Saturday, October 31, 2015


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.

Friday, October 30, 2015

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

Thursday, October 29, 2015

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