for me, your wish would be my trembling hands as softly we’de be free.

Slowly free the harnesses, slowly free the pain, slowly free the voices that we hold inside each day.

What you fear to say and do, what I fear to be, are everything we never knew, and all we shall not see.

If you had stayed and watched my eyes, white sheets onto we’de spill; we would have formed a paragraph to tell our stories will.


At Mark Bialczak