Of Forevermore

Oh mystery, no one can see

Beyond earth’s threshold or Time’s door

Nor where this brief mortality

Will fade into forevermore

No one can tell how near or far

The road extends before That Call

But this we know; this little life

Leads to the Meaning of it all

Beyond earth’s threshold and its end

Begins this thing that we strive for

Mere mind can never comprehend

Infinity’s forevermore

Oh mystery; Eternity

No one can tell its depth or height

Its span of immortality

Perplexes our mortal sight

No straining of thought’s fantasy

Can form an image to portray

The rise and fall of timelessness

When flesh and blood will fall away

But this we know; none can return

When they have passed through that last door

To tell what joy or grief a-waits

In that timeless forevermore

© Janet Martin

It began with a box of empty baby-food jars, this conversation with Matt, our 15 yr. old son. ‘Where did they come from?’ he wondered. 'I think they were an add-on at a yard sale purchase and they ended up in our garage', I said. 

'Wouldn’t it have been easier to re-cycle?' he asked. 

 Then we began discussing the religious fervency with which some people recycle and why. We agreed that we want to take care of God’s earth, to be faithful stewards and we should do all we can, but we know this earth is destined to end. It will end and we thought, wouldn’t it be great if everyone were as zealous in preparation for Jesus and  forevermore. This life is but a Door to what existence is all about! and my heart burned with desire that everyone may know of The Way, the Truth and the Life before it is forever too late.

Then I thought of this parable;

The Rich Man and Lazarus

 “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day.  At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table. Even the dogs came and licked his sores.
 “The time came when the beggar died and the angels carried him to Abraham’s side. The rich man also died and was buried.  In Hades, where he was in torment, he looked up and saw Abraham far away, with Lazarus by his side. So he called to him, ‘Father Abraham, have pity on me and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, because I am in agony in this fire.’
 “But Abraham replied, ‘Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, while Lazarus received bad things, but now he is comforted here and you are in agony.  And besides all this, between us and you a great chasm has been set in place, so that those who want to go from here to you cannot, nor can anyone cross over from there to us.’
 “He answered, ‘Then I beg you, father, send Lazarus to my family, for I have five brothers. Let him warn them, so that they will not also come to this place of torment.’
 “Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the Prophets; let them listen to them.’
‘No, father Abraham,’ he said, ‘but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.’
 “He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’ Luke 16: 19-31

Everlasting Blue

Some questions I am loathe asking

Do you miss me like I miss you?

When we are far too far apart

Is your heart also billow-blue?

Or is it just another day

Of green and gold with bits of gray?

August is filled with cricket song

And you were gone with spring’s last snow

Future comes swiftly but the past

Reclines beyond time’s moment-flow

Where missing you is like a chant

Of blue where twilight shadows slant

The mind can hold a world of thought

Never released in written word

Strange how wind-song can break the lock

Where fondest farewell tears are stored

I trace the void of missing you

In everlasting shades of blue

© Janet Martin

There's something about cricket-song that evokes the blue in me... perhaps because it's the prelude to summer's end.

Of Heart-tugs and Harvest

 ( I always miss this after we return home, back to the rigorous and relentless rush of duty)

As morning unfolds from sky-rivers of gold

And dawn wears a garment of glistening dew

As yesterday sleeps in past’s infinite deeps

We cradle those heart-tugs of ‘missing-you’

And as the day breaks over valleys and lakes

Chasing night-shadows from earth’s avenue

As morning-song drips from hope’s refurbished lips

We sense seasoned heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

The hour of noon is upon us too soon

Laughter and loving and loss ramble through

The rooms of the heart painting life's ether art

A harvest in heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

Dusk spreads its robe over Time’s little globe

We gather, small beneath daylight’s adieu

And all we can keep as we labor and sleep

Are those precious heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

© Janet Martin

Most serious conversations happen at the most unexpected moments. Such was the case as I drove my son to a friend's house early this morning. He said he thinks we are living in Time's most wicked days so these must be the 'last days'...surely they must be, I replied, yet none of us knows how long these' last days' will tarry...and love for this boy, almost man wrenched my heart, as I prayed there and then that he may grow up strong in the Lord.

The Poet and her Pen

 A comfy chair, coffee, lake and a pen in hand; who could ask for anything more?

When she is gone from you

Or you too far from her

She bears its quiet blue

Without your written word

But still she craves your touch

For she cannot exist

Without the fearless recklessness

Of being almost kissed

You force no obligation

And she with tempered ease

Runs searching fingers over curves

Of want and memories

No chancellor condemns her

No jury sits in wait

Beneath the tune of shimmered noon

Sleeping on silver lake

She slips from dogged hours

And rigid rules of Time

As thought treads bracken-bowers

And sea-song’s rushing rhyme

She does not still the passion

Perplexing Duty's ream

Nor stems its tide; somewhere inside

She dares to dance and dream

When she is gone from you

Your absence keens the deep

Of farewell rending echoed deaths

Where formless poems sleep

Ah pen,what worlds you veil

She craves your humble due

For she is only half a girl

When she is gone from you

© Janet Martin

My family laughed long and loud when they saw my 'farewell' posted a week ago; 9and that farewell is there because when busyness compels me to withdraw I will, for a little;) But the truth is... I see and breathe a little more freely with a pen in my hand;  whether this is a curse or a blessing I cannot say.

Of Holding and Its Molding

We are born for holding,

Holding children as they grow

Holding families or flowers

But in it I’ve come to know

Sweet love’s holding is the molding

For its flip-side…letting go

We are born for holding

Holding moments, memories

But within the touching pleasure

Of love’s present melodies

Comes the flip-side of its measure

Letting go’s sweet agonies

We are born for holding,

Holding those who are brought low

By life’s keen, relentless flowing

Of loving and letting go

We are born for having, holding

And the hurt of letting go

© Janet Martin

Of Poetry and God

 Pictures of Poetry by John Clare and James Whitcomb Riley

We need a little poetry

The gold on gray, the waking breeze

On life’s highway before the day

Distracts with its formalities

We need to drink the song that spills

From nature’s unsuspecting choir

Or else the hush of blue and blush

Dies like a heart without desire

To fully live is more than pulse

To breathe is death if cares eclipse

The written rhyme and paradigm

Of season-song from heaven’s lips

We need to read God’s tender thought

He loves us so and gave to men

A ceaseless page from age to age

Of poetry from nature’s pen

© Janet Martin

I’m listening to the crickets; come August they never quit! Just like God’s poetry; it spills and fills the vales and rills. When I read centuries-old poetry I am struck by the fact that God’s poetry inspired then just as it still does.

Poetry, before it can be taught or read must be realized.

Of Threads and Things...

They weave through green-leaf spire

Where burnished breezes strum

And aching hearts inquire

Of moments, whence they come

Or where they hurry-scurry

As cricket-song ignites

Awareness of an hour

Infringing azure heights

Stealing blooms from the garden

Snuffing sunflower’s smile

Spilling cadence of autumn

To Augusts’ sanguine guile

I’ve seen its mystic candor

Turn boy into a man

Or watched as ribbons scatter

Where once a wee girl ran

And yet, it seems we’re touching

Those threads weaving their art

We feel a tender tugging

On ribbons ‘round the heart

Firsts pass and who can tether

The span twixt first and last?

As moments thread together

Future, present, then past

Slipping through phantom fingers

Love’s laughter and its tears

Echo where footfalls linger

In the aftermath of years

And all that we can hope for

As seasons ebb and flow

Is strength to hold our loved ones

And strength to let them go

For in the dusty dripping

Of August ilk, sun-spun

We sense the silent slipping

Of a summer almost done

© Janet Martin

 This morning it was 10 degrees C. and very cool all day.I wore a coat to pick beans. THAT is a first! The mind is wrenched from summer to autumn!..but it sounds like summer will return in a few days:)

A New Day Dawns

A new day dawns

Imprint upon

The diary

Of summer’s page

We love and learn

Its no return

Preserved within

Past’s ageless age

The plaintive plea

Of memory

Consoles and torments

Wave on wave

Sweet is the hour

‘Neath summer’s bower

Before the winter

And the grave

The flower’s mirth

Returns to earth

Such is the way

Of grass and men

We till its soil

Of troubled toil

Before we join

Its ranks again

Tempest and calm

Flow from the Palm

Of Providence

Darlings of grace

A new day dawns

Urging us on

In one day nearer

To God’s face

© Janet Martin