Tuesday, March 31, 2015

What To Do!

Unwrap, untie, unfold, undo
This day will not
Return to you

Enjoy, explore, empty, embrace
This thing that
No one can retrace

Walk slow, hold on, let go, for oh
How swift the tide
Of moments flow

© Janet Martin

‘I simply do not dread any season or beg a day to haste; they all go way to fast with no moment to waste’, I remarked to hubby on the weekend as snow dashed the edges of fading day...evoking a tender ache for something I simply cannot name.

Tell me, where did March go?!

Winter will pass,

the days will lengthen,

the ice will melt in the pasture pond.

The sparrow will return and sing,

the frogs will awake,

the warm wind will blow again.

All these sights and sounds and smells will be yours to enjoy, Wilbur-

this lovely world,

these precious days...

Charlotte, from Charlotte's Web

It Looked Like Rain, But Then

It looked like rain, and then the sky
Unchained a lovely melody
That filled its girth with azure mirth
Where they said a gray cloud would be

It looked like rain, but then instead
Of splish-and-splash, it turned the page
And chose a tune of sun-gold noon
With blue atop a sweep of sage

Sometimes it looks like rain but then
The waters in a higher hand
Part wondrously like the Red Sea
And we walk through Day on dry land

© Janet Martin

I waited to do laundry because earlier it clouded over
and looked like rain before turning into sun-gold Hallelujahs!

Without Easter

He is not here but is risen. Luke 24:6

How could hope’s well-spring surge
What then could our guilt purge?

How could we ever sing?
No joy could yield full measure nor

And every bloom a gloomy thorn
Pressed hard upon the head

Without Easter, then Christmas
Would be a vain affair
Without Easter eternity
Would be too long to bear

Without Easter, our passage
Through life’s struggle and pain
Of all that yet remains

Without Easter, a promise
Would be hollow, and Hope
A mystery; without Easter
Tell me, how could we cope?

© Janet Martin

What is hope? The world cries. What is another word for hope? There is only one word for hope; Jesus. Why Jesus? Because of what we call Easter.

Isn't Spring Simply Lovely?

...slowly but surely the melt is happening 

...because we are still waiting for the first bloom of green-gold the writer drew from experience of Past spring to dream of Spring-future;-)

Spring melts svelte fences, spreads a mat of lilting laughter where 
Earth wore the shroud of loud, proud winter's wild and frigid flare
We ride the wide wave of brave daydreams spawned by yawns blue-gold
Oh, isn't spring simply a lovely blessing to behold?

I've never heard a tree complain when it is stripped of leaf
but it stands bold and stalwart through cold rain and snow; Belief
buoys the body because bud, like wisdom soft unfolds
within the waiting; isn't spring lovely in greens and golds?

In the city, spring is pretty where the gritty boulevard
Wears blushing trees like emerald bracelets on a weathered arm
And countryside is like a bride preparing for her groom
in her best dress; isn't spring simply stunning in first-bloom?

Spring doffs the dowdy hill and rill then spills in daffodil
it 'considers the lilies', clothing earth in apparel
unrivaled in its finery; a lithesome loom weaving
fresh fabric; isn't spring simply a lovely, lovely thing?


Victoria and I watched the morning giggle in pink puddles and gold looking-glasses, somehow its giddiness seeped into our souls...

I was trying to refrain from writing another spring poem but every so often Cyndy shares a poem or an excerpt of a poem that makes me want to stand on my chair and cheer LOUDLY. this is such a poem...(while I don't live in the west, I hear many 'west' stories from hubby who travels there every week... ) and after reading it my pen could not resist...here is the poem Cyndy linked to in full.

Open Range

Western land was made for those
Who like land wild and free,
For cattle, deer, and buffalo,
For antelope and me;
For those who like a land the way
That it was made by God
Before men thought they could improve
By plowing up the sod.

I want the rivers running clean,
I want a clear, blue sky,
A place to draw a good, deep breath
And live, before I die.
I want the sage, I want the grass,
I want the curlew's call,
And I don't want just half a loaf,—
I've got to have it all.

These cities seem to ear me down
And I can't stand their roar,
They make me have the itching foot
To get back West once more.
I hate the milling herds in town
With all their soot and grime,
I wouldn't trade a western trail
For Broadway any time.

Just give me country big and wide
With benchland, hills and breaks,
With coulees, cactus, buttes and range,
With creeks, and mountain lakes,
Until I cross the Great Divide,
Then, God, forgive each sin
And turn me loose on my cayuse
But please don't fence me in.

by Robert H. Fletcher, from Corral Dust, 1936 edition


Stan Howe pointed out that "ear" in the line "These cities seem to ear me down" is correct. He writes, "To 'ear' an animal down is to grab him by the ear and either pull him down or twist his ear until he goes down on his knees and can be pulled over on his side. It works better with cows than horses but can be done with horses, too.  Bob knew exactly what he was writing. In cowboy parlance if something is earing you down, it is wearing on you and will finally get you down.  That is what is happening in the poem, the city is earing him down." 

Hold To the Hand That Holds Us

For I am the LORD your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. Isa.41:13

Hold to the hand that holds the sand that trickles through time’s glass
The Keeper of His promises knows what will come to pass
Then should the fight be hard and night reach far into the day
Still, hold the hand that holds us in each untold come-what-may

Hold to the hand that holds the land and sea in folds of blue
He parts the waters of the deep so that we may pass through
And should the way that he allows seem foreign to our want
Still, hold the hand that holds us close where fear and worry taunt

Hold to the hand that will not fail though oft it seems, we must
Yet, if we never failed then would we ever truly trust?
His hands are rich with mercy, granting courage for this strife
Hold to the hand that holds us in the gray and gold of life

And wore the nails and bore the cross for our sin; Jesus
Hold to His hand, He understands what we can never know
Hold to the hand that holds us near and never lets us go

© Janet Martin

Monday, March 30, 2015

A Language We Never Forget

 Robins return in spite of the snow...c'mon winter, give it a rest already!! yes, it's snowing...

Your language, easy to relearn
With the return of robin-song
And plush rush of warm rain upon
The plot of forget-me-not berm
Fills us with fuss of green-leaf trees
And wave-washed leas, and sun-bronzed feet
Though windows frame the dull retreat
Of winter’s ragged remnant fleece

Your language, soft as silk that flows
Around our toes from skeins aloft
Lavishes winter-weary croft
With vision of lilac and rose
That grows where now the lagging rogue
Has torn a hole into his sack
And feathers fall, a small attack
Mustered against unflustered brogue

…of you, sweet, sanguine dialect
Of stream gold-flecked, of daffodil
And violet and daisy hill
That none but you can resurrect
With words, the sweetest ever heard
Of anthems stirred that long have slept
While winter its chill vigil kept
Still you spill whispers, undeterred

© Janet Martin