Dear Flower...

You didn’t say a thing

As I gazed at you

Petal of virgin

Pink, gold, purple, blue

Delicate miracle

Sweetening the breeze

Of red, periwinkle

Intricacies

I am dumb-founded

As I study each gem

Unfolded from emerald

Leaves on a stem

Dazzling in beauty

And none that is greater

Each designed perfectly

By its Creator

You didn’t say a thing

As I studied your face

But I heard the whispering

Of God’s wonder and grace

© Janet Martin

 There is no 'fairest of them all' in God's flower-garden.
He created each of us just as He intended!

Precursor

Thought is a foot-loose wanderer

She follows no map or chart

Leaving no footprint behind her

A master of mind-numbing art

Thought is a subtle deceiver

No man is immune to her vice

She must be diligently guarded

This charge of inestimable price

Thought, though believed well-hidden

Cannot escape one simple fact

She is the lone precursor

To every word or act

© Janet Martin

Finally, brothers, 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. Phil 4:8

As a man thinks in his heart, so is he. [Proverbs 23:7]

Realization

In certain moments we are suddenly gripped

With Realization, as we pause to think

Of how subtly, smoothly hours have slipped

In another year over Time’s fluent brink

And as we reflect on the invisible haste

With which fleeting life-times swiftly disappear

Surely we are challenged to savor and taste

Each morsel of living that forges a year

The ache in our throat and the sob in our chest

Sweetens the sorrow of loving and of loss

As Realization, in most earnest quest

Arouses awareness of dust’s feeble dross

For what is this life?... but a semblance of hours

In which all must be either servant or slave

Of this thing that softly, ceaselessly devours

The scope of our breath twixt the cradle and grave

Thus, in certain moments we are sacredly gripped

By the whisper of He who designs each life’s span

As subtly, smoothly another year has slipped

Far from the reaches and the will of man

© Janet Martin

Last eve we attended the wake of a neighbor in his 93^rd year…

He leaves his wife, also in her 93^rd year, to mourn with beloved family…

Birthday’s and Death…two keen reminders of the beautiful and sacred gift we hold in each day, for life, no matter how long, is a twinkle in the eye of eternity. Cherish it, hold it lightly and cling to the Giver.

Twilight Dirge

In silken shrouds of misted-gray

Dust-fragrant folds caress

The transient corpse of this wee day

As it is laid to rest

Across blue hill and dusk-cloaked pond

A soulful dirge begins

Drifting from crypts of earth beyond

This vale of mortal sins

And souls, yet cloaked in human flesh

Pause, ere they lie to sleep

As notes of loss and hope enmesh

The song that tunes the deep

The stillness of night’s hollow seas

With farewell tones is fraught

The rise and fall of memories

Resounding in our thought

Into the void of Past it slips

Buried, but not with sod

This Day is gone, from fingertips

Of man, returned to God

© Janet Martin

The Crux of Choice

In life, the road we choose to take

Will make us who we are

The crux of choice, an awesome blank

‘Til we look back from far

The obstacles along the way

And how we choose to bear them

Will leave a lasting legacy

To future generations

In life, the road we choose to take

Affects not one lone traveler

The footprints that our choices make

Some other soul will follow

The crux of choice; how can we know

Which way will be the best?

We cannot; but trust God as we go

And let Him do the rest

© Janet Martin

A 'Happiness Guarantee'

We are not born with wisdom

But if we would be wise

We should go and get it

As King Solomon advised

If we want to be happy

Then we ought to heed his word

For he who seeketh wisdom
Obtains favor from the Lord

© Janet Martin

Insatiable Appetite

Words feed the poem in me

For a little while

I am satisfied

But then,

As one starving

I attack them

With renewed hunger

For a poem

Is never

Completely

Filled

© Janet Martin

Invisible Alignment

When dim-lit eve turns up the dark

And rain, like tiny elfin-feet

Trips lightly on the onyx pane

That by noon’s light, frames bustling streets

…when this small day undaunted slips

Into a vault I cannot see

And Time exhales from ageless lips

Another little day for me

I pause, both grateful and afraid

For while Time gives it also steals

One hand conceals a two-edged blade

While with the other hand it heals

And I, with one hand holding fast

Allow the other to let go

As dim-lit eve turns up the dark

I hold love close, yet miss it so…

J~

On Writing...

Writing is  

Bittersweet frustration

A journey

Without a destination

To write is like climbing

A long, slow grade

But its summit is obscured in a mist

Curiosity

Keeps us pressing on

To a view that may not even exist

It is child’s freckles

And dimpled grin

A punch in the gut

Or under the chin

It’s a stroll

On periwinkle eve of June

Its hand to the pen

In a world out of tune

It is the hideout

Of phantom Muse

The lord to which

Thought pays its dues

© Janet

To Everything There is a Time...

Summer is a season of many loves for me...posts may be fewer.

To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven. Eccles. 3:1

What is June?

What is June?

June is a ribbon of coral and gold

Brushing the skyline while it is still night

June is maiden so youthful and bold

Flouncing her ringlets in girlish delight

She shakes out her skirts and rampantly spills

Wild-flower gardens over hollow and hill

What is June?

June is a door standing slightly ajar

To glimmer of turquoise and sea-polished shores

She is the threshold we seek from afar

As winter and spring trip across earthen floors

The cry of the gull and the trill of the lark

The song of the robin while it is still dark

What is June?

She is hands outstretched, sweetly running over

With peony, lupine, with daisy and rose

She is a soul-mate, a beautiful lover

Stirring our passion and holding us close

In vast, emerald tides her melody sweeps

Out to the eyes of azure-blue deeps

What is June?

She is a year’s darling; the middle child

The gleaming gem twixt spring and fall

Composer, as her Muse runs wild

Of summer’s haunting madrigal

Whilst from her radiant fingertips

A little glimpse of Heaven slips

© Janet Martin