Thursday, February 16, 2012

Doing Dishes

Because we are the only family left
in North America
without an automatic dishwasher
I get to spend time with my precious children
Every night after supper

This is where
I learn things about their day
I am taken back to teen-age angst
The dilemma's of an on-again-off-again romance
I hear about the elementary woes
of far too-strict principals,
or who got new clothes.
I hear who was suspended
or about a guy named Ipod
We discuss things like music
relationships, God

Sometimes we are just silly
Or I might regale
their compliant ears
with ancient tales
of when their mother was young
and how five plates isn't so bad
or six on weekends
when Dad is home.
because when I was a kid
there were twelve plates to dry
and stacks of dishes at least a mile high
we walked to school and back
(up-hill both ways;)
and they wonder why anyone
called them the 'good old days'
We argue about the merits of cell phones or facebook
and just to annoy me, my daughter says the e-book
should replace all the bother and clutter of volumes
that we read once then store on a shelf, by the dozen
but mom says you can't smell the face of a screen
and someday she is not going to think like seventeen.
They give me all the answers to those things I should know
I laugh and listen; because life will show
them soon enough, it does not come with a patent
and someday,Lord willing, they will think like a parent
so I am content to hear their wit and their wishes
in time well-spent
while we do dishes.

Janet

I have been offered dish-washers, but right now
I decline those offers. My kids don't know it yet,
but we are not merely doing dishes. We are making memories.
I grew up in a large family and have done miles of dishes., with ever-so-many memories attached.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Go to Sleep, Sonny


What is that sound on the ground, oh Mama?
What is that sound on the breeze?
What is that sound crying outside my window
Weeping through stark, barren trees?
What is that sound underneath my bed, Mama
Tiptoeing over the floor
What is that sound on the roof, oh Mama
And knocking on our back door?

What is the sound on the ground, dear Sonny?
What is the sound on the breeze?
What is the sound that you hear, dear Sonny
Weeping through winter’s bare trees?
I’ve heard the sound that you hear, dear Sonny
I’ve heard its soft, muffled rhyme
It’s nothing at all to fear, precious honey
It is simply the tiptoe of time

© Janet Martin~

Red Footprint Legacy


We are leaving footprints
Though their trace we cannot see
They will take their place upon
The tracks of history

If our soles were painted
In ink, permanent and red
What would be the legacy
Of moments that we tread?

Janet~

 (optional third stanza, a personal journey)

I followed red footprints once
They changed life’s course for me
Because these footprints led me to
A place called Calvary

© Janet Martin

Hey There, Sad Woman...


Hey there, sad woman
Of drawn, pale face
Were you once a maiden
Of youthful grace?

Why has life painted
Beneath your gray eyes
The proof of its sorrow
Without disguise?

What is the history
Sealed into your gaze
That drops as you see me
Study your face?

Hey there, sad woman
I think I know
I was a girl once
Not so long ago…

© Janet Martin

I Choose Words~

There is nothing romantic about numbers
Their equations, correct, concise
Austere and unwavering digits
Tallying the madness of life

This is why I choose words
There is no right or wrong
On how to weave these lines and curves
In poesy or song

Words transform an empty page
To wisdom, humor, sonnet
Fact, fantasy;  an open stage
To pour love's soul-blood on it

Its nuances original
Silk, satin, ragged, rough
Its messages subliminal
Or random ‘off-the-cuff’

They transport us from wooden chairs
To portals unexpected
Words are the glorious medium where
The dead are resurrected…

…and as we ponder o’er old ink
The bleeding of the ages
Pours into our hearts the drink
Of vagabonds and sages

This is why I choose words
For I am completely astounded
At how twenty-six letters leave hearts stirred
And utterly dumb-founded

© Janet Martin

...so YES! Go ahead, pick up a pen
and make something beautiful.

The only time numbers have the power
to steal my breath or stop my heart
is in unexpected bills...






Temporary...

These things never last very long
A delicious moment melting on our tongue
Sticky hand-prints on polished window pane
Perfunctory tasks performed again and again

These things never last very long
The melody of our favorite song
The ache of missing you lodged in my throat
The chill of the fall, winter’s supine overcoat

These things never last very long
Soon frailty overtakes the strong
And the only surety we have
Is death; and what exceeds its grave

These things never last very long
How brief the faring of the young
But death, oh death, infinite sea
A wee breath, then eternity

Eternity goes on and on
Who can escape it; there are none
But God's great love, opens the way
Beyond the closure of that day

© Janet Martin

“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
How often would I have gathered your children together
as a hen gathers her brood under her wings,
and you would not! Matt. 23:37


 Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! 
How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways! Romans 11:33








The Spell of Midnight Sonnets

When dull and dreary fetters of broad day
Relinquish their command in blue-tongued sighs
When rudiments of failure slip away
Dissolving in vast, velvet-throated skies
Where present-tense in brief, laconic gasp
Expands the ageless crease of history
And this small day is clenched within the grasp
Of what is done and never more will be
I bow my head; for lessons still unlearned
In open-handed chances I have spurned

***

The spell of midnight holds a fearless mirror
And yet I’m drawn to gaze into its glass
Although reflected folly is much clearer
In the dark; than on noon-tides sun-kissed grass
I am inclined to crumble in despair
Repeated follies are a bitter lot
And in the judgment of night’s onyx air
I cower ‘neath the gavel of my thought
But then I bow my head; tears cleanse my face
I have no need to dread, because of grace

***

Of grand and glorious offering, I have none
And to disguise my empty-handed shame
Is but to multiply and thus condone
My heedlessness for which I bear all blame
The accusations which distress the dark
Would rule in favor of the plaintiff’s cry
But wait; the spell of midnight light’s a spark
A glimpse of hope pierces the dark-robed sky
I bow my head in trite, penitent prayer
God’s grace revokes my sentence of despair

© Janet Martin

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

How Does a Mother Say, 'I Love You'



...and how does a mother say I love you
in a language they understand?
Why, with cookies, of course!