Poetry: Three Long Islanders reflect on the holiday

Thanksgiving

By Eleanor Lerman

Eleanor Lerman lives in Long Beach. Her most recent collection of poems is titled "The Sensual World Re-Emerges."

Come near. The day is closing down. Dinner is

burning, the eternal is proving to be temporary, the

divine is showing signs of being cruel. So come near.

Talk to me.

And as you do,

because you do,

a car crosses the causeway, coming home. Human

beings, expelled from their beds in the morning -

tired people, who have made very little money -

are walking across the causeway, coming home.

The animals who were loyal to them are coming

home. Birds flock here, dreams, slave generations

still chained to their overwhelming sacrifice are

dragging themselves across the causeway, coming

home. The last survivors are coming home. Love,

wounded and weary; love with its few remaining

followers, its bag of candles and threadbare

dancing shoes, takes one last look back as it crosses

the causeway, coming home. The ghosts of those

who thought that they would never get here

are here now, on the causeway, coming home.

And the day is closing down.

So come near.

Talk to me.

And as you do,

because you do,

aching decades of labor and struggle begin to

climb down from their machines and even I,

skilled with my tools, proud of my weapons,

allow that it may be time to lay down these

great endeavors and come home. Oh how long

we have all traveled and how far to set just

this first footfall upon the sacred promise

that in the evening, there would be a bridge.

Thanksgathering Day

By George Wallace

George Wallace of Huntington is writer in residence at the Walt Whitman Birthplace. He is publisher of the online magazine Poetry Bay and author most recently of "Poppin Johnny''

it's not thanksgiving it's thanksgathering - even the

horse knows that - the horse that knows the way

to carry the sleigh through the white & drifted snow

knows we gather together to ask the lord's blessing

because it's not thanksgiving if we don't do that & it's

not thanksgathering either -

it's not the walnuts turkey turnips brussel sprouts -

not grapes or gravy - it's not what grandma's got in

the oven - it's not the cranberries it's the ties that bind

- the love affection family & fellowship, each to each -

it's the angel we know, who hovers like a risen star -

over cousins sisters uncles brothers

friends & dinner guests - hovering over the kitchens

living room sets dining room tables & in the hallway

closets - who follows us through the dark woods as

we make our slow leaden way through snowy dusk

- on wings of love - no turkey ever knew wings like

these & speaking of who knows

what - what about the ones unloved & alone? it's

not in the spirit of thanksgathering to forget them -

which is why they say to let a stranger into your life

today - set a plate for the lonely the lame the lousy

the unwell - the orphaned restless widowed & even

the undeserving - be kind,

let one small stranger into your heart into your circle

into your home on thanksgathering day - because

that's what the indians did - they left no one out -

not one of those pilgrims left out in the cold, or with-

out a plate - none that did not sit with the others,

under the risen star.

Funneling Sun

By Gayl Teller

Gayl Teller of Plainview is the Nassau County poet laureate and editor of "Toward Forgiveness," an anthology of 99 Long Island poets.

Sometimes I play a game

with myself that my wish

to go back in time

to this very day and this

very bounty of my life

at this very moment has been

granted from some high-walled

future I can't begin to imagine

and I am younger as I am

but hadn't seen over those high

concrete blocks in everyday living

to bask in the luminous lake

the sunshine makes as it touches

and spreads through my mind

the abundant crop of tomatoes

beefing in pots on the patio

where licking their fur to shiny

three cats leisurely curl

as Mike licks his finger and parts

sunlight in the province of his book

and bids me enter the expedition

of undaunted courage with him

on our patio with Meriwether Lewis

and ringing enters the native sunshine

signaling from those we love

calling from the interior

of their own private expeditions

maybe our son and his wife reporting

on the bid they made for a house

maybe my mom bidding me

to drive her to see dad in the home

or a friend organizing the Friday brunch

to feast together after Thanksgiving

with all our children and all their loves

and I am so glad in this wellspring

my wish has come true to my life