Thanksgiving at Plymouth 

One hundred two passengers on the ship,

Sixty-five days was a very long trip.

‘Twas November 11 when there was a shout.

 “Land ho!  We’ve made it!” a voice yelled out.

Their very first winter was cold and was gray.

 The Pilgrims worked hard in the new land each day.

People got sick and some even died.

Still others continued to work side by side.

To the Pilgrims, Squanto was a teacher and friend.

He helped them from sunrise until each day’s end.

 He told them to plant corn in rows long and narrow.

He taught them to hunt with a bow and an arrow.

When the leaves once again turned gold in the fall,

Enough food for the winter was stored up for all.

The Pilgrims felt joy they wanted to share.

They wanted their Indian friends to be there.

There were tables piled high with fish and with meat.

Vegetables, fruits, and good things to eat.

The Pilgrims gave thanks for all that they had. 

Pilgrims and Indians together were glad.

My Albuquerque Turkey

(Sung to the tune of Clementine)


 He's my Albuquerque turkey,

And he's feathered and he's fine,

And he wobbles and he gobbles And he's absolutely mine.

He's the best pet you can get yet

Better than a dog or cat.turkey running

He's my Albuquerque turkey,

And I'm awfully glad of that.

And my Albuquerque turkey

 Is so happy in his bed.

 Because for Thanksgiving dinner

We're having Egg Foo Young instead!

Indian Children Long Ago

By: Nancy Byrd Turner

Where we play in field and hill,

Running high and low.

Other Children used to play,

Long and long ago.


Little Indians straight and slim,

Boys with belt and feather,

Little girls with colored beads,

Playing all together.

Laughing, calling through our yard

(When 'twas field of maize),

Swift and light they used to run,

Back in other days;


Through our garden (once a wood)

In and out again,

Past the house they ran, and back-

'Twas a wigwam then.

Sometimes when the air is clear,

On a quiet day,

We can almost hear them still,

Shouting at their play!

Ate Too Much Turkey

By Jack Prelutsky

I ate too much turkey,
I ate too much corn,
I ate too much pudding and pie,
I'm stuffed up with muffins
and much too much stuffin',
I'm probably going to die.
I piled up my plate
and I ate and I ate,
but I wish I had known when to stop,
for I'm so crammed with yams,
sauces, gravies, and jams
that my buttons are starting to pop.
I'm full of tomatoes
and french fried potatoes,
my stomach is swollen and sore,
but there's still some dessert,
so I guess it won't hurt
if I eat just a little bit more.


Thanksgiving Day Parade

By Jack Prelutsky

Thanksgiving Day is here today,
the great parade is under way,
and though it's drizzling quite a bit,
I'm sure that I'll see all of it.

Great balloons are floating by,
cartoon creatures stories high,
Mickey Mouse and Mother Goose,
Snoopy and a mammoth moose.

Humpty Dumpty, Smokey Bear
hover in the autumn air,
through the windy skies they sway,
I hope that they don't blow away.

Here comes Santa, shaking hands
as he waddles by the stands.
It's so much fun, I don't complain
when now it really starts to rain.

The bands are marching, here they come,
pipers pipe and drummers drum,
hear the tubas and the flutes,
see the clowns in silly suits.

It's pouring now, but not on me,
I'm just as dry as I can be,
I watch and watch, but don't get wet,
I'm watching on our TV set.


Thanksgiving Prayer

By Susan D. Anderson

I’m thankful for my mother, and
I’m thankful for my dad.
I’m thankful for my sisters, and
for all the fun we’ve had.
I’m thankful for my brother, Tom,
(even when he’s jerky.)
But most of all, I’m oh-so-thankful
not to be a turkey.


A Thanksgiving Dinner

By Maude M. Grant

Take a turkey, stuff it fat,
Some of this and some of that.
Get some turnips, peel them well.
Cook a big squash in its shell.

Now potatoes, big and white,
Mash till they are soft and light.
Cranberries, so tart and sweet,
With the turkey we must eat.

Pickles-yes-and then, oh my!
For a dessert a pumpkin pie,
Golden brown and spicy sweet.
What a fine Thanksgiving treat!


The Turkey Shot Out of the Oven

By Jack Prelutsky

The turkey shot out of the oven
and rocketed into the air,
it knocked every plate off the table
and partly demolished a chair.

It ricocheted into a corner
and burst with deafening boom,
then splattered all over the kitchen,
completely obscuring the room.

It stuck to the walls and the windows,
it totally coated the floor,
there was turkey attached to the ceiling,
where there'd never been turkey before.

It blanketed every appliance,
it smeared every saucer and bowl,
there wasn't a way I could stop it,
that turkey was out of control.

I scraped and I scrubbed with displeasure,
and thought with chagrin as I mopped,
that I'd never again stuff a turkey
with popcorn that hadn't been popped.

Oh, What a Feast!

By Deborah P. Cerbus

Turkey and gravy
Corn on my plate.
Oh, what a feast for me.
Cranberries and stuffing
I can't wait.
Oh, what a feast for me.
Bread and potatoes
Dessert is great.
Oh, what a feast for me.
I love Thanksgiving
Fill up my plate.
Oh, what a feast for me!





Chief Seattle's Lesson

By Helen H. Moore

Chief Seattle was a teacher
Who taught us how to care
For all the living things on Earth.
Fresh water, and clean air.

"The Earth does not belong to us,"
Great Chief Seattle said.
"We sometimes think it does, but we
Belong to Earth, instead."




The First Thanksgiving

By: Jack Prelutsky

When the Pilgrims

first gathered together to share

with their Indian friends

in the mild autumn air,

they lifted the voices

in jubilant praise

for the bread on the table,

the berries and maize,

for field and for forest,

for turkey and deer,

for the bountiful crops

they were blessed with that year.

They were thankful for these

as they feasted away,

and as they were thankful

we're thankful today.

turkey basket 


Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880)


    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,
            To grandfather's house away !
                 We would not stop
                 For doll or top,
            For 't is Thanksgiving day .

    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,
            With a clear blue winter sky,
                 The dogs do bark,
                 And children hark,
            As we go jingling by .

    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—
            No matter for winds that blow;
                 Or if we get
                 The sleigh upset,
            Into a bank of snow .

    Over the river, and through the wood,
            To see little John and Ann;
                 We will kiss them all,
                 And play snow-ball
            And stay as long as we can .

    Over the river, and through the wood,
            Trot fast, my dapple gray !
                 Spring over the ground,
                 Like a hunting hound,
            For 'tis 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—
            Old Jowler hears our bells;
                 He shakes his pow,
                 With a loud bow wow,
            And thus the news he tells .

    Over the river, and through the wood—
            When grandmother sees us come,
                 She will say, Oh dear,
                 The children are here,
            Bring a pie for every one .

    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 !


The above poem appeared in:



By:  Wazi Nagi, 'Pine Tree Soul'

I am your Mother, do you not hear my heart beat,
Can you not feel the love I send;

Was not the air you breathed, my scent so sweet,
Is my pain hard for you to comprehend.

Upon my body snow lays soft and white,
Beneath my skin the future sleeps;
My blood flows to nurture and delight,
Into the ground it deeply seeps.

Mountains tall, clouds wreath my crests,
Rolling hills once wooded thick;
Gentle prairies too were once lush with grass,
Where did my bounty go so quick.

Sandy beaches and rock girded shore,
Where ocean waters sweep and crash;
A land of beauty, once so pure,
Marred by man's actions heedless and rash.

All this beauty was yours to behold,
Your duty was to love, cherish and protect;
Feel my anguish, the pain in my soul,
All I asked was your respect.

I am your Mother.

I Ask

I lay down my knife
beside your gun,
And ask . . .
Is it good, that we not fight?

I give you my blanket,
In return for your coat
And ask . . .
Is it good, that we exchange?

I give you my land
In return for your progress
And ask . . .
Is it good, that we advance?

I share with you my beliefs,
In return for your beliefs,
And ask . . .
Why . . .
Is it good that we lose our identity?

Pam Taylor

Around The Campfire

Have we lost our way?...
We must return again to the call of nature ...
This call is muted with the hurts around us ...
Destruction of the good and bad ...
We must return, not as aliens, but as Keepers of all
things that are a part of us ...
Some are forever gone ...
Others are crying out in despair ...
Just as our Ancestors kept the faith with all things
Great and Small ...
So must we be the guardians of the Sun, the Moon
and the Stars ...
It is because of them, and our respect for their powers
that we must raise our voices to be heard ...
We are not just the Red Man, we are THE PEOPLE ...
Our fathers before us worshipped all things of nature ...
This is good, for Nature is the Heart of all things ...
All of us spring from Mother Earth and must return to
her bosom ...
If we poison Her, so will our future be poisoned ...
She will rebel against the hurts and we will be the losers ...
We must return ...


Earth Keeper

The forest speaks,
The prairie speaks,
The wind murmurs
through the high oak,
Through the short grass.

Glory to the seven cardinal points.
To the East, to the South,
To the West, to the North,
To the Upper, to the Lower,
And to the Inner,
The circle of incense smoke
that joins them in breath;

Glory to the Earth of
walking feet,
To the Sky of leaping
And to the corn seed
That joins them in

We are
The Keeper of the circle;
We are
The Keeper of the fire;
We are
The Keeper of the Earth.




moon with bird symbol

I met a man of many colors
And a tear was upon his cheek.
"Old man" I ask, "why do you cry
With such an agonizing weep?"

"Oh child" this man he says to me,
"My heart is broken in so many ways
That I believe this day to end
Will find me out stretched and far within
The encompassing earth of sin."
indian chief


I sat down beside this man
And asked him "do not cry.
For what you think is so bad
That life will pass you by?"

He looks at me with such sad eyes.
And weeps ever more.
He holds his hands out to me
And alas, I do see
The anguish of his heart.

For his hands were different colors
One is red and the other white,
A leg he unclothed for me
Was as yellow as could be
And his other leg as black as night.

"I am the father of the world.
In case you do not know.
And my children have grown apart
And fight among themselves.

For when they do not get along
My arms and legs and hands and feet
Destroys the very life of me.

My hands of red and white
Will not feed this face of night.
And my legs of black and yellow,
Will not stand beneath this body
And support my heart and soul.

For they argue far too much,
And now I have grown old.

So here I sit in this haven
Of unwelcomeness.
And when this day ends,
A father I will not be.
For my children of many nations
Have forgotten how to accompany me.


native american indian girl with horse

'Twas The Night Before Thanksgiving

This poem was written in~2001 by CJ Beaman.


A Thanksgiving Poem

By: CJ Beaman

T’was the night of Thanksgiving, I just couldn’t
Sleep I tried counting backwards,
I tried counting sheep.

The leftovers beckoned, the dark meat and white
But I fought the temptation with all of my might

Tossing and turning with anticipation
The thought of a snack became infactuation.

So, I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door
And gazed at the fridge full of goodies galore.

I gobbled up turkey and buttered potatoes,
Pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.
I felt myself swelling so plump and so round,
‘till all of a sudden, I rose off the ground.

I crashed through the ceiling, floating into the sky
With a mouthful of pudding and a handful of pie.

But I managed to yell as I soared past the trees..
Happy eating to all .. pass the cranberries, please.

May your stuffing be tasty, may your turkey be plump,
May your potatoes ‘n gravy have nary a lump,

May your yams be delicious, may your pies take the prize,
May your Thanksgiving dinner stay off of your thighs.

Remember to share with those less fortunate,
And may your Thanksgiving be blessed!




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