All he wants, in all the world,
A glass of sweet iced-tea.
To see the butterfly. To curl
Into a ball, beneath
A warm and comfy cover.
And chicken-noodle soup
To sip. And sleep. No other
Thing is needed for his drooping
Eyes and tired little limbs.
All he wants,
Is small things, close to him.
– s. Clark
I am small
and just want to believe
small things can mark the world
despite themselves. So please,
don’t’ tell me I am small.
I know it all too well,
but if It turns out I can lead
one sweet soul from the fell
grasp of despair, I will have won,
I will have won it all.
Do not give me my limits, for
I know that I am small.
– s. Clark
(I have written this piece in response to a request I received for a “poem of thanks” to celebrate the imminent Thanksgiving holiday. If you would like to submit a prompt, message me, and I will do my best to fill it!)
It ever is the simple thing,
The shining sun or roaring waves,
That marks a memory on our souls,
That silently and softly saves.
It is the child’s gleeful voice,
The soothing touch of friendship’s hand,
That lift us up from sorrow’s grip
And keep us walking through this land.
They are the small and happy times,
The praise that’s spoken, bold and real,
The laughter snatched by a quick wit,
The moments that we thrill to feel.
Within this world so wide and raw,
That can be filled with so much pain,
There is wonder and beauty here
That far outweighs the cost with gain.
The mountains raised to cleave the clouds,
Or bright and yawning fields of green,
The wood in winter, crisp and clear,
The countless hues of sky we’ve seen!
A steaming mug of cider, and
Food on the table, piping hot.
A fire in the chill of night,
A peaceful moment gently caught.
Your family close by your side,
Made up of those who give their care
Unthinking if it may return.
A place to live, a heart to share.
And though the grime of life will pull
Like quicksand, sinking you to death,
There is a hand that reaches passed
The darkness there to bring you breath.
And for these things, the rain of gifts
That shower on us from the start,
I fear I have but one return,
To offer up a thankful heart.
– s. Clark