November Is a Darling Too

November is a troubadour or artist that spellbinds us with

Plum silhouettes brushing pink slopes with twilight’s shadow-monolith...

Yesterday we went from this ...

...to this within minutes!

This morning was other-world like

as silver sparkles and golden leaves showered

the sound of silence!

Victoria getting a quick sun-leaf-sparkle fix before heading to work!

This poem's first line stirred with last night's

towering cloud-mountains in the west then this morning

the east sort of imitated a much more moderate range as well!

November heaps horizons with impressions of a mountain-scene

It broods in mercurial hues of blues and grays with gold between

A minimalist, earth, frost kissed is swept clean of foliage-debris

Where Mother Nature’s broom is brisk and whisks the whisper from the tree

November narrows numbered days of leaves still tinting woodland tress

Yet, soothes the pangs where farewell grieves, with unexpected happiness

Where we inhale an essence of fresh-steeped and poured Tranquility

A sudden hush that steadies us after the rush of harvest-spree

November seems to light a candle that we carry in our hearts

It warms us with the simple, humble joys that early dusk imparts

Of laughter as we linger longer over supper-soup and tea

Of thankfulness for home-sweet havens and the love of family

November is a troubadour or artist that spellbinds us with

Plum silhouettes brushing pink slopes with twilight’s shadow-monolith

Where Hunger throws a celebration, surprised by a symphony

Rather than its dull reputation of bleak notoriety

November is a poet’s page, an inkwell begging for a quill

A theater of silent stage, of tapers dimmed on yonder hill

A cradle where the garden slumbers in well-deserved dormancy

Where first snow kisses hearty bloomers clinging to futility

November is fires rekindled, curlicues of wood-smoke gray

Golden haloes beneath branches where leaf-orchestras fall away

Where cozy nooks and storybooks regain sweet popularity

And noisy blue jay rules the roost, raucous and cocky as can be

November is a darling too, though often She is scorned and spurned

For Her lackluster afternoon when welkin troughs are overturned

And landscape-capes have faded from vermillion to mahogany

November is a darling too, a love-me-tender melody

November is a window shuttered, yet the year’s shade is not drawn

November is a banner lowered to half-mast on bars of dawn

November is a drumroll trembling in blood-red democracy

The march of time reverberating like footfalls of infantry

November pours an echo-vintage, rich with hints of yester-rose

From flasks filled with fragrant petals, still, still a glint of summer flows

November plays our jaded heartstrings like a lover lost at sea

Aha, November is the darling of Nostalgic Poetry

© Janet Martin

November's Exodus (a farewell mosaic)

November exits like a white frosted cake!

Oops! wrong photo!

This is the cake Victoria baked on Saturday!

THIS is November's exodus!

Tonight, the wind raids woodlands stripping leaves that hung aloof 

Ice-pebbles dash black windowpanes and tap-dance on the roof 

And where we had commiserated with earth's brooding bars 

We sense the lowering of lintels laden with white stars 

As if nature was waiting for November’s cheerio 

To deck the halls of hills and fields and boulevards with snow 

Tonight, we sense a keener, meaner tone to After Dark 

We shiver. Gone the melody of leaf-laughter and lark 

The maniacs that hide and bide their time in lofty meads 

Crawl from their sanctuaries and shake out their featherbeds 

They rattle sky-high rafters over countryside and town 

Until earth’s sweeps are swaddled in sheets of soft eiderdown 

The river, a black sateen serpent slithers through the dell 

December holds the door and bids November fond farewell 

Adios until next year; may the days till your return 

Unfold and spill like flowers into Bygone’s phantom urn 

And may the echoes wafting in the wake of morrows met 

Be as pure as the snowflake’s swirling, twirling pirouette 

Tonight we put the kettle on and sip sweet, minty tea

We set sail on book-schooners to lands far, across the sea

We snuggle beneath blankets and count cozy blessings, oh

And thank God for each beauty that earth can never outgrow

Tonight the poet duels with the fuel of a poem 

Tonight the tug of farewell tangles with the hug of home

© Janet Martin 

Tonight we set sail on book-schooners...

From Time's Tailor...

November's late-day hues are hard to top!

When Victoria and I saw these colours unfolding

yesterday afternoon

we dropped what we were doing to drench ourselves in

November's Masterpiece

Last leaves vacate the lofty limb 

Branches like black embroidery 

Are etched upon dusk’s flaming scrim 

Of pink fading to ebony 

Where autumn’s awesome oriflamme 

Dwindles until it is no more 

Save flecks upon the sprawling calm 

Of November’s stark corridor 

November’s barren beauty sparks 

A reverential spectacle 

Thought, like a wanderer embarks 

On excursions, ephemeral 

Thankfulness is joy’s saving grace 

As seasons skim and sweep and glance 

Through have-and-hold’s futile embrace 

Leaving only echo-Rembrandts 

The undertow of season-strains 

No mortal means can overthrow 

The One who is supreme sustains 

The framework of Soul-sacred throe 

Nature showcases Deity 

His flawless handiwork imbues

November with Tranquility 

Captured in brooding, burnished hues

Earth nestles 'neath November's arch

Lowering trestles dark with snow

Thought wrestles with the steady march

Of moments as they come and go

Where sum of Season's aftermath

Is more than fabric tossed afar

God cuts the pattern of time's path

And grafts it to Right Where We Are

© Janet Martin 

Yesterday...

Today...

This Is November

Last Post and Rouse

"This is November; the month to remember 

All those who fought for ‘true North strong and free’ "

What a blessing to be able to

cherish life's loveliness-es in a country where we are free to do so!

Free (covid-restrictions aside) to come and go as we please!

This freedom comes at a great price!

Lest We Forget

This is the season of silver-silk haloes 

Crowning milkweed in gauzy silhouettes 

Landscapes a-glimmer with stubble and furrows 

Shadows soft-stenciled like penciled vignettes 

This is the season of silence. Leaf-laughter 

Snuffed like a flicker from each woodland wick 

Now our senses are drawn to a rafter 

Now blue, now gray, now Day cut to the quick 

This is the season of tender surrender 

Baring of secrets that full foliage kept 

Doffed of the flower but never the splendor 

Where leaf-confetti is scattered and swept 

This is the season of Nature’s stark beauty 

Before heavens unfurl winter’s oriflamme 

Flinging white featherdown o’er town and country 

Muffling the brittle ballad of Autumn

This is the season of brook song refurbished 

Gone to seed thistle-weed-parachute flight 

Caught on a current of sunbeams, dusk-burnished 

Glint of gold gossamer soon lost to sight 

This is the season of Collected Treasure

Bloom dappled meadow, an echo of Thought

Playing back pictures of picnic-lunch pleasure 

Crooning a postlude of  'forget-me-not'

This is November; the month to remember 

All those who fought for ‘true North strong and free’ 

This is November; the last glowing ember 

On a hearth kindled with Expectancy 

© Janet Martin

An Oldie to remind us there is 

No 'Free' in Freedom

Somber and steady up a tree-lined street

A stream of solemn soldier-ranks are led,

As sun-beams dance to the drummer’s beat

Filtering through the branches overhead

Beyond the tears and past the arc of trees

The music of a small child’s laughter swells

Stark contrast to the mourning infantry

Bowing beneath the tolling of the bells

Then, as the weeping bag-pipe song exalts

The melody of sweet Amazing Grace

Then, as the banner-covered coffin halts

For it has reached its final resting place

Then, as the last note fades the cannon flies

Its echo fills the air from shore to shore

Yet pales in the wake of a mother’s cries

“There is no ‘free’ in freedom anymore

Put down your banners, lay down your guns

My sweet baby boy has died

Tributes, salutes, many battles won

Won’t bring him back” she cried

“Take away all the roses for nothing will be

Like it ever was before

The price of freedom is too hard for me

There is no ‘free’ in freedom anymore”

Freedom (part two)

Upon Golgotha’s rocky skull-strewn trail

A teaming, screaming throng of hatred surged

Swarming around a form blood-bathed and pale

Upon a place called Calvary they converged

Wild, wild with rage wages hate’s vicious roar

No one remains to defend Love unbound

Stark contrast to the cheers and praise before

Where palm-tree branches waved and decked the ground

Then as the violent blows of steel on steel

Accentuates the horror on the hill

Then, as they drive in hatred nail by nail

Against Love’s cries of ‘Father, not My will’

Then, as they praised and raised Life’s blood-stained cross

In victory, death’s maddened thousands roar

As Mary, his mother weeps for her loss

“There is no ‘free’ in freedom anymore

Take away your hammers, lay down your swords

My dear precious son has died”

As the lightning flashed and the thunder roared

There at His feet she cried

“Take away all your hatred, your jeers and chanting

For you have slain my Lord

Take away all your weapons and cease your ranting

There is no ‘free’ in freedom anymore”

There is no ‘free’ in freedom, Love pays a price

Where hellish horrors run

There is no ‘free’ in freedom, its sacrifice

Save in Christ, is never done

There is no ‘free’ in freedom, red the river

That flows on its behalf

There is no 'free' in freedom; its signature

A blood-stained autograph

© Janet Martin

November Dawn Ballad

 

Psalm 59:16
But I will sing of Your strength and proclaim Your loving devotion in the morning. 

For You are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble.

This is kind of a companion-poem to last night's November Dusk Aria

I leave the windows open for a little to breathe in 

A brittle postlude performed on November’s violin 

It plays the harvest-stubble and the almost-barren limb 

And fills this world of trouble with a Hallelujah Hymn 

Day breaks; a lake of pink and purple bleeds across the sky 

Where not so very long before it wore dusk’s lullaby 

Beneath the brooding keep of Love misunderstood, once more 

Through nuclear flues of starry deep Goodness and Mercy pour 

The landscape splays it naked shape before our gaping eyes 

The cape that draped its crooks and curves in scattered tatters lies 

As summer’s former glory bears the script Of Mice and Men 

Driving home Time’s Old Story we were told, much younger then 

November is a ballad played on stages bloom bereft 

Its melody engages audiences, right and left 

It awes us with the aftermath of flowered paths and such 

And causes us to trust anew The Kind Composer’s Touch 

© Janet Martin

Faithful One, So Unchanging

 

November Dusk Aria

Whiling the While till the supper crew comes home...

Something soft and gentle as November's early twilight mantle falls...

When dusk is like a painting on a pedestal of air 

When earth is reacquainting sod and sea with dimming flare 

When blush-blue velvet duvet shrouds the shoulders of spent day 

It seems a fitting homage to bow our heads and pray 

For never-failing grandeur from a Hand we cannot see 

He tucks November’s contours beneath twilight’s canopy 

And deepens with  sky-mantle, the ebbing landscape until 

Earth is snuffed like a candle on an autumn window-sill 

For articulate tugging on ties no one can define 

As dark of night is hugging dusk’s westward horizon-line

For sense of Gentle Presence staying just beyond our gaze 

Stirring in souls an essence when interpreted, is praise 

It seems fitting to thank Him as history claims its due 

In autumn-twilight anthem, for His never-changing view 

O'er nation against nation, He ushers in evening 

Fans feathers of compassion, tucks the world beneath His wing 

© Janet Martin 

Night Watch Jim Reeves

I Know Who Holds Tomorrow Allison Krauss & Cox Family

November's Supper Hour

Let's start with dessert since it is not the norm at our house

but guests always give a great reason for a treat, which was the case last night.

So what is a quick go-to when you suddenly realize 

there's nothing in the house and we need dessert?!

Banana Pudding!

Scald 3 cups milk

While it heats mix 1/4-1/3 cup of cornstarch with 1/2 cup sugar and 1/2 tsp. salt.

blend and add 1/3 cup COLD milk.

Add to scalded milk whisking briskly all the while.

Reduce heat to med-low and stir until mix says 'blub-blub-blub',

then add a splash of vanilla extract , stir

and pour over sliced bananas!

Serve warm or chilled and topped with fresh whipped cream.

This dish makes me feel like a little girl

on those rare nights when supper was either tapioca of cornstarch pudding.

Simple and satisfying.

The main course was a mix of Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday's meals rolled into Thursday!

How does this happen??!!

Well, it started with Sunday, coming home from church, 

anticipating a crockpot holding nicely browned potatoes and roast beef.

Alas, because all the words are worn off the settings I had turned the knob too far 

and it was not set at high but on the 'keep warm' setting, 

leaving lukewarm, still hard potatoes.

All was not lost however because they still cooked

 (though not in time for lunch)

 and turned out to be a big help during fall housecleaning midweek.

On Wednesday I shredded them, added chopped chicken 

leftover from Tuesday night's roast chicken dinner 

( plus a bit of chopped ham), sprinkled in some corn, 

made a sauce with leftover gravy, 

leftover swiss-chalet-dipping sauce 

and a can of cream of mushroom soup+water.

Toss and pour in pan

(The crumb topping under the shredded cheese is ground up rosemary-cheese scones

 which Victoria tried a while ago but they were not edible! 

I was not home when she made them

or I might have told her that 1/2 cup dried rosemary is definitely a misprint!

But ground and used sparingly these 'flopped' scones are great as a savoury topping!

I named it Chicken Cordon Blu Casserole because of its richness and ham-chicken-cheese.

It was a big batch so we had enough for last night's main dish...

 

Monday's contribution; Cabbage Rolls... 

The Cabbage Rolls take a bit of time to prepare but are well worth the effort!

An autumn highlight at our house after the winter-cabbage is gathered.

(I use green cabbage in a LARGE pot of boiling water)

Last but not least...the salad, not leftover😊

consisting of a base of mixed spring greens, topped with thinly shredded red cabbage, 

shredded red beet, chopped cucumber, crumbled feta and roasted unsalted sunflower seeds.

Drizzle with dressing of your choice. (I prefer dressings on the side)

Something about the rain lashing at windows 

and the wind rattling at loose shingles and soffits (hopefully not!) and doors

makes us feel extra-humbly blessed to have a roof over our heads

and a place to call home-sweet-home!

 

These days the dark falls early

Deep blue turns to ebony

November’s rain taps windowpanes

The wind moans like a sea

And front-porch lights hail ‘welcome’

From heav’n-on-earth’s modest dome

And heavy hearts turns lithesome

At the sight of home-sweet-home

Where it is not ‘the dressing’

That makes this place so dear

But the precious, sacred blessing

Of gathering loved ones near

And thanking God for mercies

That we could never earn

Glad, as the dark falls early

For each loved ones safe return

© Janet Martin

November's Signature

Yesterday we were treated to what I call November's signature prints...

Two contrasting ribbons melded, of gray and gold.

I was concerned when the snow came early and stayed,

that we might miss this bit of brooding beauty!

(yesterday's temps at last were mild enough to make melodious melting-snow music!)
"What's that sound? " asked little girl yesterday as we played outside.
"That, my dear, is the best sound in the world!" I replied
as I showed her where the water was running from the down-spout.
"That is the sound of melting snow!"

The sharp contrasts of bronze and brooding blue

Are signature prints of November’s art

Spellbound am I by earth and heaven’s hue

As landscapes, leaf-bereft still thrill the heart

Precious intermission, as rain and snow

Duel in unrelenting tug-of-cloud

Before autumn surrenders and lets go

And Old Man Winter gloats, star-stoked and proud

But now let November bid us farewell

In panoramas steeped in rum-hued sweeps

Let us first feel, like a slow-pealing bell

Wild longing in the wind that moans and weeps

…and let us stand stock still, drawn by an ache

Akin to motherhood as child is weaned

And starts to stretch the ties that cannot break

While what must be keeps soulful senses keened

November is like autumn-song’s postlude

A sax solo played by the barren tree

Or penetrating hymn of gratitude

That wafts across the field and out to sea

© Janet Martin