Last-Day-Of-October Postcard

Morning

Afternoon

 Dusk...

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

Eternally?

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.

 Rev. 20:15

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.

Rom.5:8

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.

Temporary

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

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

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