We’ve all seen the symbol of harvest time in the cornucopia (Horn of Plenty). It is a gathering of things related in some way that marks the success of an endeavor. Write it literally or go out on a limb and express your abundance! Maybe take each item and equate it to an aspect of life. You’ve got plenty with which to work.


Horn spills with blessings –
Some not so easily grasped,
but ours nonetheless.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




We’re given all we can handle,
but supply and demand could
leave you short as the days dwindle.
But here, we will be sated on the largess of life,
rife with the best the harvest will offer;
a coffer of wealth and abundance.
Fruits and vegetables aplenty
and whatever else nature holds. 
Come to the table prepared from the horn,
a flowing feast fit for Zeus himself!

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2018



    He would
    put on a show
    with each pull, stop, and slide:
    his horn of plenty had plenty
    of soul.

  2. Marie, it occurs to me that your piece could apply to music as well as food or riches. The possibilities are almost endless.

      • Wonderful comments all. We are equally thankful for your contributions to poetry and this site. I can post all the prompts in the world, but you are each half of the process. You all do the heavy lifting; we can’t be a success by ourselves.

  3. I know this is not what you were looking for, but it is what showed up.


    Why not confuse what was
    with will be
    when they’ve swapped shapes?
    The future that was a tree
    of fantasy, a curling ever-
    ever possibility, has turned
    stubby and sure waiting
    for the chill.
    It is the past
    that’s juicy with treasures,
    strange and wonderful fruits
    half-lost in shifting clouds.

  4. Pingback: CORNUCOPIA | pictured words

  5. The Work is Peace

    I’ve been poor before,
    no food, money, job, and no
    ideas, fear-filled.

    So happy for the
    joy in my life now, as I’m
    filled with abundance.

    Breathing in with grace,
    exhaling with gratitude,
    life is just too good.

    Grace, gratitude and
    generosity seem to
    work just fine for me.

    There remains much truth,
    even with this awareness,
    left to discover.

    Abundance is our
    right, prosperity a state
    of mind, effortless.

    Giving is often
    based on happenstance,
    yet it’s easy to be kind.

    Not why we give, but
    a cornucopia of
    joy always follows.

  6. I’m not quite sure if the two haves of this poem go together

    Cornucopia 2018

    The cornucopia of my books stands
    Six feet tall and three feet wide—five shelves
    Sixty titles each appearing
    At least twice plus nonfiction
    Magazines papers too
    There is no more space
    In my room or
    In my head
    Chaff must
    Whittled down
    By editor’s pen
    Until sap flows freely
    Widening life’s dimensions
    Forrest planks once shelves live again
    Pumping fresh zest into core branches
    Offering poetic seed a fresh start

    Darlene Franklin

  7. Perspective

    When we were little,
    our teachers would decorate
    walls and windows with
    pictures of horn-shaped baskets,
    filled with fruit and vegetables
    and talked about how early Americans
    celebrated such abundance.

    That seemed ho-hum to me.
    But a basket filled with
    cookies, cakes, candy bars,
    puddings, peanut brittle,
    chocolates, and apple pie,
    now, that would definitely
    be worth celebrating!

  8. To
    scatter thoughts
    of summer’s fling

    leave bare
    mind and heart

    empty cornucopia
    waiting to fill

  9. A Feast of Leftovers

    the great fall migration is underway
    monarchs heading to mexico and
    geese on the wing to southern states
    but my little favorites, the goldfinches
    have traded in their bright sunny-yellow
    summer feathers for a more somber
    brownish garb – ready to spend the winter
    in this garden where a cornucopia of seeds
    from zinnias and sunflowers await,
    Swaying back and forth,
    As they hop from seed head to seed head
    Tiny conical beaks feasting on summer’s detritus

  10. Growth

    Leave them alone
    this season of Spring,
    as they begin maturation.
    Roots growing, fruit trees
    budding, and vines
    entangling–all in preparation
    for Autumn’s harvest,
    a plentiful horn
    of every color.


    Autumn’s leaves are scattered like seeds of hope.
    Pumpkin’s round face glows with inner enlightenment.
    Deer’s timid advances are a ballet of want and desire.
    Squirrel’s cache lies hidden beneath mulch and mud.
    Bacchus’s horn lays waiting on the table, gratitude for plenty.

  12. Always something good

    It doesn’t matter the container
    a straw basket, cornucopia
    or a box for treasures

    in spite of disappointments and sadness
    there’s always something
    a good night of sleep, a gift from a friend
    a helping hand when needed

    Slip on socks of thankfulness
    even in the dark and stormy moments
    when all hope seems lost

  13. Way Back When

    He grew up in total poverty
    He may have had a nickel
    But never two to rub together
    That’s the way he remembers it
    That’s the way it was
    Way back when

    But he didn’t realize it
    For him it was the norm
    As was for those around him
    It was their way of life
    And they accepted it
    Way back when

    One day God called out to him
    He fell to his knees in fear
    God made him an eternal deal
    Untold riches would come his way
    If only he did as God commanded
    He accepted the assignment
    Way back when

    For sixty-four years he obeyed
    Preaching and baptizing in Jesus name
    Giving and sacrificing for everyone
    Never asking for anything for himself
    But always receiving just what he needed

    In the end he died with nothing
    Not even two nickels to rub together
    His burial suit was donated
    His casket was a wooden box
    And he held a badly worn Bible
    He went out of this world
    Just the way he came into it

    But in his casket he wore a smile
    The same smile he probably wore
    On his face when he saw
    Jesus face-to-face and
    His heavenly reward
    God had kept His promise

  14. What Rules Over Memory’s Remains

    There was plenty
    in our home,
    as much as I remember,,
    what rules over memory’s remains.

    Cream of Wheat a plenty,
    in the year that Dad was hurt
    out of work, in and out of hospitals,
    surgeries, stiches, whispers,
    but I was three, and Cream of Wheat
    was plenty, milk and butter
    on the porch.

    There was plenty
    in our bank,
    as far as I might know,
    what rules over memory’s remains.

    Smell of money a plenty,
    in the year that Dad was well,
    back to work, wafting in papermill air
    sulfur, sauerkraut, tuna,
    but I was five, and stinky air
    was plenty, milk and butter
    on the porch.

    There was plenty
    in our town,
    as far as I could imagine,
    what rules over memory’s remains.

    Corporate growth a plenty,
    in the years that Dad moved up,
    bossing, supervising, engineering,
    steaks, status, company car,
    but I was twelve, and Christmas gifts
    were plenty, milk and butter
    from the store.

    There was plenty
    in our lives,
    as best I recall,,
    what rules over memory’s remains.

    TV news a plenty,
    in the years that Dad stood quiet,
    watching Cronkite’s broadcasts
    and war, worry, his boys,
    but I was sixteen, and hormones
    were plenty, milk and butter
    in the fridge.

    There was plenty,
    in our minds.
    I know what I remember,
    what rules over memory’s remains.

    © Damon Dean, 2018

  15. This was a struggle. Obviously. I am three days – or is it four? Behind. Sigh.

    Abundantly Overflowing

    Her turtleneck and long sleeved shirt hide a new blue-black bruise
    At ten, bitter beer, burning whiskey numb her pain and fear
    Teachers, pastors, friends close their eyes to her every tear.
    Childhood memories abundantly overflowing curses and abuse

    Men decide her worth – she doesn’t get to choose.
    Seventy-two dollars and he sells her soul the first time
    Causes shame and guilt. She doesn’t know man’s sin is not her crime.
    Childhood memories abundantly overflowing curses and abuse.

    Sixteen and she chooses to fight against men’s use
    His hands circle neck, squeezing out her breath
    Darkness descends, but she is cheated of her death
    Childhood memories abundantly overflowing curses and abuse

    Eighteen and she tries to escape the path she didn’t choose
    College friends, drinking hard, still being chased by the past
    Secrets she never dares tell and no one ever asks
    Childhood memories abundantly overflowing curses and abuse.

    Eighteen and her life is changed when she is asked to choose
    in a whispered invitation from a Man who died upon a cross
    to surrender to Him all her broken parts, sins and worthless dross,
    childhood memories abundantly overflowing curses and abuse.

    Childhood memories abundantly overflowing curses and abuse
    she relinquishes to the One who came and died
    so she could be made whole and new, never to be denied.
    In Him she with joy is abundantly overflowing, never to again
    by shame and guilt to be accused.

  16. And my second attempt…

    The Horn of my Salvation

    The horn of my salvation
    has won the victory
    vanquished every enemy,
    Celebrating I am finally free,
    I grasp every chance to
    dance upon the Spirit’s wind.
    Joyfully calling, fluttering, falling
    at the Savior’s feet.

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