Monday, October 31, 2016

Last-Day-Of-October Postcard


Nature’s mantle is frayed; its tatters splayed beneath our feet
Autumn’s auburn-tinged guerdon drains the garden of its lark
Where stomping grounds of summer sleep, like a deserted street
And earth is like a courtyard or market-place after dark
When all the shops are closed but still the scent of Living wafts
Pungent, the dust soft-settled and the noise of barter stilled
Its fruit thereof is garnered into root-cellars and lofts
As Autumn cloaks the air with ambience of quest fulfilled
While we, the workers linger, roving skylines with our eyes
A-wonder at the deftness of time’s Ferris-wheel-like flight
It thickens limbs with bud then leaf, then leaf-by-leaf demise
Surprising us anew by its voracious appetite
And like a dirge, the winds converge and moan outside the door
The brittle aftermath of summer scuttles ‘cross the yard
Where nature’s harp is laid; futile to plead for an encore
Earth is a masterpiece; last-day-of-October postcard

© Janet Martin

While Winds Cajole and Seasons Flow...

It was a point-and-shoot-instant-masterpiece morning!

Holy, the toll
That strips the soul
While winds cajole and seasons flow
While softly sweeps
Fall's leaf-strewn deeps
Out to yon skyline rife with snow

Still, still the will
Of winter’s chill
Seeps into Time’s consonant stride
A seamless guile
Of nod and smile
And dozing by the fireside

Hush, hush the rush
Of dry leaf shush
-ing earth, encumbered with ado
While breath by breath
Each daily death
Abbreviates Time’s avenue

Tick-tock, tick-tock
The sky-wide clock
Chimes blush, then blue, now warm, then cold
And we forget
The Awesome Yet
Hinged to its pendulum of gold

With holy toll
It strips the Whole
Until, until all that remains
Of skin and bone
And grin and groan
Is the Unseen that breath constrains

© Janet Martin

'God of the seasons and sky,
You have always been holding my life' (from above song)

Our Very Death Depends On It

The Choice we make
And what’s at stake
Can steal one’s very breath away
This course we climb
On shores called Time
Leads to a deadline none can sway

Holy, the toll
Where seasons roll
Toward a Goal of soul and God
This day of grace
To human race
Is more than trifling traipse on sod

Consider this:
When what now is
Comes to the very end of it
Where will we be
Our very death depends on it

Thus Who we choose
Or else refuse
From He whose Son died, souls to save
Becomes the Door
To Evermore
Heaven or hell waits in each grave

© Janet Martin

 Anyone whose name was not found written 
in the book of life was thrown into the lake of fire.

Please, please, (I beg you unashamedly)
if you are uncertain of where you are going after you die, 
or how to get to where you want to go when you die, listen to this message
your very death may depend on it!
More messages here

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: 
While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Poems like this are not written
because they are 'fun'
but because everyone
will meet
with The Choice we lay
before Jesus' feet

Excerpts from the Book A Man Called Peter
If you want to read the rest of it I strongly encourage buying the book available on Amazon.

Sunday, October 30, 2016


Because this is temporary
Each season comes to pass
And we are all but sojourners
On Time’s glimmer of grass
Where want and wish and waiting
Are part of me and you
Because this is not our destiny
But just the passing to

© Janet Martin

Saturday, October 29, 2016

The Poem

 Don't you love, love how happing upon an unexpected Poem
can make everything else better?!

Sometimes, while I wait for Victoria at her Saturday morning piano lesson, 
I read poetry and find poems(both literally and metaphorically:) I otherwise might not...
(click on image to enlarge for easier reading)

The Poem’s stage is tucked, age-old
In turn of pages in a book
It stars, not in script, loud and bold
But stirs in bracken by the brook
Or wind as it washes through leaves
Or frosted ilk on fronds forlorn
A poem runs through brittle sheaves
Or twist of ink or mist of morn

The Poem seeks no accolade
No crowd to cheer, no loud applause
Enough to touch the promenade
Of sighs and skies with o-o-h-s and a-a-a-h-s
It satisfies without a sound
Its stage a mere wordage or three
And never by a showcase bound
Is the aplomb of poetry

The Poem needs no pedestal
No grandstand to be seen or heard
Enough to love through madrigal  
Enough to leave its lover stirred
Sequestered far from front-row noise
Or ribald popularity
Glad, glad, The Poem sings soul-joys
In quiet anonymity

© Janet Martin

Friday, October 28, 2016

To Mr. Frost...

Are you lonely as you wander
Artist without brush or jars
Detailing in gilt-spun grandeur
Leaf and sheaf and heath, with stars

From frayed pockets you untether
Dye of diamonds, dreams and dew
Fleet as fairy-feet you feather
Autumn’s auburn avenue

No most lowly form forgotten
Genteel now, each vagabond
Kiss o’ mist and moon-dust mornin’
Dazzles sprig and twig and frond

Wisp ‘o wishes turns to wonder
Where your piquant plunder falls
Through a waking world you thunder
Silver makes no sound at all

© Janet Martin