Tuesday, May 22, 2018

A Hope-Hug

I love listening to the above powerful hymn when hope needs a little hug...
It inspired a sudden 'hymn' from my heart...
as I prayed for my friend Jen 
thrust suddenly into the unwelcome world of cancer.
(please, pray too?)

He is greater, 
The Creator 
Of the rooming house of stars
He moves mountains 
With a whisper 
And persuades dawn from yon bars

He is mercy
When this cast of days dissolves
He is greater
The Creator
Of the home for redeemed souls

He is holy
Great and lowly
Are called to repent, believe
He is Awesome
He, the promise
Of life that death cannot grieve

He is greater
Than the crater
Twixt time and eternity
He is Father
and the Saviour 
Of sin-cursed humanity

He is greater
Of words stuttered into prayer
No matter
How dark the valley
Still His faithful Light beams there

He is greater
The Creator
Of the world and all therein
He is mercy
He is holy
He is peace, hope, joy within


Janet Martin

Splashes of Poetry

 ...rain is poem-ink!

The earth wears little mirrors scattered on the street and lane
And on the surface of the lake spill spangles made of rain
The artwork on a morning made of rivulets that wend
Down window pane and leaf is like a poem almost penned

The plush hush ‘neath a brush dripping with welkin whisper-sheen
Turns meadow lands from barren strands to bands of knee-deep green
Each flower, like a chalice cups a sip of silver tea
Poured from a lofty palace for the butterfly and bee

I think the ink of rain-drop pink and forget-me-not hue
Makes poets of us all for a perfect moment or two
Its delicate dimensions mount impeccable detail
A poem poured from heaven’s fount in pretty petal-braille

…like umbrellas for fellas that we read about in books
The wood-nymph, elf in fairylands of fern and mossy nooks
As teeniest of tap-dancers in tutus made of glass
Bobble on purple pansy-plume or ballroom-blade of grass

Ah, listen as the pitter-patter cadence ebbs and flows
A tempo from the heavens that only God can compose
Then bow before the author of May morning majesty
He waters fields and gardens with splashes of poetry

© Janet Martin

 The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof; 
the world, and they that dwell therein.
(click reference link to read the rest of this sacred psalm)

Monday, May 21, 2018

Bitty Dusk Ballad...

Few things prettier than dawn-to-dusk, in May's days...

The gilt that etched dawn’s frosted sketch deepens to amber-rose
Dusk’s canvas leaned against the west showcases day’s repose
Its silhouettes of raven ink on bronze and pink become
An echo melded to the cast of Past’s immortal sum

Somewhere a Hand gathers the remnant hemline of today
Beneath His tender touch the countryside is tucked away
The Maker of the morning tips a vault of diamond jars
And splays across night’s heights a panorama made of stars

© Janet Martin

Between Us 'Fledglings' or Feather-Fashionistas

My sister is more a 'fledgling-Grandma(1 week) than I of a little over a year's experience
 (we were grandma-to-grandma chatting for a little while this morning;-) 
but I am far more a fledgling grandma than my older sister
...and so it goes.
My niece is a more fledgling-mother than my daughter with a 16 mo. old, who is
  still a very fledgling mother as disciplining stage etc. begins 
and I am a fledgling 50-something learning how to wear and adapt to these feathers of change
...and so it goes!
My mother is a 'fledgling'-mid-70's woman adjusting to time taking its toll on vitality
(hard things to surrender for a mother of 10,
grandmother of 46(I think) and great-grandmother of 9, always willing to work hard)
...and so it goes!
We are all first-timers in whatever stage of life we are in!
...so, let's be more patient with each other 'cause we're all just learning!

Whether it's how to put muffin-liners in a muffin-tin or 
how to surrender certain freedoms to the beautiful 'bonds' of wife-mother-grandmother-hood...

We earn the right to teach by what we learn from slip-trip-fall
No voice is quite as seasoned as that of experience
Where it is not the stumble-tumble that decides it all
But what we do when we get up that makes the difference

The lessons we remember are not learned on pedestals
But in the muck and mire of desire run awry
For we are all students juggling wonder with upheavals
Fledglings at varying degrees of ‘learning how to fly’

There is no second time around this circuit we call life
Where everyone is learning how to wear time’s latest rage stage
And no one is too old to learn new lessons of joy-strife
All fledglings of a sort when it comes to time’s age to age

This keeps us bound to common ground of live-laugh-love and learn
Where change is like a teacher rearranging what ‘we know’
…and everyone should keep in mind this humble right we earn
As what we learn becomes what we teach to fledglings in tow

© Janet Martin

...and some 'fledgling' humor to keep us all from getting too pricklish...

Thunder of Wonder When...

 (the photos that helped to inspire this particular post are locked in my camera 
until 'the unofficial borrower' of my camera-cord returns from a weekend get-away)😐
Oh well, lots in the archives because the well of wonder is in constant replenishment!

When morning’s silver scepter rends night’s onyx ocean, oh
When wonder’s intangible nectar fends want’s vertigo

When bud gives birth to earthy glimpses of yon paradise
When shame accepts love’s worthiness when Mercy sanctifies

When spring crowns brown and charcoal silence with green-golden swell
And dapples pink to apple orchards, purple to the dell

When Hope that is not seen is keened within the human breast
By Someone bigger than fear’s fiends that never seem to rest

When baby breaks the bonds of Mystery and mother’s arms
Are filled with joy unspeakable beyond travail’s alarms

When blood-sealed promise heals the wound of Adam’s curse within
And Belief takes upon its back faith’s cross to follow Him

When quietness is broken by the cooing of a dove
When sorrow is the token of a severed life-long love

When far and wide the countryside is like a bride’s soft smile
When the groom first beholds Her beauty walking up the aisle

When we, often too willing to believe the worst are blessed
(If we believe) after death’s chilling Must, with Heaven’s best

When Character develops through the pruning of the ‘shoot’
Where childhood is the envelope that cups a tree of fruit

When life anoints the cadaver of winter-spent facade
And fills the halls of nature with the wonderment of God

When daffodil delights the hill that doffed white cloth somehow
When sight is humbled by the proof of God’s four-season vow

When who we were at first creation is not who we are
Because the Author of Salvation wears the Scapegoat’s scar

When, what may feel like far too late ‘neath judgment’s damning eye
By God’s kind grace is the cocoon before the butterfly

© Janet Martin

 How great are his signs, how mighty his wonders!
 His kingdom is an eternal kingdom; his dominion endures from generation to generation.
Daniel 4:3