Showing posts with label Canadian poet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Canadian poet. Show all posts

Friday, December 30, 2022

The Poet's Yoke

 




A waltz with words that waft and twirl across a ballroom floor
The laughter of a little girl drifting from worlds of yore
A sense of imminence immersed in steadfast, common care
Of workaday and bills to pay and suppers to prepare

A sentimental ballad slipping through matters of fact
The art of bearing verses while keeping façade intact
And balancing the beckoning of worlds in want of ink
With sensible responses like cleaning the kitchen sink

To siphon from life’s thrum the rolling of a sort of sea
Rife with glints of spent summer and tomorrow’s mystery
Requires tireless patience while panning for lilt and rhyme
(This is not for the faint of heart, the art stealing time)

The poet’s yoke is made of air yet weighs a whisper-ton
With lyrics waiting to be snared and tamed and poem-spun
From brooding skies and sparkling eyes, from goodbyes and hellos
Each day unfurls a paradise of poems to compose

The merchant laughs and stuffs the chaff of trade into his sack
The maiden blushes; hopes he looks while she is looking back
The traffic rushes, the rain hisses underneath each wheel
The poet smiles and gathers manna for another meal

The poet's yoke is lily-soft yet claws the cloak of souls
With merciless persistence because always death's bell tolls
And who knows when the pen may fall prey to its solemn chime 
As the poet turns to behold the Giver of the rhyme 
 
Oh, pray they serve with honor the onus of pen and page
Because the life of written word survives from age to age
And who knows who will pause to read the stuff of wrangled ink
Therefore, the yoke should weigh enough to make the poet think

© Janet Martin

Okay, that's all for today, folks!
Wow! and maybe this year!
 Depends how tomorrow goes!
With much love, 
Janet

Wishing for us all, for 2023
 a fresh awareness of God
and a deeper reverence for Him,
 from whom all blessings flow


Thursday, August 5, 2021

A Rural Mural (of Ontario's August Countryside)









Ontario's August countryside is lovely to behold.
Landscapes are laid in checkered counterpanes of green and gold
Ditches and creek beds showcase wild-flowered extravagance
Where summer spills its heart in field and garden opulence 

Ontario's August countryside kindles poetic ink
In waist-deep pools of milkweed plumes, magenta and pale pink
In spools and spools of Queen Ann's Lace unrolled in dainty frills
In purple aster rivers, yellow hyssop, vine tendrils   

Ontario's August countryside serves up a wonder-feast
A buffet table groaning with the aftermath of seeds
Inviting us to partake from earth's smorgasbord unfurled
A healthy, hearty helping of nature's joy to the world

Ontario's August countryside is summer's centerfold
A mile-on-mile wide magazine of beauty to behold
Beneath clouds heaped like cauliflower on platters of blue
Page after page is filled with frames to thrill our points of view 

Ontario's August countryside evokes a worship hymn
Stirred by a breeze, harvest-dust-sweet as wheat is gathered in
As gardens become baskets brimming with treasure of fruit
And gardeners feel like dirt-pirates cum-bearing precious loot 

Ontario's August countryside enchants its passenger
Where soon Time claims its dues and shoos us into September 
So look a little longer where the dust of summer flies
Lest we should take for granted what is right before our eyes

...where pasturelands are dappled with cattle, where willows weep
Where leafy awnings toss shadow-piazzas, dark and deep
Where brooks meander, teasing us to slow our quickened stride
Through rural murals of Ontario's August countryside

© Janet Martin
 



Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Prayer for Canada




Happy Canada Day!

From verdant sweep and fresh sea deep
And Rocky mountain grandeur
From rolling plain of rippling grain
To babbling brook meander
Lord, keep this land within Thy hand
And we, who troll its river
From shore to shore, let us adore
Oh Canada, Thy Giver

From solitude of winter’s wood
To spring’s green welcome wending
To summer’s flower bowers filled
And autumn-orchards bending
Lord, keep this land within Thy hand
And we who till its acre
Let us adore from shore to shore
Oh Canada, Thy Maker

This bit of loam that we call home
Of wild-life, still-life forest
Of maple tree and liberty
City and country glorious
Lord, hear our prayer and lend Thy care
To we, of sundry weather
From shore to shore and door to door
Bless Canada forever

Lord, let us guard with loyal heart
And love, one for another
This true north strong and free, that we
May all be sister-brother
Lord, bless and keep us kind and true
And in your Mercy grounded
And not forsake the faith whereon

© Janet Martin

* Cartier resolved to take formal possession of the country, and to indicate, in a conspicuous manner, that he did so in the name of the King, his master, and in the interests of religion. With these objects in view, on Friday, July 24th, a huge wooden cross, thirty feet in height, was constructed, and was raised with much ceremony, in sight of many of the Indians, close to the entrance of the harbor; three fleurs-de-lys being carved under the cross, and an inscription, "Vive le Roy de France." The French formed a circle on their knees around it, and made signs to attract the attention of the savages, pointing up to the heavens, "as if to show that by the cross came their redemption." 


JACQUES CARTIER.

By Thomas D’Arcy McGee



I.


In the sea-port of Saint Malo ’twas a smiling morn in May
When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed             away;
In the crowded old Cathedral all the town were on their knees
For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscover’d seas;
And every autumn blast that swept o’er pinnacle and pier

Filled manly hearts with sorrow and gentle hearts with fear.

II.


A year passed o’er Saint Malo—again came round the day
When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed             away;
But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went,
And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent;

And manly hearts were filled with gloom and gentle hearts with fear
When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year.            


III.


But the Earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side,
And the Captain of Saint Malo was rejoicing in his pride
In the forests of the north—while his townsmen mourned his loss

He was rearing on Mount-Royal the fleur-de-lis and cross;
And when two months were over and added to the year,
Saint Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer.


IV.


He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound and cold,
Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold,

Where the wind from Thulé freezes the word upon the lip,
And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship;
He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill’d with fear,
And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer.


V.


But when he chang’d the strain—he told how soon is cast

In early Spring the fetters that hold the waters fast;
How the Winter causeway broken is drifted out to sea,
And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free;
How the magic wand of Summer clad the landscape to his eyes,
Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in Paradise.
            


VI.


He told them of the Algonquin braves—the hunters of the wild,
Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child;
Of how, poor souls, they fancy in every living thing
A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshipping;
Of how they brought their sick and maim’d for him to breathe

            upon,
And of the wonders wrought for them thro’ the Gospel of St.
            John.


VII.


He told them of the river whose might current gave
Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean’s briny wave;
He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight,
What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga’s height,

And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key,
And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over sea. 



Wednesday, February 8, 2012

To all of you who wonder Is She Insane?!

I do not expect anyone to read
every drop of ink I bleed
but each drop falls with a little prayer
that it will find the right heart
somehow
somewhere...

Janet~
  Every emotion we feel is not uncommon. J~

A few more reasons...

“It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from.”
C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold 


 “If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write.”
Martin Luther

 “You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth.”
William W. Purkey

 “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”
C.S. Lewis

 “Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results.”
Albert Einstein


and last but not least...

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Ernest Hemingway

...and so I write.








Monday, June 14, 2010

But I Must Go.........


I’m thankful for the dance we’ve had
And all the joys you’ve shown me
But I must go, please don’t be sad
For you can never own me
I’ll share with you a little while
The hillside where we wandered
Beneath a gentle azure smile
A blissful hour squandered

I’m thankful for each hand I’ve held
In summers pleasant journey
How sweet the blossoms that we smelled
Their memory tastes like honey
But I can never quite stand still
There’s too much life to hone me
None can be held against their will
So you can never own me

A vagabond, the poet’s heart
A restless lonesome drifter
He’ll share with you a little part
A smile, a bit of laughter
But then upon a winsome breeze
A call that he must answer
Thus the poet’s heart will be…….
A solitary dancer

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

Friday, May 7, 2010

Truth



Like petals that drift from the apple-tree
Your words return on the wind
Beautiful sentiments spoken to me
Syllables noble and kind

Tell me again the words you said
They are so lovely to hear
Echoing now within my head
Laughing in my ear

“You are so beautiful, the one I adore
Please, lay your head on my chest
I’ve never loved anyone like this before
Darling, you are the best

Words like precious and perfect and fine
I taste them in tiny sips
I long to drink the sweet red wine
Flowing from your lips

But now I reflect on your many words
Alone, when the night wind is still
For darling, your eyes tell me so much more
Than the words from your lips ever will

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Mystery


Don’t ask me to explain my poetry
The allure is in the mystery
If I tell you
What good would it do?
And after all, you must know this well
When it comes to poets….we never tell

All Rights reserved
Janet Martin

Monday, March 29, 2010

It Is What It Is......


It cannot be altered, or ever returned to
We cannot retrace a single foot-print
Nor can we erase one jot or one brush-stroke
Written forever in eternal ink
An invisible gallery of unchangeable memories
An echo down a long darkened corridor
Where only our thoughts will ever gain entrance
To view all the paintings on the walls and the floor

It is a teacher and it is a preacher
It is the hand with an iron fist
It is the voice of the fruit of our choice
It is the room where first we were kissed
It is a dungeon and it is a meadow
The floor where our tears and our laughter are cast
It is a mirror through which we see clearer
It is what it is, it is the past

All rights reserved
Janet Martin

Meet Me There


If the breeze is perfumed with lilac and violet
If the music is an orchestra in the west
If the cushion I sit on is grass soft as velvet
Meet me there, on the porch I love best

My porch may be high on a hill ‘neath a willow
Or down in the valley in a fern-laced berth
It may be a stump in the heart of a forest
Meet me there, tis heaven on earth

The silence is broken perhaps by the whisper
Of a soft breeze sighing in the pines
The filtered sunlight creates mystic shadows
Dancing to the music of nature’s design

Meet me there for a one hour vacation
Where the air is pure as heaven’s breath
Meet me there in the heart of creation
Meet me on this porch, God’s heaven on earth

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin