Gold-diggers...two versions

 Click on image to enlarge...

morning spilled 
in gold puddles 
before a hungry cloud 
ate the sun

(I have a feeling the cloud will spew it back onto the sky eventually)

Soft, soft upon the stirring prow of Now the ‘won’t and will’

Of Unknown, wrapped in pink and blue begins unraveling

Where yester-dusk blushed on the hills and sealed its rendering

Behind closed doors of nevermore, now untried mercies spill

Kissing our weary blind-spots with a whisper of hello

And gifting us with opulence of opportunity

The rush of something special, though our gaping gaze can’t see

Breaks wide, a mercy-miracle upon this cursed plateau

…and we, armed with the grace of God and prospect’s polished spade

Are greeted by a host of hope-buds waiting for the touch

Of something special ere they fall prey to Past’s steadfast clutch

Fresh from the Hand of mercy, memories wait to be made

© Janet Martin

What will we fill our pockets with today? 

With or without intention

Memories are being made...

We are hosting our annual super-bowl get-together tomorrow so along with some prep-work,

and mundane awesomeness I hope to add a splash of 'something special'. I don't know yet what it will be so it's time to start digging...

Have a blessed Saturday!

p.s.
same poem with different lines breaks for those who prefer a less lyrical read... 

Soft, soft upon the stirring prow

of Now the ‘won’t and will’

Of Unknown, wrapped in pink and blue

begins unraveling,

Where yester-dusk blushed on the hills

and sealed its rendering

behind closed doors of nevermore,

Now untried mercies spill

Kissing our weary blind-spots

with a whisper of hello

and gifting us

with opulence of opportunity

the rush of something special,

though our gaping gaze can’t see, 

breaks wide

a mercy-miracle upon this cursed plateau

…and we, armed with the grace of God

and prospect’s polished spade are greeted

by a host of hope-buds waiting

for the touch of something special

ere they fall prey

to Past’s steadfast clutch,

Fresh from the Hand of mercy,

memories wait to be made

© Janet Martin

Balm of Gilead...for the Weight of Emptiness

There is an emptiness that rolls and swallows happiness

In vain our greatest efforts to console its pleas that press

It rushes in a crushing want, crashing against a shore

Where voids of nothingness twist and untwist a weeping core

There is an emptiness that pleads with needs we cannot name

The heaviness of it can weigh the heart with quiet shame

Where days and years and faith and fears meld mutely to create

An emptiness too heavy for flesh fingers to abate

We wallow in its hollow and we wander in its wild

We flounder in the current of a hurt unreconciled

Futile, attempts to succor on our own its groaning dread

The heart can harbor hunger that cannot be fed with bread

There is an emptiness that wealth and words cannot appease

But One will come to us as we call to Him on our knees

He heals the broken spirit, Balm of Gilead, grace-shod

And fills our aching emptiness with love, the love of God

© Janet Martin

The Wily Will and Won't of Words

Sometimes those words we’d like to say

Get all knotted within,

Our thoughts all muddled until we

Don’t know where to begin

But, on the other hand, sometimes

Without hesitancy

The words that we should never speak

Slip out so easily

© Janet Martin

 

...and the little lad squirmed on that chair growing harder by the minute,

wishing with all his darling five-year-old heart that he could have those naughty words back, so he could run and play. 

We chatted about how it is; when words slip out there is nothing we can do to get them back, so we should think first, then talk.

Taming the Tongue
…But no one can tame the tongue; it is a restless evil and full of deadly poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in the likeness of God; from the same mouth come both blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not to be this way.…James 3:8-10

White Knight

 Click on image to enlarge...

Clouds are White...Wikipedia

another wikem

The night lay white beneath the light of black on white where stars

Washed the swirled colors of the world to far and foreign bars

Beneath a canopy of moonless midnight people sleep

Save for the white-faced poet with a white-spaced charge to keep

The sound of silence slides along the fence-line, street and lane

It runs through white-washed meadows like a silk and satin train

It pauses where the profile of white nothingness is marred

A little light to touch with gold the white-knighted postcard

The dusty haze and musky ways of midnight in July

Are muffled by a diamond glaze that flutters from the sky

Its rests upon the rooftop and it nestles on the sill

And pours white whispers from a flask where poet’s drink their fill

The clouds at night are not as white as clouds of middle-day

But wise-men snore their sagely snores as well on shores of gray

Among the stars a pontoon drifts where poets sift through white

And trawl the rise and falling call of one more poem to write

© Janet Martin