Of Come-What-May and Hip-hip-hooray...God Is On His Throne

This morning one of my waking thoughts was the words to this Steve Wariner song;

Sun is up, 

Time's at hand

There's a stir across the land

And so begins another day on life's highway...

...and so begins another day of plans and the happenings thereof

or of dealing with life when it does not go according to plan.

like those suffering on hurricane-stricken islands,

or  grieving the loss of a beloved,

or those longing to be with loved ones but cannot due to crisis in the country(such as South Sudan)

This little blue dot hung in space groans with confusion 

that comes with turning one's back on

and one's heart against its Creator God

until many do not even know that they are doing so,

ignorant of the Love that begets light of day

and longs to be our Hope and Stay

Who can foretell come-what-may

Laden with the light of day

Voyageurs on life’s highway

One and all are we

None can sway earth’s seasoned sod

Nor the Staying Hand of God

Faith and hope and mercy shod

We trod toward He

Who, Jehovah, never veers

Never changes with the years

Greater than man’s temp’ral fears

Is His Majesty

Thus, no matter come-what-may

In dark night or light of day

God sets His watch on life’s way

Rife with soul-charged dust

None can thwart what He ordains

Even consequence remains

In the place where He sustains

Remorse; He is just

Therefore, we who seek will find

Strength though weak and sight though blind

God is merciful and kind

Our part is to trust

Sun is up and who can say

What will come to pass today

But, no matter come-what-may

We are not alone

Overhead, around, beneath

Faithful in both life and death

Is He who breathed our first breath

Shaped our skin and bone

He will not leave or forsake

We of stumble and mistake

No matter what move we make

God is on His throne

© Janet Martin

the words to this hymn are so powerful;
this is why I post and re-post it!

Dear Autumn, Be Gentle With Mothers

Others cannot see the colors

Where years have seared priceless art

Nor do they know of the autumn

Of a middle-aged mother’s heart

Beneath her skin seasons linger

Where children slipped from Her care

Caught between summer and winter

She learns new reasons for prayer

These are no common arrangements

Scattered like leaves on lost yards

Meekly she bears the estrangements

That comes with changing of Guards

Longing is a two-edged saber

Gratefulness cushions its thrust

Without it middle-aged mothers

Would not have wherewithal to trust

Dear autumn, be gentle with mothers

She senses a chill in your stare

Help her to shoulder the colors

Leading to snow-silvered hair

© Janet Martin

Becoming Intimate With Father Time...

No, no amount of willpower will keep his kiss at bay

In Time, his silver starlet chaplet halos dreams of May

As scarlet undertow of come and go tinsels the trees

And petals fall like rainbow snow on summer’s plundered leas

Oft we forget the pirouette of moments; soft they splay

Then etch a silhouette of ether worlds on yesterday

In surreal outlines of a shrine which only thought can see

Ah, Father Time, you are a mime of tick-by-tock melee

The buttered side of bread, when we are fed leaves no reward

You strip the ‘buttered-side’ of us as seasons are out-poured

…and no one is immune to autumn’s swoon of brooding hue

Aha, aha we say, then gulp its noon of gray-gold-blue

Do you remember, dear, when we thought Here was long and slow

And we were anxious to vanquish the miles we had to go?

When did we start to feel the tug-of-heart where hunger wars?

As After envelopes the laughter of younger Befores

The quiet conquering of ages stages quite a show

The more we learn of love and life it seems, the less we know

So we content ourselves with living moments and not years

For one thing Time has taught us is how slick he disappears

© Janet Martin

Autumn

That careful work of bloom is rent

Time takes its toll on living things

It dulls hulled heath and pulls night’s tent

Across long, pink-glossed evenings

The aftermath that time begets

Is scarlet-amber-hunger hued

Dusk-skylines highlight silhouettes

Where laughing leaves become unglued

Into the vat of that and this

The fruit of what we had is tossed

The wine of life is what it is

A vintage pressed with moments lost

Darling, before these dwindled hours

Once we were sassy as spring’s breeze

But now we empathize with flowers

That bow beneath grief-stricken trees

We are not foot-loose dreamers now

But, perhaps here and there we gaze

With careful envy at the plow

That tilled a field of yesterdays

© Janet Martin

Like Beggars with a Bit of Bread...(or Sonnet of Almost-winter)

The tree that waved its winsome, wind-song wand

In nature’s pride and joy is stripped of mirth

Its shadow like a gnarled, decrepit hand

Lies still upon the casket of the earth

The weather that once wore us thin with prayer

Then faded into flower-fragrant field

Revives the choristers of frosted air

With feather-strokes upon dawn’s dormant shield

The poet’s verve falters a little, then

Resumes his Task; to preserve Past with pen

We reconcile denial; Time is keen

Its charge a gauntlet that demands response

Where undeterred intent proceeds to wean

The limb of leaf and flower from its sconce

What fools we were to think we would succeed

In masterminding Time’s epitome

The hunger of its clock dwarfs our greed

Sure victor in the spoils of fantasy

And we are all poets as we survey

The aftermath of summer’s laughing day

Moment-montages startle thought where years

Can drain the poet’s pen of ink; its font

Of What Once Was, juxtaposed against fears

Of What Might Disregard our wish and want

The architect of Time and Space immune

To petty fancies; it employs its touch

In laugh-lines that love summer’s sanguine swoon

But soon surrender to winter and such…

The bard, torn between passion’s prose and rhyme

Cannot compose a poem that slows time

© Janet Martin