Thursday, October 25, 2012

Beautiful Dance





You come to me gently
Yet with purposed intention
I covet your candor
And fear your perception
But as you embrace me
I do not refuse
Your kiss to my hunger
An invisible noose

You crease every silence
With naught but your stare
I close my eyes darling,
Yet, I know you are there
I wait for your whisper
You tenderly taunt
For you know you are master
Of my infinite want

Sensuous sorrow
Benevolent bliss
Darling, I never
Have danced quite like this
Oh, how you move me
In pure passion stirred
Beautiful dance
Of the Muse and the word

© Janet Martin





Wednesday, October 24, 2012

The Darkling Day...






Yellow leaves dive past my windowsill
Like drunken finches pitching to their rest
They pile in pungent layers on the hill
Where musty patchwork quilts a sodden nest
Two seasons worth the chill-wind starves and fasts
Its vigor now turns vulgar, desperate; harsh
It tugs in bullish rage fall’s flimsy mast
And decks with gold, the street, the field, the marsh
As cattails shiver in its iron wrath
The milk-weed spills to sea a silver path

Stark silence threads stripped limbs, exposed and bare
Betrayed by tresses, scattered and wind-blown
If glory to the woman is her hair
Then beauty to the tree must be its gown
The lowered sky offers no modest shroud
But rather it enhances her distress
A backdrop dark; of tumbled glow’ring cloud
Appropriates the ruddy wind’s caress
It sets against the cold horizon-line
Her petrified, yet delicate design

The pasture boasts a shrug of startled green
A folly of ephemeral disguise
Brief is the comfort of deception’s sheen
Too soon beneath an argent sheet it lies
Yellow leaves tumble to earth's ready tomb
Swift, phantom fingers pluck ragged remains
None shall escape the purple-knuckled plume
Of grumbling gale  and raw November rains
As they succumb to winter’s calliope
Waiting for Spring in womb's of quiet hope

© Janet Martin

Of a Mother's Uncertainties



That’s how they leave
In little pink mitten waves
And baby-teeth grins
To doors closing softly at midnight
Tiptoeing and dancing
Through an autumn
Disappearing way too fast
All the while
They smile
And I,
Uncertain of what else to do
Smile back

© Janet Martin

...she can laugh at the days to come. Prov. 31:25

Ink Ignition...another Fibonacci





another Fibonacci

Mute
Pen
Until
Restless Muse
Rouses the still quill
Igniting ink to poetry

© Janet Martin

Tidal Wave...the Fibonacci reversed




 image source: asugnews.com

Poetic Bloomings invites us to attempt The Fibonacci

Gregory K. Pincus created Fibonacci poetry, as a 6-line poem that follows the Fibonacci sequence for syllable count per line.
The number of syllables in each line must equal the sum of the syllables in the two previous lines.
So, start with 0 and 1, add them together to get your next number, which is also 1, 2 comes next, then add 2 and 1 to get 3, and so on.
Fibonnaci: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and 21…
Poetry: 1 syllable, 1 syllable, 2 syllables, 3 syllables, 5 syllables, 8 syllables, 13 syllables, and 21 syllables…
More Info:         http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fib_(poetry)

Night.
Dark
And still
Vast abyss
Of moonless silence
Where thought in rampant perusal
Of sable infinity fills to the uttermost
A chasm, which to the naked eye appears empty and devoid of motion or impulse
Yet surges with under-currents of potent passion
Rising in voluminous waves
Of raging appeal.
This night is
Not dark
Or
Still

© Janet Martin




Though Autumn is Folding...





There is peace in The Knowing
That in life’s keen bestowing
Whether of nature, of body or soul
There is a Keeper
Whose visage runs deeper
He sets the pieces creating The Whole

Though autumn is folding
The frames we are holding
And youth-fantasy, like its leaf falls away
Time is a teacher
An earnest beseecher
Molding and shaping our doubtless decay

There is peace in The Knowing
In life’s moment-flowing
We are not pawns in a God-game of chance
But He knows each creature
For He is life’s Teacher
He knows our hearts and its deepest intents

Though autumn is folding
To vaults in Time’s holding
And moments fall soundless; as leaf to the sod
We trust The Keeper
Whose visage is deeper
As He sets the pieces; for He is God

© Janet Martin









Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Of Blessing Overlooked





Dictation of duty, though modest its mien
Of dishes and laundry and rooms to keep clean
Of clutter to tidy and meals to prepare
Remind us of love’s blessing abundant and fair

How sterile and still a mother’s life would be
Should duty and daily demand suddenly
Vanish with the menial tasks we mistook
As tedious toil; they are life’s blessings we too oft over-look

© Janet Martin

...but having said that, this morning reminds me how badly I need to 'train up my child or teenager' to clean up after themselves!
'M' stands for mother, not maid! 



It is Raining





The demeanor of earth is meek
Its bravado of scarlet-gold waning
Layers its splendor beneath our feet
Dawn remains dark; it is raining

The rustle of parched leaf and husk
Stills in the sodden breeze
Where thought is moody; pensive then brusque
Restless with memories

The dark bleeds into the day
Heavy with tears from the sky
Autumnal beauty is falling away
Stripping the earth of its sigh

Soon the weeping air will be still
Save for the sullen moan
Of winter’s groaning, grievous chill
Turning the sod to stone

The demeanor of earth is meek
Its glorious bravado is raining
In sodden petals beneath our feet
Dawn remains dark; fall is waning

© Janet Martin