Of Daybreaks and Nightfalls...

The fabric of new day unfolds from heaven’s waning hem

And teases the dark edge of night with gold; its diadem

Dissolves where morning crowns the infancy of what will be

On morrow’s birth, Lord willing, yesterday and History

We, offspring of God’s mercy, (though it seems we oft forget)

Traverse its tide of moments and we cannot rush ahead

Or decline invitations hung upon dawn’s beaming tress

Day breaks, night falls; we rend time’s halls for hope and happiness

The rubric of a lifetime fits in these two elements

The quadrille of seasons entices us to brave its dance

Day breaks, night falls, and in between the birth and death of dates

We push against the odds, pursuing what love celebrates

Time traipses through the stars then falls beneath our learning touch

Fear-stricken and love-smitten we admit there is too much

That we cannot control so we console the circuit of

Daybreak-nightfall with prayer then hold the hands of those we love

Day breaks the sky with what has never been like this before

A virgin sheaf of moments spills from God's will to earth's shore

And (though it seems we oft forget) Time begets holy calls

That we should answer full and well before night's dark cloth falls

© Janet Martin

Good Night...

   

(I had to think of the Waltons tonight as 'goodnights' were exchanged:)

Night always overtakes the day and turns the page of time

It tucks the darkness like a blanket over croft and clime

It softens its appointments, snuffs toil’s menial siren cry

As arms become a cradle and wind-song a lullaby

‘Goodnight, sleep tight, I love you’, and ‘I love you too, my dear’

Then one by one the windows that were yellow disappear

And all is still and silent save the cricket-choir’s tune

As minstrels of September serenade the stars and moon

Night brushes from the calendar another day that was

It dips the sky in diamonds, frees the hour of its cause

And washes in around us like a black and velvet sea

Night overtakes the day and renders it to history

© Janet Martin

Ink Soloists

Day deepens; then it disappears

Into the thick of Eon's vest

To join the ranks of yester-years

Its maiden journey laid to rest

Sometimes the bliss of blue and gold

Rolls up the afternoon with stars

Until the only sounds it holds

Are ticking clocks, crickets and cars

The homestead wears a light or three

And is there anything more fine

Than the familiarity

Cradled within its vague outline

Night wakens words that sleep by day

And soloists of ink reply

They ravage worlds black-wrapped and gray

To hang new poems from the sky

© Janet Martin

Lonely April Wind

 For a brief bit the sun high-lighted 'almost evening' before clouds scuttled over its attempts at warmth

The latticework of limb lies on day’s welkin winnowing

The air assumes the color of good-bye in every sigh

The back-drop of a rainy April ‘almost evening’

Tugs hard upon the heart-string like an echoed lullaby

   

Silence runs fingers over thought like Want without a name

Darkness is more than light’s denial where the daylight fell

Longing is not a person; no one can quite quell its flame

And rain in middle April after dusk ignites its swell

The wind moans, blue and hungry like a beggar at my door

A wail akin to November when it was hungry too

The fellowship of night-farers and sleepless troubadours

Vexes the face that watches from yon windows swaddled view

The lamplighter that wanders out among the stars is late

The dark enhanced by absent spark in heaven’s emptiness

The April night is weeping for a friendlier soul-mate

But all that it can find is the wind and its loneliness

© Janet Martin

All Day The Color Gray Rained down...

 Farewell Gray Day...

and Goodnight

All day the color gray rained down

And drenched earth’s ragged dressing-gown

Then dusk, like an umbrella spread

Its deeper hue above each head

Where twilight is an ill, chill sea

And firelight, kind company

The wind, a friendless vagabond

Wails at each window and beyond

The treeline where the field is bare

Save for the rivers running where

All day the color gray rained down

Like tears from Old Man Winter’s frown

Before the morning draws ashore

Perhaps his tears will cease to pour

And he with his last farewell spent

Will climb into his bed, content

…strange comfort this, to listen to

Dear Old Man Winter weep adieu

© Janet Martin