I Thought I Saw a Butterfly...

Out of the corner of my eye

I thought I saw a butterfly

But it was only last year’s autumn leaf

Cartwheeling by

Out of the corner of my ear

I thought I heard a rain-cloud tear

But it was just a snowflake’s

Somersaulting leer

Out of the corner or my nose

I thought I sniffed a whiff of rose

But it was only my imagination

On its tippy-toes

Out in the corner of yon mead

I thought the green of spring had spread

But it was just a pretty picture in a poem

That I read

Out of the corner of my eye

I thought I saw a butterfly

But it was only last year’s autumn leaf

Cartwheeling by

© Janet Martin

Trying To Touch The Moon

Sometimes when silence silvers the sliver of moon at dusk

And daylight ebbs from rivers like a silk and satin husk

When blue-brusque tusk of north wind tugs at twilight’s edge and wins

And slips a cloak of velvet black across empyrean skins

When worlds slip from my windows save a wisp of crescent moon

And everything is quiet save the echo of high noon

I feel the reel of teal, maroon and amethyst enmesh

Like steel of whispers tattooed in the fabric of my flesh

And Thought is like a hunter thriving when the light is lean

Yet thought is like The Hunted plying senses quick and keen

And Night is like a body without bearing, breath or form

Yet wraps earth in its shadow taking heaven’s stars by storm

The tumult of tomorrow waits to seal its breadth to naught

Where now I spy with guessing games the outcome of mere thought

...a dot beneath the crescent moon, this spot where I am bound

Trying to touch the tip of it with both feet on the ground

© Janet Martin

Impressions of Summer

How soulful, strong and swift the song that slips from sea to sea

Where Maestro, music and baton move in sync flawlessly

O’er misted main and drifts of grain, o’er plain and hill and dale

Alloys ten-thousand tones as one to tune joy’s common scale

It fills the reaches of the mind

With thrills soon stilled and left behind

Too well this shell of dust to dust can trip on lust and hurt

While swells of nature’s arista drip to earth’s graves of dirt

Where bud to bloom is like a schooner laden with farewell

O'er purple lea morn's melody soon tolls dusk’s citadel

It stirs the blur beneath our feet

With hunger’s harvest, bitter-sweet

This orchestral, imperial succession of demise

Scatters its stars from lilied jars to *wonder's tattered prize

Where Thought is prone to grovel in a hovel of dismay

If it forgets to touch the threads that eve-tide whisks away

Today, o’er Bygone’s disrepair

Tips a grail nothing can despair

The banter of love’s paling plumes consumes our eyes and ears

Heaven’s decanter pours through rooms that the wise one reveres

This disappearing act that seems stacked against us at times

(We, merchants of clock's tick-and-tock and poets primed with rhymes)

Composes as the roses fade

Summer’s symphonic serenade

© Janet Martin

(*yes, the photo says 'to wonder-tattered sighs,
then, when I was doing the final finesse, 'wonder's tattered prize' taunted and
now I can't make up my mind which holds the deepest impression...
then, there is also 'wonder's paradise'!
Is there any paradise sweeter than wonder?!
Ah, delightful dilemma;-))

Yesterday, my friend and I, while standing midst a veritable rainbow of bloom,

mourned the subtle folding of green to gold,

knowing all too well what these symptoms hold...

The Poem in Her

Plush, the whisper of your wanting

Blush, the murmur of her sighs

Hush, though breath-soft bells are flaunting

Night-farewells on hello-skies

Slow the waves of want and worry,

Blow that beacon from the east

Oh my darling, do not hurry

Morning is a hungry beast

Break the bars of law and order

Wake the world within her touch

Make the most of love before her

Sense of Time becomes too much

   

Set the curtained dark a-quiver

Forget everything but Her

Let the morning rush, a river

Running wild where hours blur

Spill within her quill an ocean

Will to word, wanton whisper

Fill her fingers with emotion

Unleash the poem in Her

© Janet Martin

another Sounds of Love Submission

It's February. Time for love and the off-spring thereof;-))

Writer to Her Muse

How can I forget you?

Ah love, each time I try

You vex me just beyond my reach

A phantom butterfly

How casually you slip

Twixt touch and guarded thought

Compelling me with luring lines

To revel in your jot

...so you and I thus dance

A sensual, soulful trip

As resistance and hunger jive

Twixt thought and finger-tip

...and if I beg you go

I feel like I might die

Yet if you stay I’ll ever chase

You; phantom butter-fly

Then you and I must find

A way to synchronize

You, half-rebelicious, kind

And me, your eager prize

I cannot forget you

Darling finagling rue

To chastise you within a poem

Is all that I can do

© Janet~

Life's Minuet...of Hope and Morning-song

The Keeper of our groans and moans and tears we never share

Softly and patiently intones its sorrow to the air

Then, in kind, wordless empathy He places on our tongue

A sweet and tender melody of hope and morning-song

The dew evaporates at noon; the sun rises to set

And summer slips away too soon; this is life’s minuet

We dance within its moody arms; there is no other choice

Bearing the climax of lost charms in tears that have no voice

 The law of longing rends and ravages the mortal soul

We weep our secret tears, though friends and fellowships console

They cannot place within our clasp those things that cannot be

And only grace succors this gasp of thought’s futility

Life’s moment’s waft; sweet bubble-bliss of half-breath innocence

Before love’s sleek, soft parting kiss bestows deliverance

The revelation spun in youth unveils with bleeding awe

Its increment of stunning truth; the voice of longing’s law

For Love will ever be both longing and contentment met

It spills in silent symmetry of triumph and regret

Yet, we are not victims of hurt; Love bids us to be strong

The realm of heaven tunes this dirt with hope and morning-song

© Janet Martin

Still, There is Joy

On some-days the pen is heavy and inspiration falls

Limpid like a wilted stem beneath thought’s judgment calls

And the wind that moves through the willow-tree is weeping more than sighing

Like the rush that surges now through me responds; a kindred crying

But still,

There is joy

On some days the frying-pans are burnt and all the laundry soiled

Beneath the joy of living fully where forefathers toiled

And we spend too long hunting for things hastily mislaid

While the willow-wind is taunting us and spreading wide its shade

Yet still,

There is joy

On some days we are so weary that it almost hurts to breathe

But everyone is hungry; prudence bids us bind our sheaves

And count our many blessings as they pour from vaulted dome

In the tender-sweet caressing of a place that we call Home

So still,

There is joy

© Janet Martin

My grandma’s life was not nearly perfect, yet more often then not she would be humming a song of praise to her Creator as she worked (it seemed, tirelessly) and often she spoke of her blessings. I think of her now in another Home! Yes, this is the greatest Joy for the earthly home; that hope of another Home and we want to choose joy now, be that Joy, spread it like a love-song to everyone we meet!