Sunday, November 30, 2014

Pondering the Inevitable...

It must be so, the fall of fall
Succumbs to winter’s silver shawl
We brace ourselves for winnowing
Of zephyr-song, but then, comes spring

No winter yet, has not succumbed
To pirouettes of zephyr-song
Caught in the tempo of sun’s ray
The will of winter melts away

The summer-heart, though it may mourn
The fading art of autumn shorn
Knows winter is the wailing wing
That ever without fail, brings spring

And so, life’s must-be-so’s’ oft are
The path leading to gates ajar
Leading, not back to what has been
But ever onward to spring-green

A winter gale cannot deter
The winsome will of gossamer 
...of zephyr-song and buds that wait
To spill in spring beyond its gate

 © Janet Martin 

PAD Challenge day 30:  For today’s prompt, write an inevitable poem.

 A spoke to the farmer of this field today...he's hoping it will be harvested this week! There are many farmers hoping the snow will hold off for a while yet!

The Inevitable Death of an Oreo

 They didn't have a chance
I think the cookies knew
That a me-and-cookie romance
Can never end with two

They didn't have a chance
I think cookies can tell
That a me-and-cookie romance
Cannot end very well...(for them, that is;-)


PAD Challenge day 30:For today’s prompt, write an inevitable poem. The poem that always had to be, or a poem about something that was inevitable.

Oh, Death

PAD Challenge day 30:For today’s prompt, write an inevitable poem. The poem that always had to be, or a poem about something that was inevitable.

He is a Marksman and does not miss
Then laugh your full laughter and kiss that soft kiss
Slow dance with moments, hold steady their gaze
'cause he's gonna get us one of these days

The blush of morning teases feet to the floor
Deftly adorning Time's street with its More
Grinning and weeping, the flash of a flower
Falls from his sheaf like the ash of an hour

He takes no vacation, and he never sleeps
...he only comes once to each one, but for keeps
None can decipher the names on each dart
Nor when his arrow will enter the heart

His is a presence both feared and revered
Time's breath-by-breath essence gently commandeered   
By this Marksman's Master; Death is but the rod 
of flesh back to dust and the soul back to God


Saturday, November 29, 2014

The Skyline Eats the Sun...

Today's moments were for the most part a hectic mish-mash of disarray but tonight the room(see previous post) is back together for the most part, the laundry almost done, the squares for tomorrow's church potluck just need to be iced; it was the way the skyline devoured the big pink sun-drop that inspired this poem.

Saturday’s edges thin
The skyline eats the sun
Like a pink lollipop and then
The light of day is done

The light of day is done
 Where sweep of blue on blue
Obliterates the skyline then
The yard and garden too

The yard and garden too
Become a sea of black
Where Saturday slips from our view
To Bygone’s bivouac

To Bygone’s bivouac
Every Today will fall
Its dusty streets of looking back
Fill many a madrigal 

Yet, many a madrigal
Can never take the place
Of what we hold in moment-gold
Drip-dripping into space

© Janet Martin

Week-to-week Touch-down

 What are you doing with your Saturday? Right now I'm listening to Victoria play 'Hark, The Herald Angels Sing' just before we get this room back to rights!

PAD Challenge day 29:For today’s prompt, write a do it again poem.

Saturday fills cups with slow second-coffees  (didn't we just do this?!)
and closes the book to another week's jots  (already?!)
Its seven-page chapter committed and soldered  (wait a minute. I'm not done yet!)
Into an archive reserved for our thoughts  (oh, those half-smile journeys!)

This weekly touchdown turns girls into women (wa-a-ay too fast)
and women to people they don't quite recognize  (hello,little, old lady in the mirror. who are you?)
save in the things that a mirror won't tell you  (of love-lines unshakeable)
while she marvels again and repeats, 'my how time flies'  (why am I always surprised?!)

It flies on the backs of young boys growing taller (even when mom wears heels!)
than mother; it scatters in building blocks (...traded for car-keys)
It flies in purple toqued-mittened snow-angels *(I saw her yesterday...)
Sweetly oblivious to big blue-sky clocks (bent on Saturdays)

It flies where daddies trade big dreams for duties (uses his 'play' money to pay for milk)
Monday to Friday can wear a man small (regardless of his size)
All for the love of a wee face in the window (thank God for Saturdays)
Grinning; ah, time's laugh-lines are worth it all (he'd do it again in a heart-beat!)

Janet Martin~

* yesterday I was driving through Drayton (nearby town) when I saw a little girl and her daddy walking home from school. As soon as they reached the driveway to their home she dropped to the ground, arms and feet flailing as she made a snow-angel. Her dad; grinning from ear to ear:)

Now I need to put this room back in order. suddenly ended up painting two badly chipped-scratched walls in the middle of fall-cleaning it!


I’ve learned to love a little slower
Here, in autumn-fingers curled
I have learned to linger. And I
wouldn’t trade it for the world

…wouldn’t trade it for that pocket
Full of dreams not broken yet
Wouldn’t trade my heart-shaped locket
For a love I have not met

Wouldn’t give back what life gave me
Simply to begin again
For it isn’t very likely
I’d do any better then

I admit, though summer charmed me
With its blue-gold chivalry
I believe it warmed and armed me
To withstand what yet must be

And somewhere while hours hurried
Into yesterday the clock
Taught me how to walk more slowly
 in its holy tick and tock

…taught me to revel in nothing
But the moment in my hand
Where in autumn-fingers lingers
But a remnant yet, of sand

© Janet Martin

Inspired while commenting on Sasha’s post tonight; one of a month of poetry too wonderful to miss!

Friday, November 28, 2014

Of Soul-brooch and Heartstrings...

Where are your heartstrings moored?

We adjust, get used to what once was but is no more
That ache of ‘missing you’ is like love’s brooch pinned to the soul
I’m glad to love and have been loved enough to bear the roar
Of ‘missing you’ where new loves and new memories console

Time laughs in our faces like a bully without spite
Its hand brimming with graces we are oft not ready for
Darling, we cannot travel back even to yester-night
Save in a frigate wrought of thought’s bittersweet troubadour

…so, we adjust because we must; to pine is but to miss
Our present ‘missing you’s’ still held too close for memories
Forbid that I would squander its touch-taste because the kiss
Of yesterday is more than I am willing to appease

© Janet Martin 

Last night when you burnt supper then 'forgot' to do the dishes
I didn't reprimand, for I have seen firsthand the speed of years
and I would rather not waste moments spouting futile wishes
where daily I'm reminded of how fast time disappears...

East Window 'News'

PAD Challenge day 28:For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) News,” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem.

East windows unveil virgin grace; the panoramic dawn
Climbs through a fence in outer space to unearth field and lawn
Eyes still half-sleepy press their gazes to Time's blushing tray
Where palettes spill in masterpiece arrangements of New Day

This Artist cannot disappoint; east windows frame a wink
Of mute moment-anatomy brimming blue-gray, gold-pink
The atmosphere, His canvas; here soon history's increase 
Fills ev'ry east-faced window with His newest Masterpiece

Ancient, yet ever new His timeless Hand paints Time's new plea
With undeterred authority across Past's lethargy
And all that matters now as windows open to the east
Is what is yet to be; we inhale new dawn's glory-feast

Alpha-Omega Artist, ere we haste, first let us bow
On the door-mat to Evermore where mercy's over-flow
Lavishes earth's east windows from well-springs that will not fail
The holy under-tow of moments tugs away night's veil

 Janet Martin~

Genesis 1:3-5 Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.


The night falls thick and soft as heaven’s feather-down duvet
Decks every hill and croft where dull November tatters lay
The landscape boasts a host of marshmallow-like infantry
Where once upon an afternoon green bushes used to be
…the silent night is silver white; I cannot bear to snore
While under the influence of quadrillion stars or more

Is there a fount in Heaven that spills diamonds just for fun?
Earth is the grand recipient of heaven’s over-run
And we within the thunder of plush plunder feel like kings
Forgetting in its wonder small and unimportant things
Where angel-feathers fall and we feel almost fit to fly
Within this whirling, swirling magi-furling from the sky

The silence of this stilly night echoes of centuries
And almost we can hear the waft of bells upon the breeze
Then, almost I’m persuaded to wait lest perchance Heaven
Is spilling angels singing ‘peace on earth, goodwill to men’
Where just this afternoon hills shivered in thread-bare brown-gray
Before glad tidings wrapped them in a feather-down duvet

© Janet Martin

When I picked Matt up at work around six-o-clock this evening snow was falling in a thick feather-frenzy. At midnight, after Matt's hockey game the night is a hushed, plush pillow on a downy duvet.