To Ink-Wranglers and Revelers

In the middle of house-work,

burnt cookies (h-m-m! I wonder what happened to one!😉😋)

yard/gardenwork,

 flora...

 and fauna,

tot-care

 (aka laugh-till-I-cry and -tear-out-my-hair!!')

Midst this...

This poem, I've been trying to finish since yesterday morning,

begs the question, is it worth the hard-fought while?!

'Are there still parts of hearts unstirred?'

to make worthwhile wrangling of word

and try to capture winks of time

into a memento of rhyme?

And as I contemplated this thought

 midst all the modest mayhem

of everyday life I say, 

a thousand times 'yep'💝!

Are there still parts of hearts unstirred

By artistry of written word

Doth aught yet wait within the pen

To storm the gates of acumen

Tell me, is yet a poem left

To cheer the broken and bereft

Where archives groan with printed page

Of whispers honed from age to age

Can yet sheer wonderment remain

To cheer, to delight and sustain

As poem-seeds tremble and press

Can they sprout into Happiness

Beneath the skin, in heart and soul

Impressions of ink tug and toll

Surely tis not for naught, to free

The bloom from looms of poetry

Behold, the bud of daybreak brims

And earth is charged with heaven’s hymns

Hark, for the dark dissolves in grace

From Holy God to human race

The earth gives birth where nature’s law

Kindles the mirth of ooh and aah

And draws us, but not by our hands

To revel in momentous sands

…where tots are filled with lots of More

To inspire the troubadour

Innocent curiosity

The purest form of poetry

The Poet cannot justify

To gaze unfazed without reply

While welkin flask and task compete

Where star-tides wash work-weary feet

The poet returns to retrace

The aura of yesterday’s face

To kiss the curves of see-to-saw

To preserve for rekindled awe

For, like a fledgling, tots soon fly

Into a world of peopled ‘sky’

Like feather-down, silver and soft

The fluff of dusk-blown echoes waft

Where parts of hearts ache to be stirred

By artistry of written word

Where whispers wait with winsome wink

To storm soul-gates with wrangled ink

© Janet Martin

 "Holy, holy, holy is the LORD Almighty; 

the whole earth is full of his glory."

Isa.6:3

'The earth gives birth where nature’s law

Kindles the mirth of ooh and aah'

What began with this burst of gold...

.

yesterday at sunrise...

(Is a sunrise not enough to waken the poet in all of us?!!)

...or sunset?

Is completed at Saturday noon midst much domestic distraction😅💗

Why Do I Love You, Poem-hon?

 

Sometimes Poem does not want to be

only the lover, but the loved!

PAD Challenge 24: 

For today's prompt, write a question poem. 

Sway Michael Bublé

(for my poem-hon)😊 

Why do I love you, 

Poem, so?

Your sweep and surging

Ebb and flow

Fills nooks and crooks

And crannies of

Life’s lackluster layouts

With love

While the world seems

To fall apart

You stay the course

And cheer the heart

You are courageous

And uncouth

And not afraid to

Tell the truth

Yet when you do

You are not cruel

Or treat the student

Like a fool

But with the woo of

Lilt and rhyme

You tune the truant

To the crime

You test and tame

And teach and tease

And vex and calm

With melodies

Drawn from a fresco

Flushed with stars

Or siphoned from

Dusk-brumal bars

You train me how

To dance or fight

To fly, to fall

To read and write

You make me brave

When I am not

Dare me to dredge

The grave of thought

Or surf the turquoise

Wave of dreams

To take me where

Brigadoon gleams

Like ancient castles

In the sun

You are my prince

Dear Poem-hon

You are a leaf

A silhouette

Of Grief and Wonder's

Pirouette

You twist fear's fist

 To figure-eights

As ink and sigh

Amalgamates

You are a candle

On a sill

A flicker on

Wicks of 'Until' 

Why do I love you,

Poem-hon

Your empathy

Second to none

You lend an

Understanding tear

Your page

A patient, listening ear

You spill and thrill

And fill time’s toll

With treasures chiseled

From the soul

© Janet Martin

Ink-Casanova

PAD Challenge day 20;

For this Two-for-Tuesday prompt:

Write a love poem and/or...

Write an anti-love poem.

An intangible tempest

How innocent your stance

While teasing me with glimpses

Where unpenned poems dance

Your brooding predilection

Makes me the perfect prey

Your eyes full of suggestion

My sighs full of ‘you may’

My, but you are a heart-throb

Of possibility

How silver-blue your lures bob

On streams of dream-and-see

Darling, you turn a woman

To Hunger’s Masterpiece

You rouse in Her a poem

That begs for sweet release

No, I have never seen you

But every now and then

The page is our ballroom

Dear lover in my pen

© Janet Martin

Thus She Has Promised To Be True

How long are you going to keep this (poem/poems-a-day) up, I've been asked.

I can't say, really, other than

As long as God provides the 'page'

Why is this my answer?

Because one night I pleaded desperately to know for sure

'what is the use of poetry'?!

Is it really His calling/gift to me, or simply my passion/outlet?

So, as I prayed I made a decision that until I sense his confirmation I will take a break!

I climbed into bed and picked up a book I just purchased from a local Thrift Store. 

After rifling through its poem-pages, trying to decide which ones to read

I decided to start on the very first page...

(the whole page)

I have not looked back since (only up)

until the Giver deems otherwise...

Thus, this student asks for grace from those 

who are far more fluent, educated etc.

By the grace of God, write I,

for his honour and glory

with gratitude for what He gave (and withheld)!

When I was a youngster I was sure that shining athletic abilities, esp.

in volleyball or baseball was where true happiness lay!

So I would practice literally for hours throwing/heaving

a ball into the air and catching it. 

My payoff? black eyes, and skinned elbows and knees

 as Best Effort stumbled and slipped and misjudged...

(Contrary to what I was told, practice simply would/did not make perfect)

To this day still, when I throw a ball

 where it will land, in which direction, is anybody's guess.

Yes, often behind me, and I'm still baffled

as to how that happens😂

I have discovered that happiness lies in accepting and being grateful

for what is lent and Thus, being mindful on how it is spent.

He cupped her in His hands and said

No athlete, This Wee Miss, instead

I’ll weave within Her filigree

A soul that aches with poetry

A hunger, not appeased with bread

I’ll plant her dust with word-lust’s corm

Not gift of gab, nor dancer’s form

But ears to hear and eyes to see

The Font of would-be poetry

To take her modest frame by storm

I'll let a poem fill the gaps

That some assuage by swimming laps

I'll let a page produce the rush

That some engage with paint and brush

I'll tune Her to the tree that claps   

Thus, she has promised to be true

To tides that rush her through and through

In oceanic ebb and flow

To grapple with the undertow

Of poems without voice or hue

There is a world that waits to shine

Its gates pearled with breath-soft design

Where trust must pry a sigh apart

To trace the trestles of the heart

And wrestle stars to lilt and line

She reaches up, feels for the hands

That cupped Her as He wove her strands

To sift the quickened sands of time

And snare its rhythm into rhyme

Knowing the Weaver understands

When is enough, Enough, some ask

While heavens tip dawn’s mercy-flask

While hills and rills run wild with spring

While His touch instills everything

That fits the poet for her task

© Janet Martin

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;

 the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, 

and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

Isa.55:12

Background and Surround Sound and Scene

PAD Challenge day 14: For today's prompt, write a poem 

inspired only by stimulus from where you're sitting (or standing, if you write will standing).

 In the past, I've written poems about pencils, characters in books I can see, 

and things I can see out my window when using this prompt. 

So consider your immediate surroundings and poem away today.

Here are tidbits of what I see from where I sit and stare

While trying to lure lines from an air-lair

A sweep of rolling countryside...

The lawn looks like a sea of pearls...

Clutter collects like fallen leaves...

Fruit-bowl familiarity...

A sweep of rolling countryside

Showcasing nature’s joy and pride

Beneath a sky-wide windowpane

As night fades into day again

And wakes within, Hope’s glad refrain

A page, turned by the Hand of Time

To let, as yet, an un-smudged clime

Before the chime of rhyme unfurls

A phantom carousel that whirls

…the lawn looks like a sea of pearls

Clutter collects, like fallen leaves

It resurrects harvested sheaves

Dickinson, Shelley, Keats and Clare

Humble the poet’s starry stare

We, kindred prey of creature-care

Fruit-bowl familiarity

Fond back-ground noise of family

Aroma of a fresh-brewed pot

A tug of war twixt Want and Ought

Embrace the place of hard-fought jot

The clock is like a hungry beast

Devouring morn’s moment-feast

How swift its sparkle disappears

Into the fabric-work of years

While Poet plumbs thought’s unplumbed spheres

Telephone rings, toil tips its cup

The sun climbs higher, up-up-up

Gone is the yawning quietude

While threshold of mercy renewed

Grants much to author gratitude

© Janet Martin

Introduction Poem

PAD Challenge Day one;

Write an introduction poem

I am an ardent admirer of nature...

I am the shorelines that cradle the ocean

I am the ocean that dashes the shore

I am a drifter on hazy horizons

I am a hunter of ‘much wanting more’

I am a creature of rhyming-habit

I am a grandmother, mother and child

I am a beggar of crumbs, ink anointed

I am the wind as it wanders the wild

I am a painter of wonder and wishes

I am a trawler of seas, starry-sighed

I am a weaver of whispers so precious

I plant the page with a gardener’s pride

I am a loner and I am a lover

Caught in a tango-of-thought-stealing ‘oh’

I am the rambler that tramples the clover

A dancer torn between hold and let go

I am an ardent admirer of nature

I am a surfer of word ebb and surge

I am a woman of heart and soul stature

I am a poet when thought and ink merge

© Janet Martin

The Bard to the Ballad or Sky Full of Thorns

 

It's hard to form 'The Poem' 

exactly like we feel it,

isn't it?

But, if each and every one is mustered

 (if not mastered), 

all for the glory of God,

then each one is perfectly worth it, 

imperfections included.

Sometimes I crave your consent without scavenging the sky 

But still, you remain distant, like the shadow of a sigh 

And I must satisfy myself with hints of what might be 

While learning the allure and anguish of you, Poetry 

How is it that delight and angst are so closely aligned 

A tango of persistence and fulfillment intertwined 

Where the hunter and hunted flit between the head and heart 

Like flickers of a candle or precision of a dart 

The world is full of whispers taunting, haunting acumen 

I want to snare you like the pearl of raindrops, in a pen 

To spill into ink-flowers that will bloom from age to age 

And flourish in a garden, yellow and brittle with page 

Sometimes I wish that you would yield your mist and mirage ways 

And humour Poet’s hunger with the perfect twist of phrase 

But Poetry, it seems to me, you give your head a toss 

And prompt me to remember who, between us two, is boss 

Oh, what a love-and-hate-routine is this syllabic chase 

Like pictures on a phantom screen that I can almost trace 

You drive me wild with glints of what a Masterpiece would be 

If I were more than just a child of verses, Poetry 

You taunt me with an essence that methinks is kin to love 

And I can almost touch you, but am not quite tall enough 

So, I must satisfy myself with top-shelf tippy-toes 

And bear the prick of thorns while reaching, reaching for the rose 

© Janet Martin 

In Case You Wonder

Love is poetry

waiting to be written...

The way of phrases wafts in blush appeal

In plush apparel of fresh-fallen snow

In precious hideaways of think and feel

In surge of seasons as they come and go

What may appear, to critic’s glance 

Quite elementary 

Of lines, winnowed from circumstance 

And tamed to poetry 

What may to some seem a sad waste 

Of Precious Little Time 

Where lines, siphoned from touch and taste 

Are woven into rhyme 

What may, mediocre at best 

Vex finer balladists 

Where lines, snared from the care and test 

Of love and life untwists 

What may to some seem nothing much 

But vain verbosity 

Is to this poet’s humble touch 

Love turned to poetry 

© Janet Martin 

A Ruinous Affair

Why can't we learn from the smallest among us?!

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Matt.5:8

Because Writer's Digest has changed their sign-in format 

and because something (likely I am doing wrong) is keeping me out I am unable 

to go to or link to the page where other poets share their verse.

But the prompts are always a fun way to stretch the mind so, better late than never.

Day 5 prompt; For today’s prompt, write a ruin poem. 

The poem could be about visiting some ancient ruins. 

Or you could write about ruining a situation or ruining a recipe 

(I've done both plenty of times in my life).

 But perhaps you're like me and can appreciate the beauty in things 

others considered ruined. 

Either way, write a ruin poem today!

A more serious take on the prompt

The Road to Utter Ruin

I hate the way haters destroy 

What love would build and bless 

Hate ruins any hope of joy 

It strangles happiness 

Hate, evil in its basest form 

Can never work for good 

But reduces to utter ruin 

Where once a country stood 

A country is not made of land 

Its strength not made of steel 

But people joining hand in hand 

Where love alone can heal 

© Janet Martin

a less serious take...

A Ruinous Affair

You rush through me 

A mighty sea 

That no fingers can trace 

And ruin any 

Plans I had 

Toward the commonplace 

You disregard 

Rules, strict and hard 

Set by tick-tocking Time 

You forsake chores 

Without remorse 

For the sake of a rhyme 

You tease and taunt 

The seas of Want 

With adjectives, nouns, verbs 

A tidal wave 

That poets brave/crave 

And only Poem curbs 

You whisper where 

Others breathe air 

Your grand geography 

Is boundless as 

The universe 

Of Possibility 

You ruin the 

Ordinary 

With curious delight 

And make each day 

An escapade 

To What A Poem Might… 

© Janet Martin 

Peek Into Poetic Passion (part two)

 

Peek into Poetic Passion (part two) 

(part one here)

This poem in reply to justified queries; 

How many poems (about August or Autumn) can one write?!

Just like the painter's tray...

Holds pictures to no end...

Just like the Painter’s Tray 

Holds pictures to no end 

The palette of the alphabet 

Is the poet’s best friend 

So many ways to spill 

Quill-colour into art 

Ten-thousand sheets cannot deplete 

The spectrum of the heart 

Thus seasons cannot drain 

Potentiality 

Where all of life is running rife 

With unpenned poetry 

Modern-day pioneers 

And trail-blazers of Time 

The poet’s Must kicks up star-dust 

On stilts of lilt and rhyme 

Thank God, He made no end 

To the extent of ways 

The poet’s heart can unearth art 

From ordinary days 

Thank God, so good and kind

He authors dawn, unscathed

Like a fresh page beneath the wage

Of scribbles, mercy-bathed

 

As long as earth remains 

Seedtime and harvest burst 

Through daybreak’s door with seas that pour 

To unrequited Thirst 

And nothing short of death 

Can quell the poet’s charge 

To softly snare from lofts of air 

Poetry, still at large 

© Janet Martin 

What Pity is a Bitty Ditty Then or (A Peek Inside Poetic Passion)

Often I'm a little super awkward and tongue-tied

when someone compliments and expresses appreciation for

the poetry here. 

Often  the embarrassed thank-you or the stutter

does not reflect the appreciation for the kind words of encouragement.

But I want to say a sincere thank-you/welcome! to visitors from

all over the globe who stop by this little poem-porch

whether for the photos,

 the blurb before the poem,

( some not-so-much-poetry-lovers have admitted

is why they enjoy dropping by) 

or the poem

Also, I want to attempt to give you a bit of a glimpse into the reason

I pursue passionately the potential of ink!

This blog is the offspring of prayer.

I pray about the poem,

the scripture, the picture.

I pray for and to God

be the glory!

And I pray for you!

That you are encouraged, blessed and challenged!

So to all who have suffered my fumbled responses,

there is an ocean of emotion behind

 each very heart-full

thank-you!!

This is the view from my porch this morning;

Quite a white awakening!

Far deeper than the pleasure of the poem 

The poet appraises the flight of ink 

The essence of a butterfly, a storm 

More than a tug on ties of Feel and Think 

Far broader than the page a poem ought 

To span. For man is merchant of the mind 

And heart. The war twixt emotion and thought 

Is like summer and winter intertwined 

Far weightier than pen, the parchment’s toll 

From belfries, paper thin and commonplace 

To influence the sacred crux of Soul 

With more than a half-smile upon the face 

Far mightier than sword is the effect 

Of written word. Far deeper than the thrill 

When inklings and emotions rush unchecked 

By the invasion of the poet’s quill 

What pity is a bitty ditty then 

If ink is but an entertaining nod 

If wonder is the plunder of a pen 

Rather than an awakening to God 

© Janet Martin 

1 Cor.10:31

So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, 

do it all for the glory of God.

The Sound of Seas

Don’t scoff
And write me off just yet
As some rhyme-hyped-up maniac
I can’t explain
The need to rein
In, into ink life’s bric-a-brac
Of highs and lows
Wide smiles, oh-no’s
Good-byes, hellos,
Oh mercy me
This life, it seems
Runs rife with streams
Gleaming with would-be poetry
Don’t ask
And judge my ‘task’ at hand
While standing in your
Gifted Skin... 

I cannot ease
Or fully appease
The Sound of Seas
That roars within 

...But by the grace

That grants our days

I'll endeavor to

Taste and see

The goodness of

Mercy and love

And capture it in poetry

© Janet Martin

 

and because of these 'seas' my floor is STILL unmopped!! lol

. I WILL do it now she said,

I will. 

I will!

(while a would-be poem wriggles in her head)

Ah, Poem

Never know where you will take me

Never know where you will lead

Or what you will wake within me

Where syllables intercede

Never know what you will whisper

What reason your rites unfold

Whether you are miss or mister

Wild or bridled, young or old

Never know if you bring laughter

Or a melancholy dread

Sometimes before, sometimes after

Torn between my heart and head

Never know how you will greet me

Fist-a-cuff or tender kiss

when or where you wait to meet me

That’s the way a poem is

Will you be a landscape painter
Or a flower or a sigh/sky
Never know how you will answer
Is it hello or good-bye

© Janet Martin