Catch Me If You Can

Poem-a-day challenge day 4:

For today's prompt, write a catch up poem.

I'm playing poem-challenge catch up today after a busy weekend!💖

Always so much to do/love/write...

This morning was no exception...

Beauty dangled its poetic lure for all the world to see!

Morning to morning, night's mantle is rent

With the renewal of love's covenant 

So between Beauty and Duty...

Poetry

So much to cherish in so little Time

Moment-mementos to capture in rhyme

Duty's staid summons to tend and disperse 

Beauty (never common) to secure in verse

Love-lassoed lyrics so when day is done

Though the dust settles the music plays on

So much to whisper to He who resides

Over the glister of dawn-to-dusk-tides

Morning to morning, night's mantle is rent

With the renewal of love's covenant 

So many sins to repent of, oh my

 Praise God, redemption's fount never runs dry

I know, no poet can ever deplete

Ink-wells refurbished with bitter and sweet

Still, the bard blissfully pledges to try/dare

Desire dredges its deeps with a sigh/prayer 

So many syllables to twist and tease

Into haiku, ballads, odes, elegies

Darling, I do believe poets are kissed

With the loveliest unmet to-do-list 

Forbid that ever I should live to see

The consummation of all poetry

For the fulfillment of poet's delight

Is the instilled bent to write and to write

Garden and galley, brook-creased countryside  

Hilltop and valley, fleece-cloud, blushing bride

Babies and butterflies, loved-one-come-home

Forming the font that turns into a poem

Turning what might be a most mundane day

Into a breath-stealing hip-hip-hooray

The alphabet fills an infinite pen

Spilling and thrilling, again and again

Thoughts become children we hold then let go

 Page after page falls like epical snow

Where want and wonder grapple and set free 

Life-sparkles canonized in poetry 

Blue, twilight shadow falls, troubadour's bliss

Snaring a madrigal from farewell's kiss

Only to be wakened by dawn's hellos 

Morn, noon and night; ink-delight ebbs and flows 

Where, no matter how many poems span

One more is calling 'catch me if you can'

© Janet Martin

  

The Answer to My Favorite Question...Why?

Why? asked the little boy beside me 

where I was just finishing touch-ups to a poem when he arrived!

Why do you do this?

Ah! my favorite question! I smiled to myself

while replying simply that its good for my heart and head because

making a poem makes them work (and pray) very, very hard!🙏

and because it helps me remember pieces of life I love...like you!

I do it to unlatch a door that else would seal forevermore

In verdicts of access denied as day is snuffed by eventide

…to forge from filament of time a sentimental bit o’ rhyme

And to capture the subtle toll of seasons winnowing the soul

…to create from a swollen brook impressions of a picture book

With clouds adrift on listless seas above a copse of leafless trees

I do it to attempt to find treasures cherished and underlined

To seize spring’s youthfulness that plays in melting snows and longer days

…to bind, though we are far apart, the tender tendrils of the heart

And make each other feel at home in the kind kinship of a poem

…to carve a keepsake from the fray of gorgeous glints of yesterday

To waken from forsaken veldt how mother’s smooth, starched apron smelled

I do it to embrace the way the hand of time turns tresses gray

To learn the purity of joy taught by a little girl or boy

To try to frame, poetry-kissed, beauty, never wasted, oft missed

To make the most of now and here before its sparkles disappear

To snare in syllable, the hue of pictures time cannot undo 

Of blush and blue, green-gold run rife in mementos of love and life

To clasp the hemline of a robe that trails through ages of this globe

And with whispers of poetry hear Someone ask, 'did you touch Me?'

© Janet Martin

Propriety of Poetry (Part 1)

At the dentist, while the screen overhead

broadcasted the latest distressing/sobering war updates

the friendly young assistant and I chatted

(while my freezing was setting in😅)

about how we re-appreciate the simplest of things

(yes! even visits to the dentist!)

in the light of everything going on right now

And on that note, the propriety of poetry!

(yes! Even in times like these)

When Job lamented of his troubles

 (with what seems like extremely just cause)

God replied with one of the most poetic powerful passages of scripture

opening Job's and our eyes to His mighty wisdom and providence. 

May the poetry published here always

mirror the majesty of Him

and stir the writer and reader to

dearer awareness and awe

of He by whose grace we go

Over and over children remind me to pause

And take delight in simple things

The photo below I entitle

Poetry of Scrambled Eggs

or

On the Hem of the Master's Robe

Matt.19:14 NIV

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, 

for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

Inside scoop to photo: I looked down to see three curious, upturned faces

wondering at the noise way up on the kitchen counter 

where I was using the egg-beater to scramble the eggs for lunch.

 "Well, said Cook a little dumb-struck at the hint of halos...

 "what's to stop me from bringing it down to your level so you can watch and learn?

 So she did. And yes, everyone who wanted a turn got one. 

(some with a little help of course)😄

Imagine if we turned blind eyes

To penmanship of earth and skies

And could not, from this beveled globe

Perceive the hemline of His Robe

…and did not pause to trace the part

That stills the tempests of the heart

Or with glad eagerness and vim

Of children, did not notice Him

…the Master/Maestro of all poetry

Imagine if we would not see

Beyond the showcase of the frame

To recognize the Author’s Name

…then miss the joy that sings and sings

With thankfulness that His Name brings

And thrill to taste the ink that drips

To earth from heaven’s fingertips

…to tremble like a silver gem

In Time’s momentous diadem

And emphasize the praiseworthy

Vestige of Divine Poetry

The lesser poets of this world

Gape at masterpieces unfurled

Where inkwells of sky, sea and sod

Swell with the magnitude of God

Imagine if we bowed to doubt

And instead, let the stones cry out

And missed the sweet humility

Of listening to God’s poetry

...with childlike wonder to delight

In poems only He can write

Then if a verse should start to brim

What honour then to honour Him

© Janet Martin

this poem had the impetus to run wild!

Thus the title includes (Part 1)

just in case there's more

Job 38:1-3

Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm. He said:

 “Who is this that obscures my plans

with words without knowledge?

 Brace yourself like a man;

I will question you,

and you shall answer me...

Beholding Beauty (or its Prelude)

I originally entitled this poem

This Broken World Could Drown Joy

then, just after posting it something like a bud

broke inside of me

resulting in adding the photo below,

another verse as the ending

and changing the title.

Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken...

The beautiful words of this hymn are so fitting for the days we are in

Sometimes I struggle with a sense of insecurity

(no longer guilt, because I have committed to embracing my calling)

but still, in a world war-ravaged and hurting...Poetry?!!

Yes, by the grace of God, yes!

Because worship is beautiful 

and timely, always!

And Poetry is the culmination of

beauty and worship

when pursued with passion to

glorify its Giver!

"This is the law of being

That links the threefold chain:

The life we give to beauty

Returns to us again."

From Earth Voices

by Bliss Carmen

When I Survey The Wondrous Cross- Mercy Me

Many are the woes of the wicked,

but the Lord’s unfailing love

surrounds the one who trusts in him.

Rejoice in the Lord and be glad, you righteous;

sing, all you who are upright in heart!

Psalm 32:10-11

This broken world could drown joy

Beneath dread’s sullen wave

Despair could be an envoy

That bears us to the grave

Beauty could go unheeded

Beneath brute, crushing blows

And worship’s fount depleted

By glaring needs and woes

We could fall prey to reasons

To hate rather than love

And stumble/grumble through time’s seasons

Without ever enough

But beauty is not cheated

By evil’s intercourse

And joy is undefeated

If we have found its Source

Truth's Hope becomes an anchor

That nothing overthrows

The thorns that pierced our Saviour

Bloom with redemption’s rose

This world would turn us dour

And drown all hope of joy

If it could overpower

What nothing can destroy

‘Unless the seed is broken

It cannot bring forth fruit’

Praise God, joy is the token

As faith and love take root

After the darkness, morning

After bud-breakers part

Joy beholds God adorning

The thorn-scars of the heart

© Janet Martin

Brenda's post 

Something Beautiful in a Broken World

helped me corral today's thoughts into poem.

And caused me to open my book

Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson

To God be all the glory!

Below are a few excerpts  from Adorning the Dark

that spoke to me personally...

Aren't you Glad Too?

Yahoo! I just had another baby!

Kidding😂

but sometimes that's kinda what it feel like 

when another poem is born;

Oh, the joy after the labor and the delivery💖💖💖

And no matter what composes picture-shows of 'life we’ve had'

On dawn’s skyline beams Beginning of a new day, aren’t you glad?

Sometimes Jim (husband) teases me over the plethora of sunrise pictures shared here,

but in my defense, 

I never want to get so jaded that I am no longer awed by The Utterly Awesome!

(and Jim agrees)

Aren’t you glad today is never replayed from dusk’s low’ring door?

That each bud of bloom delivers beauty not beheld before

That the glorious hope of Heaven waits at death if we believe

Not the cradle to be given one more lifetime to achieve

Aren’t you glad we start as babies; not yet set in our ways

That God’s mercy new each morning never His goodness betrays

That His Word is everlasting, not keeping pace with the times

Not like shifting cast of shadows, but steadfast as mountain climes

Aren’t you glad that we are never too old to learn something new

That the seasons keep their order, spring-summer-fall-winter through

That sunrise and set are always out of reach of fingertips

Set before our gaze to author praise from amazed hearts and lips

Aren’t you glad for cuppa something steaming, books and cozy nooks

For chatter and laughter brimming from sparkling children and brooks

That as we are growing older God surprises us with joy

Impossible to discover as a younger girl or boy

Aren’t you glad for socks and mittens, kitten-puppy happiness

For delight when the response to our ‘please’ replies with ‘yes’

For tap-dancers made of raindrops, shoeless freedom of bare feet

For the fervor of the vision and thrill of mission complete

For a table set for dinner for two, or for company

For redemption for the sinner; aren’t you glad God sets us free

For the poetry of wonder making ordinary Grand

For the feeling of belonging when we traverse hand in hand

Aren’t you glad today is never replayed; yesterday unbound

Even best days wouldn’t be as sweet the second time around

And no matter what composes picture-shows of 'life we’ve had'

On dawn’s skyline beams Beginning of a New Day, aren’t you glad?

© Janet Martin

And below

a glorious Glad Song

Psalm 113

Hallelujah!

Give praise, O servants of the LORD;

praise the name of the LORD.

Blessed be the name of the LORD

both now and forevermore.

From where the sun rises to where it sets,

the name of the LORD is praised.

The LORD is exalted over all the nations,

His glory above the heavens.

Who is like the LORD our God,

the One enthroned on high?

He humbles Himself to behold

the heavens and the earth.

He raises the poor from the dust

and lifts the needy from the dump

to seat them with nobles,

with the princes of His people.

He settles the barren woman in her home

as a joyful mother to her children.

Hallelujah!

Aren't you glad too,

That sunrise and set are always out of reach of fingertips

Set before our gaze to author praise from amazed hearts and lips

Notice how the sun no longer rises across the field

like it did a month ago?!

A sure sign that winter is trundling toward spring!

And last but not least,

did you know you are one of the rare people who pauses on this porch?

I would like to tell you thank-you!

I am so glad you do because as George MacDonald once penned...

A poet is a man (or woman) who is glad of something

and tries to make other people glad of it too!

George MacDonald~

Of Barren Page

I never know what waits each morning to fill the 'barren page'...

Do you?

But one thing I endeavor always; to pray before I touch it!

Do you?

As I wrestled with what today's poem would be

the sky softened and ink and light unfurled

in a tender tango of waking poem and world...

We are all poets in a sense...

some intense in our adherence to strict measures of time

others are free as the wind, these versifiers paying

no heed to things such as meter and rhyme

but...

Be careful dear

the now and here

soon sheds its heady bloom

but cannot quell

the drops that fell 

in poetry and plume

The beckoning of barren page is like a garden plot

Waiting the plant and printed wage of seed and ink unfurled

The poetry of plume and pen gladdens our eyes and thought

Where bowers brim with bloom again in spite of winter’s world

The lure of barren page is like a bud not opened yet

Or like a gift, before we tug the wrapping from its smile

Or like the skyline stoked with daybreak’s stoic silhouette

Keen expectation trembles where still-veiled vistas beguile

The potential of barren page is like a fallow field

Or summer in the silent, snow-white stage of its prelude

A seed or word may seem so small, but, what a mighty yield

Instills the syllables that fall on halls not long subdued

The grace of barren page is like God’s gift of brand-new day

Where soon we spill to its façade, deed’s seeds, thought’s drops of ink

Where masterpieces wait to be; then oh, we ought to pray

Because love’s plume and poetry begin by what we think

© Janet Martin

Phil.4:8

Finally, brothers and sisters, 

whatever is true, 

whatever is noble, 

whatever is right, 

whatever is pure,

 whatever is lovely, 

whatever is admirable—

if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—

think about such things.

Bard's Ballroom

 A poem is a chalice full of vintage joy to share...

To sweep across a parchment ballroom floor with twirls of ink

To hear a ballad wafting over dusk-worlds washed in pink

To sense a composition stirring as night and morn merge

To feel the turquoise ocean of devotion reel and surge

To smile because an isle of hours flowers on the air

Waiting for whispers to unveil a picture hanging there

A teddy-bear, a tot, a garden, a twilight tableau

The green sheen of first blossom or dazzle of sun-kissed snow

To dance upon a page like raindrops on a dusty street

To let the music of a moment sweep us off our feet

To follow the lead of a lyric not prehended yet

To revel in the pleasure of a poem-silhouette

To bear the heady rush of syllables, still wild and free

Waiting to wear the breathless blush of new-born poetry

To hunger and thirst as if we could burst with want of ways

To tame the taunt to frame fraught font to perfect turn of phrase

To search with humble honor for the crown-jewel of verse

To stress the beauty of the blessing, not to curse the curse

To siphon from the silt of seasons, lilting gilt of time

To trace the face of echoes and to etch them into rhyme

To bring with utmost fervor, fervent offering of laud

To splay upon each paper-altar pure worship to God

To never let less-noble ruses steal its claim to fame

But strive without excuses to exalt the Giver’s name

A poem is a chalice full of vintage joy to share

It is a pauper’s palace, a ballad, a hymn, a prayer

A solace to come home to, or enchanting getaway

A lens that we can peer through to rediscover today

To make us more aware of what we else might overlook

To waken us to love and other mercies we mistook

To take us by the heart and lead us where we would not see

Without a parchment ballroom floor, footwork of poetry

© Janet Martin

New Year Happiness Anticipation

 Ageless hopes for a Happy New Year!

A kiss on Child’s soft, chubby cheek

Or on down-crown of golden curls

Daybreak, all gold and purple chic

And great big hugs from little girls

A brook, earth’s most enchanting crease

A book to feed word wanderlust

A nook in nature’s masterpiece

To worship God with love-awed trust

A winter’s morn, fluffy and white

A shock of corn, forlorn, forgot

Dusk’s friendly fireside delight

Hot soup to ladle from a pot

Crumbs after buttered toast is gone

The yawn and hum of the mundane

The short answer to a question 

Tiny tap dancers made of rain 

Ageless thrills of discovery

The carousel of season-tide

Spring's bud-untethered filigree

Excitement of Here-comes-the-bride

A way to get from here to there

A new Today untried, untrod

Blue heavens to capture our stare

And draw our gaze upward to God

Warm slippers, sweaters, blankets, smiles

Such simple pleasure-treasures, oh

Coffee, clean, folded laundry piles

Gardens asleep beneath the snow

God’s Word to cheer and teach and guide

Unaltered by the change time brings

Beauty's pastoral countryside

To make us feels as rich as kings

Unwalled woodland sabbaticals

A perch beneath trees lofty tress

The happiness that animals

Bring to a world of peopled-ness

The joy that birds and flowers birth

As we behold God’s creature care

The purity of guiltless mirth

The surety of answered prayer

The wealth of family and friends

The hope beyond love’s groans and sighs

Unbeaten path that dips and wends

Wonders to take us by surprise

Two tots for tea, a turquoise sea

The payoff view after the climb

Mist-grist of unpenned poetry

The felling fist of Father Time

And for earth’s very careworn road

Faith’s very Heaven-glorious goal

Because Christ paid the debt we owed

And saved The Very Deathless soul

© Janet Martin

I Hope It Is (about this Poem-Porch)

Some would likely call this poem blog/porch a prolific contribution to the plethora of

verbose vomit we have available these days with the click of a button!

I'm inclined to believe for every 'garbage verbiage' 

there is a 'good and healthy option' too!

So much I would love to  read and time does not allow!

We have to pick and choose a few from the millions of options!

So, thank-you to everyone who takes a few moments 

to drop by this poem-porch!

I hope it is never a waste of your precious time!

...and if you don't drop by, well, you won't see this but I understand! 

We all have only so many hours in a day

and poetry/rhyme is not everyone's 'cup of tea'. 😊 

I sure hope it is more than verbose vomit!

I hope it is ...

An arm around a shoulder

A hug to the heart.

High-fives to growing older

A poetic 'restart'

A joyful celebration

For hope anchored in

The God of salvation

Who forgives our sin

I hope it is...

A place where our fingers

Their pointing will cease

Where love's Presence lingers

In comforting peace

Where doubt's dark clouds dwindle

And faith is renewed

A place to rekindle

Meek gratitude

I hope it is...

A welcome home feeling

Poetic sweet tea

An invisible gathering

Of extended family 

I hope when you visit

This small porch will bless

Your day with God's kisses

And love's happiness

From Janet

by God's grace

for His glory

with love💖

Just Between You and Me...

I wasn't going to do this November's PAD challenge but just too tempting!

So many great prompts to lure me out of my writing ruts...

PAD Challenge day 1:

 For today’s prompt, write a correspondence poem.

I lack poetic confidence 

Just between you and me

These days a phrase with prominence  

Passes as poetry

 To write with utter disregard

For what was once the rule

Confuses this out-dated bard

Who is still quite 'old-school'

What authenticates poetry

These days, quite mystifies

In fact, it is not clear to me

If rhyme still qualifies

I want for poetry that steals

The earth beneath my feet

To make me fall head over heels

In love, when first we meet 

These days ink puts on quite a show

Just between you and me

I lack the confidence to know

What is still poetry

© Janet Martin

P.s. maybe I'm just envious of the poets who have mastered free verse

but either way, I enjoy this quote below...

Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down. ~Robert Frost

Ink-Smiths

 

Yesterday's chores included reorganizing and tidying book nooks!

Oh joy! Why?

I made room for more😅

The ink-memento below was forged from the poet's perspective

With ink they praise

With ink they weep

With ink they groan and grin

And purge with phrase

What cannot sleep

Beneath a shroud of skin

With ink they love

With ink they thrill

With ink they try and try

To snare glints of

An escadrille

That marches through a sigh

With ink they pray

And beg and brood

Where heartache’s millstones press

The gold and gray

Of gratitude

Into scarred happiness

With ink they cry

With ink they smile

While forging cons with prose

To pacify

And reconcile

The thorns beneath the rose

With ink they wield

Thoughts tools of trade

Where parchment anvils bear

 Whispers soft-steeled

Against the blade

That fells fields of thin air 

  

© Janet Martin

Poem-tation

pōəm -ˈtāSH(ə)n/ Definition: Temptation to compose poem😉😊😍

Watching Tot chase bubbles reminded me a bit

of Poet chasing Poem...

The art of poem-tation seeps through every shade of sky

It vexes concentration in each leaf that flutters by

Four seasons worth of beauty with life’s troubles juxtapose

To cheer the thorns of duty with an unrelenting rose

The tug of poem-tation surges from dawn’s teeming brink

The clockwork of creation hoists premieres streaming with ink

Disparity twixt hand and heart, resumes its rivalry

Where charity pursues the part that authors poetry

The joy of poem-tation reels beneath the wheels of grief

A constant invitation to pursue hues veiled beneath

What meets the eye to stoke the sky and tint the glint of blooms

Soon lowered like a lullaby to stubble-stippled tombs

The wink of poem-tation is both flirtatious and grim

The fruit of inspiration bends the lyric-laden limb

Where words threaded together should do more than lilt and rhyme

Ah, pray they cheer and help us weather ups and downs of Time

The dust of poem-tation is stirred by a breath of breeze

That sparks a celebration shimmering in poplar trees

Rousing the strange impression of a river rushing where

Time’s four-season succession flows through shores of leaf and air

The prize of poem-tation dangles like a pendulum

Hope’s eager expectation wonders if the words will come

How cautiously Want clutches at inklings that start to drop

Lest, as soon as Thought touches it, like bubbles…

Poem

Goes 

‘Pop’

© Janet Martin

Soon lowered like a lullaby to stubble-stippled tombs...

To Frame a Memory...

Today is perfect cup-o'-java-joy-bottomless-refill weather!

Part of the reason I spent this morning's hours outdoors 

was the promise of a rain-song afternoon!

I began painting another poem this morning, 

then got distracted by duty and beauty

While along came this poem to

 interrupt the previous one...

'composed' by the last 24 hours of life!

A peek onto a poet's 'colour-palette' 😊

If I could I would frame it;

that moment when she and I

stood spellbound by an egret

beneath autumn's brooding sky

That cozy fall contentment

with a coffee-pot between

That season of enchantment;

as bronze seeped through summer green

That solace of the woodland

and its shadow-dappled path

Its palace built with remnants

of butterfly aftermath

The orchard that not long ago

was wreathed in white and pink

Lanes decked in perfumed petal snow

Where now red apples wink

Dawn, as it drew ajar

windows of opportunity

Dusk, as it pinned a star

on pages of fresh history

September's cinnamon-kissed sweeps

we tasted with our eyes

The playful puppy as it leapt

through laughter's paradise

Saturday pitter-patter fueled

by rain-symphony 

Where ink and order dueled

(they will never quite agree)

My mother in her kerchief, warm

against fall's chill embrace

Love, evoking a perfect storm

*for joys so un-commonplace

Wonder, in all its rapture

never snared by brush or pen

I wish that I could capture it

to touch and taste again

...and then I smile, and then I say

Thank God for poetry

A poem is the perfect way

To frame a memory

Janet Martin

* a mother's kerchief-framed

most-beloved-of-all-faces

is anything but commonplace 

so I edited that sentence💖

Another un-commonplace joy today

is my parent's 58th wedding anniversary!

Petal-Poetry

 

A lot of people are picking up pieces/branches/trees/buildings

after storms that rolled through the region last night...

The poetry of life's season's brings high and lows

where ebbs and flows strew both laughter and tears

like the petals of a once lovely rose

that blooms and disappears...

September is the season of cherishing

 fast-fading flowers

and fast-growing children

(all the first day of school photos on Facebook remind us💗)

Tallest Little girl is eagerly counting down 

the last few day's at Janet's house before she is School Girl!

The poetry of summer’s rose

Composes wonder’s sighs

But like the day that comes and goes

Cannot escape demise

The loveliness of laughter’s lilt

Gilt-etches yester-years

A bud that blooms but soon is spilt

In sorrow’s silver tears

Do not stand long beside the urn

That cups the lifeless ash

Where soon the dust of live-love-learn

Settles, where bare feet dash

Where sparkling surf of summer-tide

Cannot evade Time’s score

Where, like waves, mighty in their stride

Cannot usurp the shore

…where aftermath of Eden’s woes

In turmoil’s throes, still pours

But cannot snuff Calvary’s rose

Which mortal hope restores

The poetry of summer’s plume

After its narrative

Is planted on an echo-tomb

Of moments we still live

...to give its glance our utter Most

Of thought and deed and speech

Each new day like a guest we host

Soon ushered out of reach

© Janet Martin

2 Pet.3:11

Since everything will be destroyed in this way, 

what kind of people ought you to be?

 You ought to live holy and godly lives...