Thus She Has Promised To Be True

How long are you going to keep this (poem/poems-a-day) up, I've been asked.

I can't say, really, other than

As long as God provides the 'page'

Why is this my answer?

Because one night I pleaded desperately to know for sure

'what is the use of poetry'?!

Is it really His calling/gift to me, or simply my passion/outlet?

So, as I prayed I made a decision that until I sense his confirmation I will take a break!

I climbed into bed and picked up a book I just purchased from a local Thrift Store. 

After rifling through its poem-pages, trying to decide which ones to read

I decided to start on the very first page...

(the whole page)

I have not looked back since (only up)

until the Giver deems otherwise...

Thus, this student asks for grace from those 

who are far more fluent, educated etc.

By the grace of God, write I,

for his honour and glory

with gratitude for what He gave (and withheld)!

When I was a youngster I was sure that shining athletic abilities, esp.

in volleyball or baseball was where true happiness lay!

So I would practice literally for hours throwing/heaving

a ball into the air and catching it. 

My payoff? black eyes, and skinned elbows and knees

 as Best Effort stumbled and slipped and misjudged...

(Contrary to what I was told, practice simply would/did not make perfect)

To this day still, when I throw a ball

 where it will land, in which direction, is anybody's guess.

Yes, often behind me, and I'm still baffled

as to how that happens😂

I have discovered that happiness lies in accepting and being grateful

for what is lent and Thus, being mindful on how it is spent.

He cupped her in His hands and said

No athlete, This Wee Miss, instead

I’ll weave within Her filigree

A soul that aches with poetry

A hunger, not appeased with bread

I’ll plant her dust with word-lust’s corm

Not gift of gab, nor dancer’s form

But ears to hear and eyes to see

The Font of would-be poetry

To take her modest frame by storm

I'll let a poem fill the gaps

That some assuage by swimming laps

I'll let a page produce the rush

That some engage with paint and brush

I'll tune Her to the tree that claps   

Thus, she has promised to be true

To tides that rush her through and through

In oceanic ebb and flow

To grapple with the undertow

Of poems without voice or hue

There is a world that waits to shine

Its gates pearled with breath-soft design

Where trust must pry a sigh apart

To trace the trestles of the heart

And wrestle stars to lilt and line

She reaches up, feels for the hands

That cupped Her as He wove her strands

To sift the quickened sands of time

And snare its rhythm into rhyme

Knowing the Weaver understands

When is enough, Enough, some ask

While heavens tip dawn’s mercy-flask

While hills and rills run wild with spring

While His touch instills everything

That fits the poet for her task

© Janet Martin

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;

 the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, 

and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

Isa.55:12