Ah, Thanksgiving! A time to be grateful for many things, including the abilities we were given. Everyone on this Earth has some areas in which they have natural talent. Most of us learn at a young age that Mother Nature or Father Time or the Fairy Godmother, or whoever is in charge of such things, doesn’t deal a fair hand to everyone. Some fortunates receive a bountiful bouquet of talents, while others get a wilted bunch of thorny stems. We must then play the hand we’ve been dealt. One of my talents would seem to be mixing metaphors.
My wife and I complement each other in this regard, as we each have abilities that the other utterly lacks. We also compliment each other on these talents, which makes for a happier home. My wife is extremely organized and neat. I was off lollygagging when those gifts were dispersed. Left to my own devices, I would end up living in a hovel and being featured on a ghastly segment of the six o’clock news. I often seek her inspiration for how I should organize my things of this or that ilk. I have any number of ilks that consume vast hours of my life. My tombstone could read, “He frittered away too much time on ilks. But he amazed us with his untidiness.”
While I sometimes will admit that I have a minor flair for writing, it is for prose only, and does not extend to poetry. I have on a few occasions made presumptions of being a poet, and found myself excoriated for my efforts. The best I can hope to achieve is doggerel, and even that’s a stretch. Whenever I try to wax poetic, my talent wanes.
It is with an odd mixture of pride and humiliation, therefore, that I give you what I consider the pinnacle of JP poetry. If I evaluate it fairly, it is meager fare, not even fair fare, and certainly not wonderful fare. But to be fair, my fair reader, I think I fared fairly well with this effort. You may disagree. I call it, “Thanksgiving Fare isn’t Fair,” and here it is:
A Thanksgiving celebration
Can bring joy or consternation.
It leaves humans ecstatic,
For the turkey it’s traumatic,
Unless there’s gobbler reincarnation.
Well, there you have it, and I’m sure you don’t want it, so please pass it on. It may be a turkey of a poem, but at least it’s in season.