Showing posts with label September Poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label September Poem. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 11, 2024

September-Sentimentality



September always seems to steep my senses with an urgency to
stop more, to savor summer's final fling!,
even while I haste from garden to kitchen with
harvest to gather and preserve!


(rescuing tomatoes from rows ravaged with blight!!)


While collecting ingredients for savoury supper dishes...


I am so thankful for a poetry loving mother,
who first kindled and nurtured my love for poetry;
 for cadence of rhythm and rhyme ...




Seems sometimes I grow homesick for places I’ve never been
For waves that wash a far-off shore of seas I’ve never seen
For sun and shadow play on views that ache in thought’s ‘suppose’
Before they slip away in hues of amber, blue and rose

Seems sometimes I grow lonesome for someone I’ve never known
A kindred-spirit troubadour not made of skin and bone
But of a whisper that ignites a kind of poetry
That kindles roaring appetites for what will never be

Seems sometimes I grow wistful for worlds long-forgotten, oh
For misty sun-kissed vistas or river-rush far below
And I grow sentimental over lyrics still untamed
In melodies still wafting in masterpieces unnamed

Seems sometimes in September I am bitter-sweetly torn
Twixt Summer’s dying ember and beauty’s bliss, Autumn-born/borne
Seems sometimes in the twilight of another summer’s sweep
I sense a tender kinship with past poets, fast asleep

Seems sometimes all the orchards, gardens, crickets, butterflies
The blues, purples and golds that paint a poet’s paradise
Of white heath asters, gleam of goldenrod, of milkweed's blush
Anoints me with a sense of living 'neath an Artist’s brush

Seems sometimes I can almost hear an almost-symphony
A grand medley of solos and unrivaled harmony
As flower-bowers crescendo then fade, as woodlands flare
Seems sometimes I can almost feel nature’s baton, mid-air

© Janet Martin






One evening I commented to my mother how much I love the sound of crickets
and she wondered if I remember the poem about the cricket and the ant...
My organized mom knew where in her scads of clippings to (hopefully) find it!
And she did. a very timely reminder!



“A slack hand causes poverty,
 but the hand of the diligent makes rich.”

“The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing,
 while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.”


Saturday, September 7, 2024

September Song-part one

Eccles.3:11
He has made everything beautiful in its time.
 He has also set eternity in the human heart; 
yet no one can fathom what God has done
 from beginning to end.

Happy first September Saturday for this year!

I've had a very happy beginning...
Green lights all the way, BOTH WAYS through town on an early grocery-dash.
Feeling happy for the man piling groceries in the back seat of his pickup
between Child and Dog.
Stopping a few times on the way home,
first to admire an apple orchard with the appeal of propped ladders
then to delight in the pure abandon of two horses dashing round and round
their green pasture!

Where golden rod and wild asters collaborate to steal our breath...



Where beneath heaven's denim-deeps September’s soulful beauty splays
In orchards bent with apple red,...


 in pastures green where horses prance...





In the cool of the morning where the lawn glimmers with gilt of dew
And coffee-steam hangs on the air and front porch chair dons quilt or two...


And the corn field is like a wall of whispers, lush, before the frost...




Where golden rod and wild asters collaborate to steal our breath
Where summer’s day hastens its gait toward birth’s sure ordinance; death
Where mellow yellow stubble-sweeps host perpetual cricket lays
Where beneath heaven's denim-deeps September’s soulful beauty splays
In orchards bent with apple red, in pastures green where horses prance
In the wild-flower-filled creek-bed, in the garden’s extravagance
In the cool of the morning where the lawn glimmers with gilt of dew
And coffee-steam hangs on the air and front porch chair dons quilt or two
And the corn field is like a wall of whispers, lush, before the frost
Turns banter brittle; where the call of Autumn stirs a sense of loss
Where eventide, awash with amber ambience runs delight wild
In spite of loath relinquishments, of season-songs Bygone-beguiled
By skylines, dusky like a plum, purple-sweet with mist and dust-kiss
Where scarlet striate starts to strum the first few bars of Autumn Bliss
Like a drum roll through woodland tress, like an arpeggio of leaf
September’s simple happiness fills summer hearts with sweet relief
And assurance of morrows swelled like buds, primed and waiting to burst
With beauty never yet beheld; while September plays preludes first

© Janet Martin

Where scarlet striate starts to strum the first few bars of Autumn Bliss
Like a drum roll through woodland tress, like an arpeggio of leaf...




Saturday, September 30, 2023

So Long, September


This is always a sentimental day of the year...So long, September!
Swept away in a flurry of preparation and preserving!

September- the thick of
Earth's heaven 
of harvest!

So long, September’s misty morn...



Like a postlude, to tune the dark
With ballads slipping like a tear
No lips can kiss away...


Tonight's dessert awaiting a mound of freshly-whipped cream,
before heading to Jim's mom and sister, who are cooking the rest of supper!



So long, sweet sweep of summer spent
Of green-leaf secrets whispered ere
The air grew heavy with the scent
Of farewell’s pungent atmosphere
Ere daylight’s dusky hours fell
Faster beneath gavels deep blue
Where younger hunger tolled a bell
Of inevitable adieu

So long, September’s misty morn
Futile to stoke Past’s embers, oh
Or don a countenance forlorn
Where seasons always come and go
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to greet, a time to part
A time to laugh, a time to weep
And gather harvests for the heart

…fragments of color, peach and plum
Of hummingbird and butterfly
A petal-and-echo-spectrum
From summer full of days gone by
Of dahlia-pom-poms, vermillion
Of fields trembling with cricket lays
Of harvest moon medallion
Dangling above our raptured gaze

Where compositions of so-long
Rouse rhapsodies no pen can spell
Like the teal essence of sea-song
Rolling within, swell after swell
Like a postlude, to tune the dark
With ballads slipping like a tear
No lips can kiss away. Ah, hark!
Is that a falling leaf I hear?

So long, well-trampled garden path
By expeditions to and fro
To heap baskets with aftermath
That always awes and thrills us so
With toil and mercy’s dividends
Praise God from whom all blessing flows
For every break of day that wends
To so-long’s certain curtain-close

So long, purple wild aster art
And amber ambience that gleams
Like fresh-pressed cider, sweet and tart
To tease eager taste-buds with dreams
That, in spite of what time may take
It kindly, generously grants
Un-stoppered wonderment to wake
A time to sing, a time to dance

So long, so long, September-love
Of fading flower-serenade
Of clinging to a thinning glove
We wear on earth, but heaven-made
Of places we never quite found
And some we did, and never sought
So long, so long, September, crowned
With apple-red and golden rod

© Janet Martin






Friday, September 22, 2023

Wonder-dust or Swansong or September...



It had to be...a heart-and-soul Swansong!
Happy, happy, happy, happy
Last Day of Summer 2023


Your light that splays like amber glaze and bathes the earth in mellow mist...


Your wind-tossed bars where aster-stars twinkle like shattered amethyst...


Your lanes that wind, goldenrod lined, to lure us from the beaten track...



Your paradise for butterflies...


...and tousled wild-bloom bric-a-brac


Your pendulum of pear and plum drip-dripping from our lips and chins...


your brisker air that starts to wear the shriek of jay...


and honk of geese...


Your kitchen heat, pungent and sweet with basil, garlic, pickling spice
Your garden dish that makes me wish somehow, we could live each meal twice...





Your humble toil of mercy's spoil like contrails of an upward spark...
(a photo so we remember how tall the sweet corn grew this year!!!!)



Your orchard stroll that thrills the soul with apple-dappled dreams come true...




Your light that splays like amber glaze and bathes the earth in mellow mist
Your wind-tossed bars where aster-stars twinkle like shattered amethyst
Your garnet splash of mountain ash berries against backdrops of blue
Your orchard stroll that thrills the soul with apple-dappled dreams come true

Your heady blur of lavender, of marigold and cricket lays
Your subtle change as you estrange vistas of younger, summer days
Your pendulum of pear and plum drip-dripping from our lips and chins
A glockenspiel that starts to peal with farewell's reel as fall begins  

Your lanes that wind, goldenrod lined, to lure us from the beaten track
Your paradise for butterflies, and tousled wild bloom bric-a-brac
Your hugs that war with tugs that roar with Bygone’s foregone victory
Your tango of longing and love, where mulled breeze strums the yellow tree

Your brisker air begins to wear the shriek of jay and honk of geese
And in our hearts a hunger starts to prepare us for your release
And the so-long, as your swansong suffuses morning, noon and night
Relinquishment sublimely rent with tender grief and sheer delight 

Your kitchen heat, pungent and sweet with basil, garlic, pickling spice
Your garden dish that makes me wish somehow, we could live each meal twice
Your humble toil of mercy's spoil like contrails of an upward spark
Your melodies that waft and tease a world tucked beneath early dark

Your tangerine and gold and green as gourds are heaped in bright array
Your crisp hello where dawn’s tableau gleams like a silver serving tray
Your rains that spill from hill to hill, your chill that kindles wanderlust
Your pleasure of so-much-to-love before you turn to wonder-dust

September, you run wonder through us like shafts of sunlight through leaves 
You rush the skin that we are in with joys gathered like harvest sheaves 
While we begin to sense the thinning, winning ways of days of yore
You wake in us an ache because of so much to be thankful for 


© Janet Martin

Your tangerine and gold and green as gourds are heaped in bright array...

Your crisp hello where dawn’s tableau gleams like a silver serving tray...

Your rains that spill from hill to hill, your chill that kindles wanderlust...

Your pleasure of so-much-to-love before you turn to wonder-dust...



Yesterday's 'canning-first'-plum sauce! SO yummy