Friday, December 14, 2018

Life's Softest, Sweetest Language...(cannot be learned alone)

 I like to decorate even if life's/love's constant clutter unashamedly collects 
beneath and among 'it'😏

Life’s softest language is spoken most days
In modest mantras and familiar phrase
Nothing to canonize its common cheers
But the remembrance of fond yester-years

Life’s softest language is heard in the noise
Of everyday clatter and clutter-shaped joys
Where without it, life would seem so mundane
…going through motions of pleasure and pain

Like checking off chores on a to-do list
Longing for more than what seems to exist
Losing the laughter because of its care
Stern rigmarole of work-eat-sleep affair  

Life’s sweetest language is uttered most days
In the plain tenure of time’s age-old ways
Learning to savour the ‘stew’ in the pot
Counting life’s favours midst all that is not

Life’s sweetest poetry remains unchanged
…uphill miles, bitter grief, plans rearranged
Supper re-heated, tasks done and redone
'Sentence' repeated without annoyed tone

Working together, not pulling apart
Love’s soft, sweet language begins in the heart
It makes the difference in all that we do 
Where Love's glimpse of Heaven 
...requires at least two

© Janet Martin

This little lovable fellow has a dilemma; 
he wants the piece of cheese grandma is holding out for him but 
it means relinquishing one of his favourite toys and risking someone else taking it!!!
 And not only that; holding all three toys completely handicaps him from playing with any of them. 
Oh, the miseries of life when we want so much more than we could possibly ever need😄

(another chuckle...)
One just-turned-three year old jumped, reached tippy-toe high, somersaulted, couch-flipped, sat on a chair proudly without a booster-seat and more because,
 in his words  "I'm big now! I'm three for real!"😁

Thursday, December 13, 2018

Ink-drop ABC's

From the Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen (a novel)

An angel
A Beggar
A candle
Hunger’s prayer
Invitation to
Joy, a
Kite set free
Madness, a
Servant and slave
Tender Tormentor
Yearning and 
Snared on the fringe
of Something surreal
Bittersweet tinge
Little ink-drop 
from a bottomless well
Caught on the tip 
of what is left to tell

© Janet Martin

Love Letter to Life

After being a little under-the-weather for a day or two, but feeling better today there is
so much to love this new morning...

I love the way an hour drips
With virgin possibility
I love the way a moment slips
Twixt history and what will be
How, in the blip of now is cast
The Undoing of its conclave
How from the crib of Almost Past
Is borne the fodder of the grave

I love how ev’ry day is new
No rerun when the sun has set
Dawn ushers to earth’s avenue
A whole new Road not traveled yet
I love the way that you and I
Are growing old at the same pace
How all that we can do is try
To make the best of Time and Place

I love how we never know, quite
What waits beyond each dip and curve
How expectation’s appetite
Seems always keened to Nature’s verve
How we are all learning to cope
Subject to ready grin and frown
Kindred in both reproach and Hope
And thus, should help those who are down

I love the way wonder can steal
And still the tongue of wordy noise
I love the lilt of fresh appeal
In zeal of little girls and boys
I love the joys of simple things
Like laughter 'neath dusk's first bright star
…and I love you; and how heart-strings
Will always reach to where you are

© Janet Martin

Heart-felt prayers to all who are struggling with sickness and pain. 
There are so many of you!
(Someone called yesterday partly to wonder where I was the night before 
NOT at the concert I was hoping to attend because I was down with the flu)
  ...he prayed for me on the spot!
Very touching and special.

Dear Lord, be near and dear I pray
To those/we who travel suff'ring's Way
Lord, be their/our all-sufficient grace
Until they/we look upon Your face
When that first glimpse will satisfy
And answer every single 'why'
 Lamentations 3:57
You drew near when I called on You; You said, "Do not be afraid."

Grave Splendour...

The curlicue of liquid blue
Around the rocks that drew a laugh
From rivulets that spring begets
Are sealed in icy autograph
Where winter stills green-beaming hills
And draws a frigid curtain-close
Across the place where soft we trace
The echoes of the fallen rose
And learn anew the tried and true
Of how everything comes to pass
A bud that breaks and softly shakes
Its g-raven splendor to the grass

© Janet Martin

Of Soon-seasoned Art (and first hair-cuts)

 There goes our Baby!
 Big-boy first hair-cut!

Don't hold on to Time; tis futile
embrace Now but not too tight
Feel moment-ous Marvel sparkle
Through our touch and out of sight...

How tender, each splendor of soon-seasoned art
Time draws us together and tugs us apart
It grants what is given and takes it away
Summer is soon riven with rivers of gray

How subtle, Time’s metrical moment-parade
Primed with the rebuttal of passion’s swift trade
A pitiless poet; Duty and Dream smart
Where one moves the hand and the other the heart

How certain, the curtain that rises and falls
Snuffing yon horizons with star-sequined shawls
Lifting its elusive veil to gift Today
Ah, always renewing and taking away

How red are the roses disposed to decay
How precious the pictures that frazzle and fray
How tender the tick-tock that startles the heart
With breath-by-breath splendor of soon-seasoned art

This temporal treasure we measure in years
Is naught but a vapour that soon disappears
Now's nuances trumped by the Hands that impart
 The Way back to Him through Time's soon-seasoned art

© Janet Martin