"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Friday, December 11, 2020

Thanksgiving Day Poems

 


The Harvest Moon
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.



* * * * * * * * *





Thanksgiving
by James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

Let us be thankful—not only because
Since last our universal thanks were told
We have grown greater in the world’s applause,
And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old—

But thankful for all things that come as alms
From out the open hand of Providence:—
The winter clouds and storms—the summer calms—
The sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence.

Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers
Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed,
That they might fall upon us unawares,
And bless us, as in greater need we prayed.

Let us be thankful for the loyal hand
That love held out in welcome to our own,
When love and only love could understand
The need of touches we had never known.

Let us be thankful for the longing eyes
That gave their secret to us as they wept,
Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise,
Love’s touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept.

And let us, too, be thankful that the tears
Of sorrow have not all been drained away,
That through them still, for all the coming years,
We may look on the dead face of To-day.




* * * * * * * * *





Thanksgiving Day
by Lydia Maria Child


Over the river, and through the wood,

To grandfather's house we go;

The horse knows the way

To carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow.


Over the river, and through the wood—

Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes

And bites the nose

As over the ground we go.


Over the river, and through the wood,

To have a first-rate play.

Hear the bells ring

"Ting-a-ling-ding",

Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!


Over the river, and through the wood

Trot fast, my dapple-gray!

Spring over the ground,

Like a hunting-hound!

For this is Thanksgiving Day.


Over the river, and through the wood,

And straight through the barn-yard gate.

We seem to go

Extremely slow,—

It is so hard to wait!


Over the river and through the wood—

Now grandmother's cap I spy!

Hurrah for the fun!

Is the pudding done?

Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!



* * * * * * * * *





Thanksgiving
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)


We walk on starry fields of white
   And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
   We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
   To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
   Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
   Upon our thought and feeling.
They hand about us all the day,
   Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
   We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives,
   And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year
   But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
   To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
   Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
   While living hearts can hear us.




Full many a blessing wears the guise
   Of worry or of trouble;
Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,
   Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
   To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
   To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
   Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
   Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
   As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
   A grand Thanksgiving chorus.



* * * * * * * * *





The Thanksgivings
by Harriet Maxwell Converse (1836-1903)

Translated from a traditional Iroquois prayer


We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are here to praise Him.

We thank Him that He has created men and women, and ordered that these beings shall always be living to multiply the earth.

We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings its products to live on.

We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and runs for our lands.

We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.

We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids coming from them for us all.

We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow shadows for our shelter.

We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the thunder and lightning that water the earth.

We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest brother, the sun that works for our good.

We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and vines.

We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and thank all its trees.

We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for the kind Being of the darkness that gives us light, the moon.

We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us signs, the stars.

We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of our harvests.

We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be heard through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.

We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this pleasant occasion.

We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great Spirit's music, and hope they will be privileged to continue in his faith.

We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform the ceremonies on this occasion.



* * * * * * * * *





A Song for Merry Harvest
Eliza Cook (1818-1889)

Bring forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string.
The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing
A song for merry harvest; and the one who will not bear
His grateful part partakes a boon he ill deserves to share.
The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes;
The laughter of the gleaner’s child, the heart’s own music floats.
Up! up! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives
Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.


The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine,
And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine;
Who prizes more the foaming ale may gaze upon the plain,
And feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain;
The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed
May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread.
Awake, then, all! ’tis Nature’s call, and every voice that lives
Shall welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.



* * * * * * * * *





A Thanksgiving Poem
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)


The sun hath shed its kindly light,
   Our harvesting is gladly o’er
Our fields have felt no killing blight,
   Our bins are filled with goodly store.

From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword
   We have been spared by thy decree,
And now with humble hearts, O Lord,
   We come to pay our thanks to thee.

We feel that had our merits been
   The measure of thy gifts to us,
We erring children, born of sin,
   Might not now be rejoicing thus.

No deed of our hath brought us grace;
   When thou were nigh our sight was dull,
We hid in trembling from thy face,
   But thou, O God, wert merciful.

Thy mighty hand o’er all the land
   Hath still been open to bestow
Those blessings which our wants demand
   From heaven, whence all blessings flow.

Thou hast, with ever watchful eye,
   Looked down on us with holy care,
And from thy storehouse in the sky
   Hast scattered plenty everywhere.

Then lift we up our songs of praise
   To thee, O Father, good and kind;
To thee we consecrate our days;
   Be thine the temple of each mind.

With incense sweet our thanks ascend;
   Before thy works our powers pall;
Though we should strive years without end,
   We could not thank thee for them all.



* * * * * * * * *







Grace for a Child
Robert Herrick (1591-1674)


Here, a little child I stand,
Heaving up my either hand:
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all. Amen.
This poem is in the public domain.



* * * * * * * * *





A Thank-Offering
Ella Higginson (1861-1940)

Lord God, the winter has been sweet and brief
     In this fair land;
For us the budded willow and the leaf,
     The peaceful strand.

For us the silver nights and golden days,
     The violet mist;
The pearly clouds pierced with vibrating rays
     Of amethyst.

At evening, every wave of our blue sea
     Hollowed to hold
A fragment of the sunset’s mystery—
     A fleck of gold.

The crimson haze is on the alder trees
     In places lush;
Already sings with sweet and lyric ease
     The western thrush.

Lord God, for some of us the days and years
     Have bitter been;
For some of us the burden and the tears,
     The gnawing sin.

For some of us, O God, the scanty store,
     The failing bin;
For some of us the gray wolf at the door,
     The red, within!

But to the hungry Thou hast given meat,
     Hast clothed the cold;
And Thou hast given courage strong and sweet
     To the sad and old.

And so we thank Thee, Thou most tender God,
     For the leaf and flower;
For the tempered winds, and quickening, velvet sod,
     And the gracious shower.

Yea, generous God, we thank Thee for this land
     Where all are fed,
Where at the doors no freezing beggars stand,
     Pleading for bread.



* * * * * * * * *





Thanksgiving Turkey
George Parsons Lathrop (1851-1898)

Valleys lay in sunny vapor,  
   And a radiance mild was shed
From each tree that like a taper
   At a feast stood. Then we said,
   "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread,
          Of good Thanksgiving turkey."

And already still November
   Drapes her snowy table here.
Fetch a log, then; coax the ember;
   Fill your hearts with old-time cheer;
   Heaven be thanked for one more year,
          And our Thanksgiving turkey!

Welcome, brothers—all our party
   Gathered in the homestead old!
Shake the snow off and with hearty
   Hand-shakes drive away the cold;
   Else your plate you'll hardly hold
          Of good Thanksgiving turkey.

When the skies are sad and murky,
   'Tis a cheerful thing to meet
Round this homely roast of turkey—
   Pilgrims, pausing just to greet,
   Then, with earnest grace, to eat
          A new Thanksgiving turkey.

And the merry feast is freighted
   With its meanings true and deep.
Those we've loved and those we've hated,
   All, to-day, the rite will keep,
   All, to-day, their dishes heap
          With plump Thanksgiving turkey.

But how many hearts must tingle
   Now with mournful memories!
In the festal wine shall mingle
   Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes
   That look beyond the board where lies
          Our plain Thanksgiving turkey.

See around us, drawing nearer,
   Those faint yearning shapes of air—
Friends than whom earth holds none dearer
   No—alas! they are not there:
   Have they, then, forgot to share
          Our good Thanksgiving turkey?

Some have gone away and tarried
   Strangely long by some strange wave;
Some have turned to foes; we carried
   Some unto the pine-girt grave:
   They'll come no more so joyous-brave
          To take Thanksgiving turkey.

Nay, repine not. Let our laughter
   Leap like firelight up again.
Soon we touch the wide Hereafter,
   Snow-field yet untrod of men:
   Shall we meet once more—and when?—
          To eat Thanksgiving turkey.






* * * * * * * * *






The Pumpkin
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)


Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, 
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; 
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; 
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, 
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest; 
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board 
The old broken links of affection restored, 
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, 
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? 
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, 
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! 
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, 
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon, 
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better 
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! 
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie! 







Tuesday, November 3, 2020

Pooh Bear and Mental Health



Pooh woke up that morning, and, for reasons that he didn't entirely understand, couldn't stop the tears from coming. He sat there in bed, his little body shaking, and he cried, and cried, and cried.

Amidst his sobs, the phone rang.

It was Piglet.

"Oh Piglet," said Pooh, between sobs, in response to his friend's gentle enquiry as to how he was doing. "I just feel so Sad. So, so, Sad, almost like I might not ever be happy again. And I know that I shouldn't be feeling like this. I know there are so many people who have it worse off than me, and so I really have no right to be crying, with my lovely house, and my lovely garden, and the lovely woods all around me. But oh, Piglet: I am just SO Sad."

Piglet was silent for a while, as Pooh's ragged sobbing filled the space between them. Then, as the sobs turned to gasps, he said, kindly: "You know, it isn't a competition."

"What isn't a competition?" asked a confused sounding Pooh.

"Sadness. Fear. Grief," said Piglet. "It's a mistake we often make, all of us. To think that, because there are people who are worse off than us, that that somehow invalidates how we are feeling. But that simply isn't true. You have as much right to feel unhappy as the next person; and, Pooh - and this is the really important bit - you also have just as much right to get the help that you need."

"Help? What help?" asked Pooh. "I don't need help, Piglet.

"Do I?"

Pooh and Piglet talked for a long time, and Piglet suggested to Pooh some people that he might be able to call to talk to, because when you are feeling sad, one of the most important things is not to let all of the sad become trapped inside you, but instead to make sure that you have someone who can help you, who can talk through with you how the sad is making you feeling, and some of the things that might be able to be done to support you with that.

What's more, Piglet reminded Pooh that this support is there for absolutely everyone, that there isn't a minimum level of sad that you have to be feeling before you qualify to speak to someone.

Finally, Piglet asked Pooh to open his window and look up at the sky, and Pooh did so.

"You see that sky?" Piglet asked his friend. "Do you see the blues and the golds and that big fluffy cloud that looks like a sheep eating a carrot?"

Pooh looked, and he could indeed see the blues and the golds and the big fluffy cloud that looked like a sheep eating a carrot.

"You and I," continued Piglet, "we are both under that same sky. And so, whenever the sad comes, I want you to look up at that sky, and know that, however far apart we might be physically...we are also, at the same time, together. Perhaps, more together than we have ever been before."

"Do you think this will ever end?" asked Pooh in a small voice.

"This too shall pass," confirmed Piglet. "And I promise you, one day, you and I shall once again sit together, close enough to touch, sharing a little smackerel of something...underneath that blue gold sky."

We all need a piglet in our lives.

- Joanne Wellington






* * * * * * * * *


Mental health matters.

I really, really think the secret
to being loved is to love.

And the secret to being interesting
is to be interested.

And the secret to having a friend
is being a friend.


* * * * * * * * *



We all carry a little something...











* * * * * * * * *





 by Jacqueline, May 18, 2018

This was posted on Facebook as part of Mental Health Awareness week. I felt I wanted to share it to help eradicate the stigma which still surrounds mental health issues. - Jacqueline

“Piglet?” said Pooh.

“Yes Pooh?” said Piglet.

“Do you ever have days when everything feels… Not Very Okay At All? And sometimes you don’t even know why you feel Not Very Okay At All, you just know that you do.”

Piglet nodded his head sagely.

“Oh yes,” said Piglet. “I definitely have those days.” 

“Really?” said Pooh in surprise.

“I would never have thought that. You always seem so happy and like you have got everything in life all sorted out."

“Ah,” said Piglet. “Well here’s the thing. There are two things that you need to know, Pooh.

"The first thing is that even those pigs, and bears, and people, who seem to have got everything in life all sorted out… they probably haven’t.

"Actually, everyone has days when they feel Not Very Okay At All. Some people are just better at hiding it than others.

“And the second thing you need to know… is that it’s okay to feel Not Very Okay At All. It can be quite normal, in fact. And all you need to do, on those days when you feel Not Very Okay At All, is come and find me, and tell me. Don’t ever feel like you have to hide the fact you’re feeling Not Very Okay At All. Always come and tell me. Because I will always be there.”

- Jacqueline











* * * * * * * * *





Eeyore and the Damp and Dreary Day


It was a damp and dreary day

 and Pooh and Piglet were eager to get back to Piglet's house and warm their feet by the fire .

Nevertheless, the two friends trudged through the carpet of leaves  which had begun to cover the ground of the Hundred Acre Wood and decided first to check on Eeyore.

"Hello Eeyore!" said Pooh and Piglet when they came upon him.

"Hello Pooh and Piglet," said Eeyore, in a sad, sorrowful  kind of voice.

"Is everything okay, Eeyore?" asked Piglet.

"Oh," said Eeyore. "Well," said Eeyore. "No," said Eeyore .

"Oh Eeyore," said Pooh, looking at the miserable eyes of his friend. "Would you like a hug  ? It would make you feel so much better"

"Absolutely not," said Eeyore, taking a step backwards.

"No thank you very much. Physical contact is Very Much Not My Thing." 

"Then how about a different kind of hug  ," said Piglet.

"A different kind of hug  ?" said Eeyore, intrigued in spite of himself. "Whatever do you mean?"

"A hug , you know," continued Piglet, settling himself down on a pillow of leaves  on one side of Eeyore and encouraging Pooh, on the other side, to do the same;

"a hug  doesn't have to be about physically touching someone. A hug  can be a lovely cup of tea  someone has made you;

"or it can be a friend popping in just to see if you are okay; or it can be a silent wish sent heart  to heart ;

"or it can be sitting with your two friends, not really saying very much at all, counting the Autumn leaves  as they fall from the trees ."

"Oh," said Eeyore. "Oh," he said again. "I had no idea, that a hug  could be all of that".

He thought for a while, quite a long while in fact, and then said; “If a leaf  is at the top of the tree it will take ages to fall to the ground, won’t it?”.

“I hadn’t thought of that”, said Pooh. “I can imagine we could spend all day looking at leaves  falling”.

“Let’s do that”, said Piglet. For a long time there was silence as Pooh and Piglet and Eeyore sat together and counted the leaves  as they drifted down, swinging from side to side.

"I think," said Eeyore, after some reflection, "that this is the very nicest hug  I have ever had." 

We can not hug  at the minute but sometimes all it takes is to be kind we are all under one sky, it might mean the world  to someone. 


Eeyore - Depression
by Yana Walljasper
Oct 23, 2014

This is a video I made for my Mental Health in the Media class.
I don't own any of the video clips, all rights go to Disney.

Monday, October 26, 2020

R.E. Slater - Autumnal Awakening





Autumnal Awakening
by R.E. Slater


As I awake the changeling day
I hear but filling silence falling
In nearby stand of autumn wood
Preparing quietly its winter slumber
In Netherland dreams of renewal.

I am reminded these present trials
Which die awhile before awakening
Of hopes falling like rotting leaves
Lumped upon a browning grounds
Useful the sleeping insect and larvae.

Woods shorn their mighty colours
Awaiting its new day of rebirth
Sowing upon the cooling earth
Reminders its resting hallows
Merely grasped for rake or fire.

So is borne upon an autumn day
Troubled good for struggling hearts
Sowing warmths preparing slumber
To resurrect on a distant weather
There to grace a trodding path.

R.E. Slater
October 25, 2020

@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved