November-ness...

Where merrily the moments drip

In pageants from Higher Command

We struggle, stumble, strive and slip

Through the onslaught of mercy-sand

That falls through autumn’s culling will

Until the world is still and stark

Save for the lisping whispering

Of raven pines against the dark

Where Verily the vale is stripped

Of melodies that stole the show

Not long ago; stiff and tight-lipped

The mighty minstrels wait for snow

To soften what they cannot hide

Bereft of summer’s laughing scrim

That comforted the passer-by

As vespers strummed an evening -hymn

Where warily we Want and wait

For that beyond our small control

While Author of grace litigates

On our behalf; skin over soul

And we empathize with the trees

Relinquishing their loveliness

The Master of Time’s piracies

Whispers hope to November-ness

© Janet Martin

Some Hallowe'en happiness;-)
 I bet you think I'm talking about the pumpkins and popcorn.
They were nice, but the best part was having Melissa home for a few hours!

This evening I took her to the bus-stop because she is working the night shift tonight,
then I came home and listened to this song

 

Then I called Jim and we both listened to it.

We've been long time Jackson fans...Alan that is;-)

Oct-over Song

The fields have been garnered

Hills relinquish red

The glory of nature

Is bowing Her head

The passion of posies

Submits to repose

Back road daisy havens

Subdued and morose

The sweep of Time’s Swansong

Permeates the air

Where what was leaf-laden

Is muted and bare

As dreamers look forward

But nostalgic hearts

Look back with love’s longing

At all Time imparts

Where Death seems the victor

And earth seems a tomb

Instead of a haven

That harbors spring’s bloom

Where all that was giddy

With laughter, leaf-wild

Is weaned from the tresses

Like youth from a child

And no one can conquer

Though we may rebel

At the Supremacy

Pervading the dell

And filling fervency

With sighs, bittersweet

October is over

It lies at our feet

© Janet Martin

"Oh", sighs Victoria as we are driving this morning, "I wish I could paint".

We are drinking in the sorrow-beauty of almost barren trees.

"A pen is the most wonderful paint-brush in the world", I tell her.

Ode To October...

October's Swansong Begins... 

 

OctPoWriMo day 30; sensitivity

Oh, sanguine charmer of the eye

You tease summer from trees and hills

With glades of gold, with scarlet ply

Extravagant, your palette spills

To fill the world with butterflies

A heaven-on-earth-paradise

Persimmon-rose-bronze-blended prize

A sacred dread instills

Oh, bold enticer of the heart

You draw worship from every ‘ah’

And with each brush-stroke you impart

To atheistic-boast, pure awe

At the authority of He

Who paints Earth’s panoramic lea

With autographs of majesty

In nature’s supreme law

Oh, seasoned spender of our sighs

Oh, tender troubadour of trees

Your leaf-and-lonely-limb good-byes

Ignite love’s soul-sweet agonies

In pumpkins, kissed with crumbled mist

In frosted flasks where you untwist

Morning, poured in silk amethyst

You have no enemies

Oh, author of apprenticeship
You gild then strip the supple clime
While in the orchard branches drip
Ruddy swansongs in apple-chime 
The nectar of hope's harvest pressed
And caught in cups of sparkling zest 
Where scholars holy-humbly blessed
Savor sun-flavored Time

Oh, keeper of our sorrow-storms

Love’s holding close and letting go

Is a keen winnowing as arms

Learn the lordship of seasons, oh

And like relinquishment of leaves

Of flowers spent and garnered sheaves

Gratitude swells while thought soft-grieves

October’s golden snow

© Janet Martin

Built on The Best of Times

The other evening Victoria and I stood here imagining how our cottage would look, after I told her there used to be a house and/or barn here long, long ago. This is why the lilac bush blooms seemingly in the middle of nowhere and why grape hyacinths spill in purple rivers down the hill in spring...

Between the lilac bush and tree

We built a cottage made of stone

Where wild grape hyacinth runs free

And ivy climbs the walls of home

Its window-boxes spill with blooms

Its walls harbor a hundred nooks

And braided mats warm wooden rooms

That sail the world in story-books

The tea kettle sings tiralee

The scones, are butter-warm, oh my

And it is always half-past tea

Where the clock is a big, blue sky

Between the lilac bush and tree

The best of Times accumulate

To build a cottage, snug and wee

Where Mary Poppins and friends wait

...and after dark, when all is still
And moonlit bathed and filled with sprites
We'll sit upon the silver hill
and watch heaven turn on its lights

© Janet Martin

A Word of Caution to Would-be Poets...

Afternoon is like a blanket that wraps morning in its splay

And leaves the poet feeling like a poem slipped away

The melody of Muse is half-torture, half ecstasy

For nothing can quite satisfy the love of poetry

Perpetual indulgence is not for the faint of heart

The hunter and the hunted always one poem apart

Beware, the air is rife with that which ever vexes Thought

The fragment of a poem that can never quite be caught

© Janet Martin