Showing posts with label Edgar A. Guest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Edgar A. Guest. Show all posts

Thursday, May 4, 2023

Tangible Reminders (of Who God Is)

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens.
Psalm 68:19

Sometimes when we pass through seasons of (prayer)-discouragement,
God convicts and comforts us 
with tangible reminders of who He is; 
Faithful 
As surely as nature displays his faithfulness
in every season,
so too is His perfect timing in our lives!

These two poems by Edgar A. Guest remind us to take a breath
...and Behold!




The birthplace of today runs rife
(In spite of weight of care)
With much to make this little life
A lovely thing to bear

Beauty’s showcase is marvelous
Winter-spring-summer-fall
Makes it impossible to miss
The One who wills it all

The budded branch bursts into song
The tresses of its hymn
A shelter for the feathered throng
The nests in lofty limb

A masterpiece of petals spills
From frilly lily-loom
River-ribbons wind between hills
At night star-gardens bloom

…and as the afternoon unwinds
To twilight’s vestibules
The Artist of dusk’s murals finds
Constant originals

Beneath a canopy of sky
Oft aweing mortal gaze
We go; God sees the low and high
Of every trail we blaze

…and beckons us to trust the love
That moves His mighty Hand
In ways that grants grand glimpses of
Who none can understand

© Janet Martin


…and as the afternoon unwinds
To twilight’s vestibules
The Artist of dusk’s murals finds
Constant originals...


The budded branch bursts into song...


The tresses of its hymn
A shelter for the feathered throng
The nests in lofty limb...


1 John 5:14
This is the confidence we have in approaching God: 
that if we ask anything according to his will, 
he hears us.





Monday, February 20, 2023

Rush of Reverence (or, Blessing of Family)

Today in Canada we celebrate Family Day!
Thank you, gracious Heavenly Father for the most beloved blessing of family!

This poem began with a soft smiled desire
 to collect a medley of mementos framed in memories;
the kind most families can relate to...
It ended with me wiping away tears 
as our church family received a request to pray for a family
 who lost their son yesterday after a brief illness. 
He was in grade five and a best friend to a few boys in our church family.


There will be cake...

I realized I made exactly the same cake recipe (top left corner of photo collage)
 last year for family day weekend only last year's didn't flop😅

There will be little fellas by their older sisters, bossed
There will be Cinderellas with glass slippers not yet lost
There will be household chores and uproars outside bathroom doors
And scoldings as trespassers tiptoe over fresh mopped floors
There will be oceans of spilled milk on which years sail to sea
While we are busy being the blessing of family

There will be tender moments (and those, not so tender too)
As love lays down firm ground rules on what and what not to do
There will be happy laughter and oh, there will be heartbreak
There will be health and sickness as we shoulder give-and-take 
There will be prayers, so many prayers, and cake and cups of tea
As we thank God for the kind blessing of a family

There will be editing as mom tries to tame grocery lists
And day trips to doctors, dentists, teachers and pharmacists
And sweet goodnights and wake-me-ups at half-past way too soon
And playdates in the backyard and laundry lines to the moon
As smiles and tears compose a dear echo-framed gallery
Of motley medleys showcasing blessing of family

There will be second miles as we all learn to do our part
To make the most of perfectly imperfect works of art
There will be popsicle mustaches, puddle-splashes, and
A bedtime-story-goodnight-kiss-prayer-paved path to dreamland
There will be storms to weather as we weather what must be
Not alone but together with blessing of family

There will be sacrifice, the price of love requires this
There will be hands to hold and hands we held and dearly miss
There will be lovely glimpses of Heaven on earth and oh,
There will be grief, as we suffer Love’s hardest letting go
Which reminds us to cherish every opportunity
To never take for granted, the blessing of family

Lord, willing there will be babies, grandmas and grandpas too
And in between, a spectrum of love's green-gold-blush-and-blue 
There will be crushing disappointments, patience-bested rants
And through it all, pray, an increasing awe for He who grants
And cares for us the same through both triumph and tragedy
While teaching us to treasure the blessing of family

There will be noise and weariness and broken toys and dreams
As girls and boys shed childhood joys far too quickly, it seems
When looking back at careworn seasons hushed by yesteryear
Leaving behind a rush of reverence for now and here
Because no one can tell how near or far lies death’s dark sea
That alters (until Heaven) the blessing of family

© Janet Martin

“Honor your father and your mother, 
that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.”
 – Exodus 20:12

“Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.
 Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth.
 Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! 
He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.”
 – Psalm 127:3-5

“Bear with one another and, 
if one has a complaint against another, forgive each other;
 as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.”
 – Colossians 3:13


below, one of my forever favs by someone who hugely impacted my love of poetry
Edgar A. Guest

Home
BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,
A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam
Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,
An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.
It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,
How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;
Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then
Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part
With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh
An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;
An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,
An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;
An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories
O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,
An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;
Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear
Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run
The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;
Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:
It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.




Thursday, January 28, 2021

How Very Dust We Are, or Circumstantial Happiness



One of my favorite poets is Edgar A. Guest
Rich writing in a layman's terms because what doth it profit 
anyone if a poem is only understood by the poet?

Sharing a few gems for your benefit!





What if love gets so fixated on fringes and forgets 
What matters most where life is full of boast-euphoric bets 
What if the only thing I have when this day-fling is done 
Are accolades that perish with the setting of time’s sun 

What if I get so focused on the fray that I ignore 
The approach of The Judgment Day and Who we are here for 
Too taken up with ‘treasures’ that are volatile at best 
Admitting in an awful end, that I have failed the test 

What if I take goodness for granted without thankful praise 
And never root out the rebel in human-natured ways 
What if trouble would never double its substantial rod 
And I would never truly humble myself before God 

What if, this tenement of hopes and dreams housed nothing more 
Than dust-to-dust sequestered schemes of selfish, greedy gore 
Because I didn’t bother to acquaint myself with He 
Who, when this life is over unveils Immortality 

What if the ‘Glad tidings of great joy’ that the angels brought 
Would never touch the heart; the part that transforms idle thought 
What if I miss the only thing worth anything, That Day 
Because I was too focused on all that will pass away 

What if nothing reminded us How Very Dust We Are
How Circumstantial Happiness is like a shiny car
That soon loses its luster, in a heap of rusted sham
The gates of hell are decorated with dust-glitz and glam 

Pray that I fix my eyes upon a Prize I cannot see
Where nothing in this world can take the place of Calvary
...and the price of salvation wrought to pay sin's deadly toll 
What profit to gain the whole world only to lose The Soul

© Janet Martin

 For what profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? 
Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?
Matt.16:26

Friday, November 11, 2016

Remembering...



 It is Remembrance Day in Canada,
Veteran's Day in the USA

(Today we say our thank-yous
...each day may we live our Thank-yous)



Sometimes I forget
… I butter bread
And fill my head
With dreams and such
While offspring of
A soldier’s love
Makes uncommon,
Life’s common touch

…how those who fell
Loved, oh so well
The life of morrow’s
Girl and boy
And how the cost
Of what they lost
Pays for the freedom
We enjoy

*** 



Sometimes I forget
… I butter bread
And fill my head
With dreams and such
While offspring of
A Saviour’s love
Makes uncommon,
Life’s common touch

His blood-drops fell
To save from hell
The soul whose life
Will never cease
He bore the price
Of sacrifice
To pay for freedom
We call Peace

© Janet Martin


Easy Service by Edgar A. Guest

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye
Or a legless form I see,
I breathe my thanks to my God on High
For His watchful care o'er me.
And I say to myself, as the cripple goes
Half stumbling on his way:
I may brag and boast, but that brother knows
Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den
Puffing one of my many pipes
That I've served with all of my fellow men
The glorious Stars and Stripes.
Then I see a troop in the faded blue
And a few in the dusty gray,
And I have to laugh at the deeds I do
For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire,
The sport of the blazing sun,
Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire
As the tides of battle run,
And I fancy I hear their piteous calls
For merciful death, and then
The cannons cease and the darkness falls,
And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death,
Yet the Reaper spurns their cries,
And it seems his jest to leave them breath
For their pitiful pleas and sighs.
And I am here in my cosy room
In touch with the joys of life,
I am miles away from the fields of doom
And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid,
Nor suffered real pangs of thirst,
I have marched with life in its best parade
And never have seen its worst.
In the flowers of ease I have ever basked,
And I think as the Flag I see
How much of service from some it's asked,
How little of toil from me.



Sunday, May 24, 2015

Where Apple Trees Are Blooming...



The cannons cease and the darkness falls,
And those fluttering things are men. Edgar A. Guest

Phoenix Rising invites us to use another poets words to inspire our own. 
 

The orchard is a palace where the apple trees are blooming
Nature fulfills promises that only spring can keep
Cold autumnal deathbeds after winter's icy grooming
Spawns a metamorphosis where fields of flowers sleep

I stroll the early morning where the lilacs are adorning
Twigs that seemed but lifeless sprigs before awakening
Our oohs and aahs and the applause of tongue-tied beggar-barons
Contentment's luxury is free and not a purchased Thing

...And I can't help but think of those who fled with almost nothing
Save the clothes upon their backs and children in their arms
Never mind that skies are kind and apple trees are blooming
Evil has no season;bent on ugliness that harms

Here among the song of birds and freedom bought with bodies
Hope is juxtaposed like spring, with suffering and death 
And mingled with the virgin hues of greens and blues, gold, purple
Runs the blood of fallen comrades yielding their last breath

The cannons cease and the darkness falls and those fluttering things are men
And boys and girls that will not see another spring again

Janet~

Lest We Forget...

Easy Service
When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye
Or a legless form I see,
I breathe my thanks to my God on High
For His watchful care o'er me.
And I say to myself, as the cripple goes
Half stumbling on his way:
I may brag and boast, but that brother knows
Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den
Puffing one of my many pipes
That I've served with all of my fellow men
The glorious Stars and Stripes.
Then I see a troop in the faded blue
And a few in the dusty gray,
And I have to laugh at the deeds I do
For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire,
The sport of the blazing sun,
Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire
As the tides of battle run,
And I fancy I hear their piteous calls
For merciful death, and then
The cannons cease and the darkness falls,
And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death,
Yet the Reaper spurns their cries,
And it seems his jest to leave them breath
For their pitiful pleas and sighs.
And I am here in my cosy room
In touch with the joys of life,
I am miles away from the fields of doom
And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid,
Nor suffered real pangs of thirst,
I have marched with life in its best parade
And never have seen its worst.
In the flowers of ease I have ever basked,
And I think as the Flag I see
How much of service from some it's asked,
How little of toil from me.
Edgar Albert Guest :

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Every Day is Remembrance Day





A neighbor dropped by this morning. We drank coffee, laughed at the antics of the little guy I baby-sit; fear for our safety never crossed our minds.

To tend with ever-loving care
The splendid little plot
Of loam that I call home-sweet-home
This is a gift, oh God

To serve, not with a heart of greed
But with humility
For you saw fit to spill a bit
Of happiness to me

And not to overlook the joy
Of simple blessedness
That we are free to drink our tea
In peace and quietness

…and in response to those who serve
On front-lines far away
I’ll tend this loam of home-sweet-home
With gratitude each day

© Janet Martin

Just read this poem. In the wake of being reminded of the cost of freedom it spoke in raw newness to me…

Easy Service

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye
Or a legless form I see,
I breathe my thanks to my God on High
For His watchful care o'er me.
And I say to myself, as the cripple goes
Half stumbling on his way:
I may brag and boast, but that brother knows
Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den
Puffing one of my many pipes
That I've served with all of my fellow men
The glorious Stars and Stripes.
Then I see a troop in the faded blue
And a few in the dusty gray,
And I have to laugh at the deeds I do
For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire,
The sport of the blazing sun,
Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire
As the tides of battle run,
And I fancy I hear their piteous calls
For merciful death, and then
The cannons cease and the darkness falls,
And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death,
Yet the Reaper spurns their cries,
And it seems his jest to leave them breath
For their pitiful pleas and sighs.
And I am here in my cosy room
In touch with the joys of life,
I am miles away from the fields of doom
And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid,
Nor suffered real pangs of thirst,
I have marched with life in its best parade
And never have seen its worst.
In the flowers of ease I have ever basked,
And I think as the Flag I see
How much of service from some it's asked,
How little of toil from me.
Edgar Albert Guest :