Oh, Glorious Pangs of Love

So many of us have loved ones not within arms or quick car-ride's reach...

Oh, what a gift to love enough to suffer its glorious pangs!

Our grand-kiddos other set of grandparents live an airplane flight away

so needless to say, they suffer the kind of pangs

possible only by beautiful love!

We miss our Nova Scotia family too💕

The 'other gramma' has become a dear friend of mine

so this poem was inspired by the Afterward of her recent visit💖💘

(Pics used with permission. photo credit: Emily Curry)

Oh, glorious pangs of love

No sorrow is so sweet

The heart is like a treasure trove

As smiles and tears compete

Where, though our paths may part

It holds in its embrace

Love’s everlasting works of art

That nothing can erase

Oh, glorious pangs of love

What tender weight to bear

The bitter-sweetest banter of

Echoes upon the air

Where once upon a day

The joy of you and me

Became what none can steal away

A cherished memory

Oh, glorious pangs of love

May we all be so blessed

As to never get quite enough

Time with those we love best

Then, though farewells must be

As you and I must part

May memory’s kind company

Soothe sorrow’s stinging smart

How oft it warms my heart

To picture God above

And how He too must ache and smart

With glorious pangs of love

While counting down The Toll

That draws us through the Door

Where He unveils love’s sweetest goal

Together Evermore

© Janet Martin

February Flashback and Farewell

 Of boot-hat-mitten weariness...

Of frigid, drifted sweeps/deeps of snow...

Of shovel-muscles, honed and buff...

Of cozy book-nooks...

Of scrabble games always in play...

Of sills filled with convoys of toys...(but little boy did NOT like the word share)😅

Of warm, south-facing window-spas...

Worlds tucked in white or blush and green...

Farewell, dear fellow-friend and foe

Of frigid, drifted sweeps/deeps of snow

Of days stretched longer into dusk

Of gales, surly-burly and brusque

Of cozy book-nooks by the fire

Of gardens only dreams acquire

Of boot-hat-mitten weariness

Of kitten-soft sun-cheeriness

Of shovel-muscles, honed and buff

Of swirly, sparkly feather-fluff

Of hot-choc-marshmallow mustache

Of gramma-horse toboggan-dash

Of scrabble games always in play

Of sledding hills of numbered day

Of lone reed like a pencil-sketch

Of wishes for a milder stretch

Of warm, south-facing window-spas

Of outdoor task-lists still on pause

Of sills filled with convoys of toys

Of thrills of beauty’s spartan poise

Of senses smitten, torn between

Worlds tucked in white or blush and green

Of icicles starting to slip

Of maple-sap’s darling first drip

Of straining for first signs of spring

Of bittersweet relinquishing

Of learning not to haste the way

Of seasons, but to taste today

Before the hour dons the knell

That bends the bower with farewell

© Janet Martin

A few more Feb. flashbacks...

Carrot Bundt Cake with Cream Cheese Icing

Let It Be...Winter!

And just like that, January 2022 is a memory!

Wow! Winter months really do seem to pass far

too swiftly to be fretted over!

(My truck-driver husband definitely begs to differ😅)

The distance between dawn and dusk 

dissolving ever-so swiftly...

We will soon be warmed with wonder

Where the orchard stark and still

Will burst with pale chiffon plunder

Of first blossom’s pastel frill

Where the creek, now sleek as satin

Will lure bare feet to its brink

And the children will laughin’

And the calf learnin’ to drink

And the mother will be singin’

In a world of blush and jade

And the garden will be ringin’

With the peal of hoe and spade

And the meadow will be gleamin’

With the aftermath of white

Where the whole world will be beamin’

With a poet’s sheer delight

Then, let winter be the willow

Bronze brush-stroked on brooding blue

Let it be a sequined pillow

The landscape of spartan hue

The midday third round of scrabble

While a vault of stars is spilled

While the birds twitter and squabble

Over feeders freshly filled

Let it be the woodstove’s glory

Days; the height of home-sweet-home

The vicarious life through story

-books; frost-fretwork of a poem

Let it be the bluff and bluster

Of Old Man Winter’s ‘hell-o-o-o ‘

Let it be the joy we muster

As he flusters plans with snow

Let it be the love of lamplight

Cup of tea and fireside chair

Knee-deep trek through rose-swept twilight

Autumn melted on the air

Let it be the wind berating

Dusk's unruffled shadow-piers

Poised between seasons in waiting

And the waft of yesteryears

Let it be the love of knowing

Every day is gone too soon

Reduced to a pale fringe glowing

Crisp dark singed with crescent moon

Let it be the rush of oceans

Tossed, white-glossed across the lea

Where Time’s salty spray is frozen

In a fray/frame of memory

© Janet Martin

September's Remnant or September Leaves

Here's to the last week of September/summer's embers...

This poem is for we who mourn the loss of sun-warm hours and flowers

Yet eagerly await autumn's ambience and Beauty-brilliant bowers

I had to keep reigning this poem in...

It was eager to become a full-fledged fall poem but not yet!

Let's linger on September's remnant, shall we?

Time enough for autumn to have its way...

I couldn't quite decide what picture to use on this post

so it was just waiting, then I went to get the mail

and in the mailbox was a thoughtful surprise

 dropped off by a friend. 

(I partially blotted the name for privacy's sake)

This bundle reminded me that in a sense

 it is always summer in friendship's world💗😎

September’s remnant slips through cracks of summer season shorn

Where garden plot seems to relax, it’s brunt of bearing borne

Where blue jay’s harsh shriek rends the air where purple asters stream

Where poplar fronds begin to flare and pumpkin lanterns gleam

September’s remnant snares where we cannot undo its thread

Earth’s dusty, musky thoroughfares don glints of gold and red

And while we stare at summer spent, we feel it steal within

Where fingers cannot circumvent the tug of buds worn thin

Thought lingers for a little in past’s precious picture-show

Where time turns lush leaves brittle in its subtle undertow

Each treetop like a candle waiting on earth’s window sill

September’s remnant mantle like a fading canticle

Ah, who can bear to mope where hope pitches its sterling tent

September’s remnant gilds the slope where summer came and went

It dapples orchard limbs and lanes with apples, sweet yet tart

As hunger grapples with the pains that farewell’s pangs impart

The wind is like a busker playing saxophone and flute

Its audiences gather beneath lampposts full of fruit

Longing and satisfaction's sabers flash and clash; crowds roar

Caught on the sparkles of a splash that was and is no more

October loiters in yon brake, eager to be unfurled

And turn summer’s lackluster wake into a colour-world

To gather up September’s remnant in jubilant toll

Turning loss to contentment with beauty out of control

As expectation is fulfilled in autumn’s gorgeous show

As goldenrod turns silver-gilt and woodland-torches glow

With autumn’s awesome tinsel, scarlet, auburn, russet, bronze

Happiness finds fresh footholds as September’s remnant wans

© Janet Martin

Ah, who can bear to mope where hope pitches its sterling tent...

Cinderella Story

Today I wear the ache only

inevitable change can evoke...

Happy September!

Like a teapot

tipped and drained of

its last drop of tea...

Wondering what the tea-flavour is?

It's fresh-picked mint, lavender and anise!

Inspired in large part by the cooks on this YouTube channel;

Country Life Vlog

Each day unraveled

Like a petal

Rainbow run awry

Like a water-color

painting

Like a

Butterfly

Like a tea-pot

Tipped and

drained of

Its last

drop of tea

Like a page

Used and

perused

To taste its

poetry

Like a carriage

Grand and gleaming

Going to

the ball

Like modern-day

Cinderellas

Glass slippers

And all

Like a garden

Celebration

Pick and dig

and delve

August turned into

a pumpkin

When the

clock struck

Twelve

© Janet Martin

Trying to capture August in perfect poem

is a bit like trying to get a picture of a butterfly in perfect form;

You better be quick because it won't stay still for long

before it flits away...

The butterfly bush is a-flutter with colourful wings these days!

Almost August...

 'Where harvest fields surrender yields that capture heart and eye'

'In the sheen of sunflowers beaming from sage-bristled stalks'

'Where gardens grin and we begin to gather in toil’s laud'

Its almost August; month of age-old accolades renewed

Where morning, ripe with golden sun highlights sweeps silver-dewed

Where harvest fields surrender yields that capture heart and eye

As crickets start to serenade the ending of July

It’s almost August; beauty-tones delight the commonplace

In purple loosestrife, chicory, yarrow and Queen Ann’s lace

Where gardens grin and we begin to gather in toil’s laud

As fruit and flower melodies spill through our touch to God

It’s almost August; heartstrings get tangled in hollyhocks

In the sheen of sunflowers beaming from sage-bristled stalks

In the keening awareness in each honey-suckle bloom

Of moments weaving echoes from the threads of summer’s loom

It’s almost August; hummingbirds and honey-bees abound

We take off shoes to stir the dust and dew of holy ground

To revel in the bevel of a bowl tipped upside down

To showcase blue, blue eons on a cloud-disheveled crown

It’s almost August; weep not for the parting but give thanks

For bloom-embellished garden paths and lily-laden banks

For arms we cannot see that draw and sweep us off our feet

As wonder and desire meet in tangos, bittersweet

It’s almost August; farewell, farewell, my darling chérie

My sweet July, we cannot keep at bay time’s surging sea

But, come what may, of August’s day, July's memories made

Are gathered in a coffer no hand of time can invade

© Janet Martin

Of Dwindling Kindling

 

Because winter fireplaces/woodstoves take a lot of kindling 

we are already on the look-out at the end of people's driveways 

where camp-fire wood is for sale.

Reminds me of a different kind of kindling, 

always dwindling far too fast...

This hour where the flower bluffs

On beauty’s candlestick

Cannot escape the hand that snuffs

Its flicker from the wick

Now frets upon heart’s deep desire

A fond, intoning knell

Where joys that kindled friendship’s fire

Have dwindled to farewell

The dying embers on a hearth

Where round we gathered, oft

Wakens in us the dusk of mirth

In footsteps, keen yet soft

…where pain bends pleasure’s maiden form

In pangs of sweet refrain

To take the tender heart by storm

With ‘till we meet again’

…until in some morrow’s delight

While wounds of parting heal

We’ll tend the echoes that ignite

What farewell cannot steal

P-s-s-s-t! ash to ash and dust to dust

The quickened pulse will fell

Death veils frail trails of wanderlust

With whispers of farewell

This hour where the flower bluffs

On beauty’s candlestick

Cannot escape the hand that snuffs

Its flicker from the wick

Then cherish well heart's deep desire

Beneath high-noon's blue bell

Where joys that kindle friendship's fire

Are dwindling to farewell

© Janet Martin

Thou Fairest Bower Of Them All...

 Because I have a photo for almost every line it was hard to choose just a few...

Thou winsome, wonderworld of gnomes

Of fairy-hunts ‘neath mushroom domes...

Of woman, always girl at heart

And girl awed at Creator’s art...

Of buds that burst...

...with perfect pink

Of cloud-piers immersed in God’s ink...

Thou that didst heap upon our hearts

The joy that only June imparts

Thou that didst drench the dell with blooms

And turn backyards to living-rooms

And probe the planted seed to birth

Where hints of heaven deck the earth

As thou didst overflow our gaze

With nature’s myriad of praise

Thou, belle of beauty and delight

That doth our dearest dreams recite

That never holds summer at bay

But flings ajar its hip-hooray

With copious color-pizzazz

A symphony of petal-jazz

With bowls we skim thy verdant sheaf

Of buttercrunch and spinach leaf

Thou winsome, wonderworld of gnomes

Of fairy-hunts ‘neath mushroom domes

Of woman, always girl at heart

And girl awed at Creator’s art

Of buds that burst with perfect pink

Of cloud-piers immersed in God’s ink

Of picnics packed on sudden whim

Of dusk, reluctant to grow dim

Thou fairest bower of them all

Thou flower-fragrant festival

A sun and shadow rendezvous

Of greenest green and bluest blue

Of longest day that slips away

Too fast to casts of yesterday

Thou dost spill with such subtle ease

Thy breathless thrill to memories

© Janet Martin

A symphony of petal-jazz...

With bowls we skim thy verdant sheaf

Of buttercrunch and spinach leaf...