Monday, September 26, 2011

Scattered Leaves?


…and there they lie beneath the tree

Parched echoes of what used to be

Sonnets of laughter and regret

Bleeding from summer’s silhouette

And life’s fair hour in the sun

Before minuscule dreams are done

As we reach for life’s deeper Truth

Unacknowledged in our youth

But now we see mortality

Like a small leaf upon a tree

Where soon its passion decks the sod

Like crumbled thrones of lesser gods

That cannot succor our great need

With filthy lucre of our greed

For all the greatness man achieves

Is nothing more than withered leaves

If we should fail to recognize

The Power cradling sea and skies

What is a man but shards of dust?

Driven by our foolish lust

Where nothing on this temporal earth

Holds credence of eternal worth

But we are loved and owned by He

Who forms each leaf upon the tree

And in each man a living soul

That nature’s law does not control

For then we would be nothing more

Than scattered leaves upon earth’s shore

Janet Martin

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Poet's Quill


What power in these lines be

Which we call poetry

Moving through us like a silent sea

In waves of ecstasy

Or half-breaths of sweet sorrow thrill

The heart when night is still

As grief and passions spill

From a poet’s quill

J~

The Bum (a story, also a re-post)


He glared with disdain at the old tin can
held up with hope by a dirty old man
whose eyes were too shiny, his nose was too red,
telling a tale with words unsaid,
and the young man turned with a disgusted frown
staring the old man up and down,
Then he said, “I have better things to do
than to hand out my money to a bum like you.
There’s work out there, why don’t you get some
instead of sitting here like a dirty old bum?
I’ve worked hard for the money I have
and I’ve earned my right to the way I live
so I’m not about to throw my money away
to a guy who sits on the street all day.
You’ve made your choices, I’ve made mine
and I’m not gonna pay for your whiskey or wine.”
He spun on his heel, about to leave.
No drunk was going to ruin his Christmas Eve.
His sweetheart was waiting and man, was she sweet!
So why was he talking to this bum on the street?
In another few hours he’d be whisked away
‘neath a blanket of stars, by a horse and sleigh,
snuggled beneath shawls, a hot drink in hand
with sleigh-bells a-jingling. Oh, isn’t love grand?
He turned and began to walk away
but paused as he heard the old man say,
“I was a young pup once like you
and I guess I know why you feel like you do
but until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes
I beg to differ about ‘your right to choose’.
Sometimes you gotta take what you rather would not,
and you’d do anything to trade the hand ya’ got”
The old man’s voice grew a little hoarse
as he ran his fingers through hair long and coarse.
“Yes, I remember it all real well
I had dreams, held the world by the tail.
I loved a sweet lady and she loved me
an’ we were as happy as anyone could be.
Oh, the happiest day of my entire life
was the day that sweet lady became my wife,
and the second best days I ever had
were the three great times I became a dad.
With each new little baby’s birth
we added a corner to our ‘heaven on earth’.
Our days were numbered, but we didn’t know.
We were as happy as anyone here below
until one day an old drunk ended my life
when he killed my three babies and my wife.
So, before you talk choices like winnin’ and losin’,
That we become what we are by our own choosin’,
I’d like to ask you, have you lived alone
after your ‘heaven on earth’ was gone?
Have you sat in the darkness, your 'now ever-after'
listening to the silence echo your baby’s laughter,
and still hear the voices of your precious darlings
or close your eyes to still see them smiling?
Have you heard your wife’s voice calling you
to waken alone and cry all night through?
Then, in a desperate effort to make your thoughts end
have wine or whiskey become your best friend?
Have you gone to work where they locked the door
saying, ‘you don’t work here any more’?
You may call me a bum but before you do
would you like to walk a mile in my shoes?”
The young man was speechless, what more could he say
to this man who suffered more loss in one day
than most people suffer their whole life through?
Words seemed empty from this point of view.
This was no bum, but a lonely old soul
Who, under life’s sorrow simply lost control.
His teardrops fell as he stared at his feet
then he sat down beside the old man on the street.
“Forgive me” he wept to the dirty old man,
“Oh, please forgive me if you can.
For I am the bum, the most ignorant of fools.
What do I know about any of life’s rules?
I’d fill up your can twenty times if I could
but I really don’t think it would do any good.
Far better than money, for you I believe
would be somewhere to come home to this Christmas Eve”
So, there in the cold ‘neath the streetlamps glow
sat the young man with the old in the falling snow,
as the angels looked down from heaven above
Smiling at the pair in tender love
-a young man who would never, ever choose
To walk a mile in the old man’s shoes
Slowly they both arose to their feet
and arm in arm, they walked up the street
(last verse optional)
So before we call anyone a drunk or a bum,
Perhaps we should ask them from where they have come
instead of judging, lend them an ear
and we might be appalled at the stories we hear.
God, give mercy to the poor on the street.
Their stories are the tears that the angels weep.
Shine your love on them and show them the reason
we all may have hope this Christmas Season.
All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin


This poem was inspired by a tragic story on the news...
and spawned the poem below.

I've often wondered what became of that man, a jeweler whose wife and kids were killed by a drunk driver.

More Than Impressions


http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/




Occasionally, in this temple beneath strolling cloud
Away from the jostle and shove of the crowd
I worship, as night recedes in slow-motion.
It is no accident, this moment in time
Though darkness may clutch this temporal clime
Light can move through shadow, a soundless ocean
Dispelling the gloom beneath the sky
As the bustle and chat of passers-by
Consumes this tranquil breath upon the sod
I look up; the sacred silence is beginning to wane
Outside these walls, day must begin again…
To toil, to shop or play on this quest to death and God
Janet Martin

Thank-you Viv, for this delicious combination of words.
There are so many directions in which they could lead!

Friday, September 23, 2011

Ode to a Rainy Eve





The cold rain hastes the ending of a day
The dark pine moans within its weeping knell
The landscape dims in folds of cobalt-gray
Beneath the tolling of the evening bell

The absence of the lusty cricket choir
Magnifies the musky sense of gloom
Hovering o’er the garden’s silent bower
Heavy with the parting of its bloom

Now fades the sky-line in the gathering eve
And now the dark and daylight intertwine
Until the dark prevails; light slips beneath
The edge of dusk on the horizon line

The night lies dormant in this solitude
Save for the leaf clinging with muted breath
To sodden arm of birch or maple wood
Before it sleeps in cradles of the earth

The cold rain hastes the ending of the day
Profluent sonnet drifting o’er the lee
As remnant sighs of summer slip away
To grace the silent shores of memory


Janet Martin

This is another rain poem I posted recently...
The rain stirs my muse,
I love the rain:)

Fingertips...



http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/thursday-think-tank-67-rain.html



The rain plays a muted song tonight
Fingertips, gray, pummel out the light
As wind-tattered fragments of my day
Waver momentarily and then slip away

The silence is warm and easy with you
Thunder rolls, the lightning white-blue
Illuminates stark images, rigid and black
My finger-tips brush across your back

The night settles around us in a drawn-out sigh
Reaching the perimeters of the sky
Fingertips whisper, plead, implore
Waves gather somewhere on a forgotten shore


Janet Martin

When I saw this prompt after an all-day rain today,
I could not resist!

The Field at Dusk


Beyond the gold-fringed day
And shadows obtuse tusk
‘Neath misty scarves of silver-gray
Lies the field at dusk

A thread of centuries
Is layered in its palm
Time’s ruthless progress cannot steal
Its effervescent calm

I pause to contemplate
The measure of our toil
Swift season over season laid
With faith that plants the soil

And here the lark returns
To tune the summer dust
And here the brawny farmer learns
Of hope and tears and trust

And here the young maid strolls
Her eye a-light with dreams
And here the silent night consoles
The heart where sorrow gleams

And here the bully day
Releases its duress
And here we humbly kneel to pray
In tender thankfulness

Beyond the gold-fringed day
Midst sighs of dew and musk
Heaven is not so far away
In a field at dusk

Janet Martin

Perimeter of Paradise


I lay there
In the middle of the field
Or was it the edge of the sky?
And I let time pass over me
Like a butterfly in search of nectar
God’s arms smell of pungent earth
And imminent rain
Today His eyes are blue
With flecks of gray
Life’s hurt is dim
And far away
As nature’s hymn
Consoles somber woes
In thoughts of Him
Heaven holds me close
In strains of clover-sigh
And meadow-lullaby
I am completely aware
Of nothing
But awesome silence of a prayer
Passing from my heart
To His
Undeterred by the expanse
Of emptiness
Twixt the carpet
On which I lie
And the infinity of His eye
As I lay
Beneath the whisper of butterflies
On the perimeter
Of paradise

Janet Martin

It's a grand feeling,
lying in the middle of a field
in the middle of nowhere
beneath the middle of an endless sky...

Like Fields of Grass


The morning wept
As fingers swept
Summer from the sky
A moody knell
In torrents fell
As if to quite defy
The hope which waits
Beyond far gates
Through which fair summer slips
Melancholy,
In minor key
Bleeds from dark somber lips
The ache of you
Is wild and blue
So close, then far away
A bitter tide
To coincide
With summer’s parting day
The silence of
Requited love
Sleeps in earth’s darkened fist
A tiny seed
Of hope and need
Still waiting to be kissed
Time’s quadrille turns
The heart still yearns
For dreams vague, undefined
As seasons pass
Like fields of grass
‘Neath heaven’s changeless mind



J~

Victoria looked out at the rain, remarking that the day looks sad…

Thursday, September 22, 2011

A Tiny Breeze...


A tiny breeze upon the air
Tugged my hand and teased my hair
Then drew my eager feet along
A trail of multi-layered song
Of corn-field carol and cricket trill
And maple moans in wooded rill
Past gathered gardens’ tangled maze
And echoes of a dreamer’s gaze
Of autumn creeping o’er a field
Where summer bounty spilled its yield
In centuries beneath the sun
A gasp, a wink and it is done
While new dreams plant the trampled sod
Beneath the faithful hand of God
And reverently I kneel upon
The footstool of love’s changeless One
For He ordains in perfect time
Each season’s rhythm and its rhyme
Of painted sky and purple hill
The plaintive cry of whip-poor-will
The tender limb of verdant grace
Before time leaves its tender trace
In kisses wrought by sun and rain
Of joy and laughter, grief and pain
For life cannot remain for aye
In meadows where soft breezes play
…a tiny breeze upon the air
Tugs my hand; teases my hair…

Janet Martin

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Parting of Ways


You lay your arm across my shoulder
We are feeling much the same
For we know we’re getting older
And in this there is no shame
As a hint of lambent shadow
Steals across the summer noon
E’en the flower in the meadow
Must relinquish her perfume

You and I are kindred spirits
So, my love, we will not weep
Bravely we resolve to bear it
This last lap before we sleep
No one can escape dictation
Wrought by time’s unbending rule
Youth, ah, grand sprint of elation
Leading to life’s higher school

I lay my head upon the hour
Where I see that we must part
For I do not have the power
To deter love’s finer art
Parting, truly is sweet sorrow
We have loved, but not in vain
Ah my love, in some tomorrow
I know we will meet again

Janet Martin

Dedicated to the Summer of 2011

They were saying on the radio that this is the last day of summer,
so I took a picture of one last summer morning sun-rise...I just checked the calendar!
We get one more!!! Lord willing:)

Chill of an Early Fall


If you had been here last night, my love
A blanket of stars
Would have been enough
To bar the chill of autumn
From our skin
As summer’s night
Begins to thin
Beneath the cricket’s dying lay
For there is no need to say
A word, when wrapped in dark blue song
Of willow, wind and summer gone
...but you are not here, my dear
As languid thoughts of you
Spread across my pillow
Like the midnight dew

J~

I know I broke every law of rhyme here
but one cannot control
the mind of a poem...

They Say...


They tell me that I should not choose
This word in poetry
It’s over-done and over-used…
…but it’s a part of me…

…in victory or in defeat
In sorrow or in love
It is the fruit of bitter-sweetest
Stirrings from above

‘They’ say that we must find new ways
In which to verbalize
Love’s ultimate expression
Flowing from our eyes

Oh, I dare not use the word
For it’s been used to much
But what else proves that we’ve been stirred
And utter-mostly touched

The wise, the fool, the old or young
Without a purposed choice
Share this universal tongue
Of passion’s purest voice

Words are only things we say
Syllables we hear
I’ve felt the earth beneath me sway
In the silence of… a tear

To me, above all other words
I have yet to hear
One spoken more profoundly
Than the utterance of a tear

Janet Martin

This is merely my response to experts who say they do not want to hear the word ‘tear’
in a poem for at least a hundred years…but if I read stunning poetry…well, it moves me to…TEARS!!!
Here’s to tears and tears and more tears! Cheers!

...is there not poetry bleeding profusely from every single photo above?

They Say...

They tell me that I should not choose
This word in poetry
It’s over-done and over-used…
…but it’s a part of me…

…in victory or in defeat
In sorrow or in love
It is the fruit of bitter-sweetest
Stirrings from above

‘They’ say that we must find new ways
In which to verbalize
Love’s ultimate expression
Flowing from our eyes

Oh, I dare not use the word
For it’s been used to much
But what else proves that we’ve been stirred
And utter-mostly touched

To me, above all other words
I have yet to hear
One spoken more profoundly
Than the utterance of a tear

Janet Martin

This is merely my response to experts who say they do not want to hear the word ‘tear’
in a poem for at least a hundred years…but if I read stunning poetry…well, it moves me to…TEARS!!!
Here’s to tears and tears and more tears! Cheers!

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Sonnets of the Season


Softly you laugh,and vex me with your kiss
Crumbling my quest to resent your bold fire
As I relent to whispers of desire
Stirred by the hints of heaven-tinted bliss
Riding upon the cool wind’s ruddiness
You strut across my firmly planted ire
And never even pause to once inquire
If I should seek a lover such as this
You overthrow my summer-heart’s intent
To disdain your winning works of art
Why is it now, that I cannot resent
The lavishness your fingertips impart?
As you prey on my sighs of discontent
And thus seduce my true-blue summer heart

***

Methinks the earth reserves its utter-best
To soothe the summer-heart’s acquiescent sigh
For bluer still is autumn’s azure dye
Than summer’s ever-pleasing sapphire crest
Fulfilling expectation’s blind request
Before the moodiness of lowered sky
Steals the stoic gaze of grief's devoted eye
Rendering her quite speechless and impressed
As gently she relinquishes her will
Advancing slowly ‘cross a rustling floor
Caressed with weightless teardrops as they spill
From walnut, maple, birch and countless more
Strange comfort bleeds from autumn’s purple chill
Painting its sorrow on earth’s umber shore

***

No longer do I seek to quell its glance
Long, heavy lashes spark the two-toned breeze
Rousing the laughter of the scarlet trees
And suddenly this summer-heart must dance
Kiss sorrow from the lips of circumstance
Heaven designs rare moments such as these
Of musty grapes and lumb’ring honey-bees
Mesmerizing grievance in its trance
Fall’s sonnet trickles from the russet vine
Pure tendrils of a reminiscent croon
As love and loss and longing intertwine
The scent of dusk scatters the afternoon
How full the draught of summer’s darker wine
Earth’s pining slumbers ‘neath the harvest moon

Janet Martin

At our local thrift store I picked up a book entitled
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnets from the Portuguese and other Poems

I was intrigued by this rhyming pattern…a-bb-aa-bb-a-c-d-c-d-cd



I. The Italian (or Petrarchan) Sonnet:

The basic meter of all sonnets in English is iambic pentameter (basic information on iambic pentameter), although there have been a few tetrameter and even hexameter sonnets, as well.

The Italian sonnet is divided into two sections by two different groups of rhyming sounds. The first 8 lines is called the octave and rhymes:

a b b a a b b a

The remaining 6 lines is called the sestet and can have either two or three rhyming sounds, arranged in a variety of ways:

c d c d c d
c d d c d c
c d e c d e
c d e c e d
c d c e d c

from Basic Sonnet Forms- by Nelson Miller

The Essence of Life


Wring out each moment in your grip
Experience every drop of it
Savor its nectar on your tongue
It tarries not, for old or young
But pauses for a breath or two
Before it drifts into the blue

Relish its kiss upon your face
A soft caress from Hands of grace
Oh, do not blindly stumble past
The moment that is fading fast
For whether wrought by joy or strife
It is the essence of a life

Wee drops combine to shape the sea
Moments design eternity
Then handle well this gem you hold
And squander not this drop of gold
For it will not revert its glance
To offer us a second dance

How wise the sojourner of earth
Who values every moment’s worth
Instead of gazing longingly
At what once was or yet will be
But knows that living must begin
In whispered moments we are in

Janet Martin

This morning the alarm clock drew me from one of those rare dreams
that I really did not want to wake from...
but as it was fading these words remained 'wring out each moment fully
and savor its nectar on your tongue'...
WELL!!! When waking with words like this as my first comprehension of day
I simply could not let the thought go to waste!

Elusive River


Far away it seems to me
An ocean must exist
Of moments floating to a sea
In rivers full of mist
And if I should by some strange lead
Find its elusive thread
Then I could watch moments recede
As Time flows on ahead

And in this gathering place of sighs
And smiles and hugs and tears
We would never say good-bye
Nor count the days and years
Until at last we meet again
For moments would not slip
Like whispers on an autumn wind
From longing fingertips

If I, by some strange twist of rhyme
Found its reclusive track
Would I first rush ahead of time
Before I could turn back?
For what of all those moments lost
In heartbeats caught between?
Do moments slip into the past
Or shape the unforeseen?

Far away it seems to me
An ocean must exist
Of moments drifting to a sea
On endless shores of mist
But time is a mysterious tide
Relentlessly it goes
I simply cannot quite decide
Which way its river flows

Janet Martin

Monday, September 19, 2011

A Room Beneath a Sky...


There is a room where she can go
The music there is soft and low
Like gentle raindrops on a breeze
A room of treasured memories

Here a new-born baby cries
With mother’s midnight lullabies
‘gainst cheeks so smooth and soft as silk
And warmth of baby oil and milk

Or childish lips, eager and red
Are asking, is it morning yet?
Before school buses could dictate
The meaning of early or late

She sees the dreams of a young bride
Align her gaze with time’s swift stride
As her once young and carefree lad
Begins to look a lot like dad

And daddy’s love begins to show
In silver etchings on his brow
The tears that once he held inside
He no longer tries to hide

There is a room where she can go
To let the tears and memories flow
The walls are lined with works of art
And held within a mother’s heart

Janet Martin~

My ten-year-old daughter still waves from the bus after she is seated…
This morning I’m not sure if she noticed that I had come out to the porch with my coffee
instead of remaining at my post inside the window. She was waving frantically, as was I, but I don’t think she saw me…and suddenly it became for me a picture of moments…
The fact that the glorious red, morning sky was the prelude to a very rainy Monday amplified my nostalgic frame of mind.

Hidden Master-piece


you dipped your pen into the skies
and stole the tint from midnight eyes
transferring with deft, silent skill
the torment of your poet’s quill
to guarded palettes of the heart
where I, recipient of your art
resign myself to fettered years
as I behold your blue ink tears

time has no swift design on you
you paint the surface of the moon
in un-named shades of misery
while merry-wishers wave in glee
my paper smile is worn and thin
the thought of you as raw-edged tin
but poetry preserves, endears
the permanence of blue ink tears

someday this sea of buried art
like crumpled oceans in my heart
will lie beneath the earth with me
in un-penned vaults of poetry
untainted by mortal’s vile tongue
who dare to paint sapphire with dung
I’ll hold for all eternal years
a masterpiece of blue ink tears

J~

Fearless Passion


Only God sees the true colors of our soul
Others may perceive through our words what they will
Should we dare to expose hints of our uttermost parts
Still, only God knows the hidden depths of our hearts

Only God knows the truth behind words we may pen
Words shaped by thought and life’s experience
Release to the wind bits of poetry
Revelation of living's sweet mystery

Only God understands completely
Let's close our eyes then, and bleed fearlessly
Spilling forth passion held deep in our souls
Man sees but half; only God knows the whole

Janet Martin

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Autumn's Overture


The thickened breeze flows through the trees
Like rush of distant stream
The marigold, audacious, bold
Relinquishes her dream
In wistful tones the willow moans
And sheds her amber tears
As moments run beneath the sun
In fantasy and fears

The sumac fire and cricket choir
Collaborate to bring
A grand postlude to flowers subdued
With promises of spring
Magenta dusk and zephyr brusque
A dissonant duet
Add harmony in minor key
To blue-tinged silhouette

The poplar sighs ‘neath painted skies
The day grows deep and still
Dark fingers strum the fields of corn
And sweep the somber hill
A kaleidoscope of grief and hope
Fills earth’s great banquet hall
As summer dims in nature’s hymns
In overtures of fall

The fullness of fair summer’s love
Is strewn in silent field
Epitome of misery
And passions mirthful yield
The restless bliss of Autumn’s kiss
Haunts wood and shaded dell
A melody of reverie
In summer’s grand farewell

Janet Martin

Tonight while I was running this poem sort of wrote itself...
as something to give my mind rhythm and yet absorb the beauty around me.
the wind rushing through the poplars, sounding like a distant water-fall. the ever-present cricket song thinning, but still prevalent as the night fell in cool blue acapella.

In this quiet I run, reminisce, regret, review, resolve, renew and reach!

Thread of Hope


Don’t tell me you love me
as you thrust your fingertips
into wounds, raw and bleeding.

The verve of youth’s passion
has slipped down a corridor
through which I no longer seem to fit

and ideals huddle on opal-tinted hills
as flocks of paper-mache sheep,
Muse is the shepherd…

…too far from me, as I yearn
for pasture’s I cannot see
and a face in the mirror that cannot be

the echo of selfish words
hovers as an omen of doom
in a room heavy with silence

yet, in this pall of sorrow
I find a thread of hope
to strengthen me…

for we are never too old to learn
or to try again
or to whisper, ‘I’m sorry’.

Janet~


http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Friday, September 16, 2011

In Between


We walked through that field together
You and I
Urged by the restless weather
And the shifting sky
Desiring nothing but the warmth of each other
As our hands touched; that’s all
In this middle season of no longer summer
And not yet fall

The trees were poised for their grand disrobing
The chill on the breeze
Roused our minds toward dancing firelight
And evening and poetry
As we passed rows of corn stretching for miles
Like ragged infantry
And flowers relaxing their fullest smiles
Content to sleep peacefully

The bright-cheeked orchards groaned
As we meandered by
The vast emptiness of waiting moaned
As we lay beneath its sky
A sky leaning ever toward the tug of winter
But we disregard it all
As we lie in a field of no longer summer
But not yet fall

Janet Martin

Ode to a Rainy Late-Summer's Eve (edited re-post)


The cold rain hastes the ending of a day
The dark pine moans within its weeping knell
The landscape dims in folds of cobalt-gray
Beneath the tolling of the evening bell

The absence of the lusty cricket choir
Magnifies the musky sense of gloom
Hovering o’er the garden’s silent bower
Heavy with the parting of its bloom

Now fades the sky-line in the gathering eve
And now the dark and daylight intertwine
Until the dark prevails; light slips beneath
The edge of dusk on the horizon line

The night lies dormant in this solitude
Save for the leaf clinging with muted breath
To sodden arm of birch or maple wood
Before it sleeps in cradles of the earth

The cold rain hastes the ending of the day
Profluent sonnet drifting o’er the lee
As remnant sighs of summer slip away
To grace the silent shores of memory


Janet Martin

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Snack-time


You held them to me
I snatched them in haste
But your words of flattery
Left a stale after-taste

You kindly offered
Some much-needed advice
Truth may first taste bitter
But the ending is nice

I’d rather snack
On truth’s celery
Than a great Big Mac
Of flattery

Janet Martin

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/midnight-snack-002.html?m=0

When We Look Up


With downcast eye we see life’s grief
Its wretchedness and dirt
We see throngs blind with unbelief
Imprisoned by their hurt
We see dark cradles of despair
The hopelessness of sin
It robs our trembling lips of prayer
Lord, where can we begin?

In loathsome corridors of filth
The groveling captive lie
Doom lurks above in silent stealth
Until at last they die
Cold sorrow hovers like a shroud
The darkness closes in
We lift our voices, cry aloud
Lord, where can we begin…?

…and as we lift our distraught eyes
Above the hopelessness
Morning breaks across the skies
In shades of faithfulness
He lights the dawn to rise upon
The rich man and the poor
As He cries out to everyone
‘Behold, I am the Door’

He makes the blinded eye to see
Beyond the grief and hurt
And draws our gaze to bloom and tree
Sprouting from the dirt
As we cry, where do we begin?
And lift our eyes; undone
He lets the glorious Light shine in
As we behold the Son

Janet Martin~

There are places and seasons in life
where it is hard to see the beauty unless we look up.

Now no one can look at the sun,
bright as it is in the skies
after the wind has swept them clean.
22 Out of the north he comes in golden splendor;
God comes in awesome majesty.
23 The Almighty is beyond our reach and exalted in power;
in his justice and great righteousness, he does not oppress.
24 Therefore, people revere him,
for does he not have regard for all the wise in heart? Job 37:21-24

Autumn's Approach


She lies in wait of things to come
Beneath a cool, blue moon
The trembling of imminent dawn
Breathes on the dark-rimmed dune
Where currents of an unseen tide
Have claimed fair summer’s boast
As burnished fingers brush aside
Her eager, verdant ghost

The lavish plume of brush and bloom
Don webs of impearled silk
The broken bud of June's perfume
Has bled its honeyed milk
And in the pausing atmosphere
A murm’ring purple chill
Creeps silently into her tear
Spawned by time’s perfect will

The pastureland of summer’s bliss
Is naught but trodden dirt
Spring's cheek that drew her lover’s kiss
Is streaked with beauty’s hurt
The palms that opened to release
Impatient, rushing dreams
Have seen the fruit of its increase
Like leaves upon a stream

She lies in wait of deeper hope
In fall’s extravagance
A song of gilded calliope
And echoes of a dance
That passed too quickly and too soon
In hours sweet and wild
Seeds float on summer's fading tune
She turns to see her child

Janet Martin~

Sometimes I find the title the most challenging part of a poem.
First I had- In Waiting
Then I thought maybe Middle-aged Mother (or woman) would open the reader’s mind immediately to the two tones in the poem,
But then I wanted the reader to see it for themselves so I chose Autumn’s Approach.
This morning it is cold and I felt ‘The Approach’ on more than one level;)

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Elusive Muse


Tonight she falls
Heavy and flat
Like rain
Striking my face
An inert pall
Spreading its mat
Of sodden leaves
Across the place
Where once we met
In love and ease
Before tight-lipped silence
Snatched her,
Smothering
Supple form and grace
She, as reluctant as I
To venture
Alone into this
Cold, dark abyss
Where just the night before
We danced recklessly
Beneath the candor
Of the harvest moon
Disregarding propriety
And things
For the simplicity of a kiss
In a midnight afternoon
But now,
The emptiness rings
With perpetual echoing
Of footsteps fading
Into the autumn mist


J~

Found


When I called you today you were not home

When I sent you an e-mail it was returned

When I wrote you a letter it came back

So I chose a brand new method of attack

You may run where you choose, you may hide anywhere

But you cannot out-run or out-hide a prayer

J~

Love's Earnest Plea


Abide with me a little while

Oh darling, do not go

The night is warm beneath your smile

And oh, I need you so

Moments come and then they pass

Like dust tossed to the breeze

Let’s spread our whispers on the grass

In prolonged agonies

The winsome hours do not come

With shadow or with tears

What we put in them is the sum

Of pleasure, pain and years

I care not to leave upon

Some cold grave stone, a rose

If you should leave before me, hon

I’ll hold love’s memories close

Abide with me an hour more

Too soon our memories

Will deck the lawn and garden floor

In dry and withered leaves

Death's carriage stands outside the gate

For either you or I

When it is time he will not wait

Good-bye then love, good-bye

Janet Martin

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Gentle Hour


The laid-back breeze begins to tease

The hemlock and the pine

As Heaven’s fingers gently blur

West’s dim horizon-line

While in the east a languid feast

Bleeds from the harvest moon

A lullaby in velvet sky

Without a note or tune


The silhouette of maple-red

Is etched against deep blues

As God above in tones of love

The restless light subdues

And in the hush of dwindled rush

A halo crowns the dust

As all my cares in weightless prayers

Drift to the One I trust


My lesser loves like empty gloves

I place in Hands of grace

Why do I dread the miles ahead?

He holds the stars in space

He writes the hymn of willow limb

The earth He bathes with dew

And in the calm of midnight’s palm

His mercy is made new


Janet Martin


Tonight the silence is perfect, save for a faithful few crickets.

I'm tempted to pull out my wheel-barrow and work in my flower-beds,

the moon is so bright. It would be so still and so CRAZY! Why?

Oh....right. Nights were made for sleeping. Why does God save some of His best displays

for the hours when we're supposed to sleeping?!


His compassions never fail.

They are new every morning.

Great is Your faithfulness. Lam. 3:23

Teenage Compassion



When I looked into your eyes
You saw the tears in mine
And I beheld in yours
An unfamiliar shine
As my gaze dropped
To the floor
For I had never seen
You look at me like that before
…with compassion
Yes, my dear
I guess it's true,
Sometimes mothers
Need to cry too

Janet~
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Monday, September 12, 2011

Breath-taking


Caught in beautiful limbo
on that pivotal moment
of desire becoming fulfillment
with nothing more
than the faintest hint
of your smile

A moment, seemingly insignificant
set against a blue sky
but reaching to
the doorway of heaven
when your eyes meet mine
from across the room

Touch stirs and appeases
I have known ecstatic pain
in the warmth of your arm
almost touching mine
and driving me
blissfully insane

J~

When Night Is Deep...


When night is deep and long and low
And void of lisp or sigh
When silver, quivering moments flow
In rivers to the sky
When larkspur, rose and goldenrod
Have dimmed their vibrant hue
And all the earth is one with God
…I think of you

I trace the out-line of my sigh
Intricately designed
In moments filled with you and I
And whispers intertwined
And I cannot begin to tell
The first touch from the last
As mingled tears and laughter fell
Like dew upon the grass

An aching broods upon the mist
A clash of heart and will
Tugs at keen memories half-kissed
When night is slow and still
And curves around me, in a moan
With lips parted and blue
I lay my head upon a stone
…and think of you

J~

Finding Purpose




Sometimes, as the gold threads of daylight are waning
And all its brief moments are garnered like mist,
When the hand gently open on fringes of dawning
Soundlessly closes in a tightly-clenched fist,
As I try to separate beginning from ending
Only to see a perpetual blending
I am perplexed with deep melancholy
Vexed by life’s seeming futility

Do I stand at the end or a brand new beginning
As daylight surrenders to night’s turning page?
Is there any purpose to this life I am living?
Or are moments vague actors on time’s phantom stage?
I reach to touch a tangible truth
And long for the rush of undeterred youth
Is there a victory to this race I am in?
The ‘what was or what is or what might have been’?

I gaze to the heaven’s unfathomable distance
Layers of space upon space with no end
A vault that could swallow ten-thousand oceans
Or wink at an eternity in each grain of sand
Yet greater than this grand infinity
Is an undeniable eternity
A-waiting each soul that departs from this earth
So then, death is a beginning greater than birth

The somnolent stirring of leaves gives no answer
Exteriors seem cold, indifferent and base
Fear is an ache and hope a deep hunger
Nothing is permanent…nothing but grace
His grace is greater than anything
Our perfect Creator gives this life meaning
His grace saves the soul that will not die
And thus, by the grace of God go I

Janet Martin~

I’m not sure I captured in this poem the heart of my pondering…
It began with my 13 yr.old son’s off-handed remark about there really being no point to anything because everything ends…he was talking about fun.
Later my husband remarked that the problem with good moments is that they end…
And I asked him do they? Or is what we see as the end really the beginning of the next moment which could be better but we don’t know because we have not yet lived it. Okay, futile subject, I know. But I did get to thinking about how empty every moment is at its base level. We were created by God and within us is a place that only He can fill. And only as He fills that place can we find genuine peace and purpose. The created needs the Creator. Our life is a gift. Don’t we want to know the Giver?

Are those moments in the collage above moments of purpose...or futility?

I love the book of Ecclesiastes, and I love these verses from Ephesians 2:



But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, 5 made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. 6 And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, 7 in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. 8 For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— 9 not by works, so that no one can boast. 10 For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Invaluable Wealth



In our hands we hold the greatest wealth time can bestow
Invaluable, invisible, a little thing called Now

Janet~

Gleanings





It is impossible to be selfish and love
At the same time…
We are either one or the other

He looked up from the flower he held, his little face
wrinkled in wonder, delight and innocence
not realizing that he was discovering God

Flowers just wake up and do their thing…
Bloom!
They never look back and ask, ‘am I doing enough?’

Sometimes the best mini-vacations
are taken on the back-door step
as we simply pause and listen

Janet Martin

...a few thoughts gleaned from moments in this day…

Grand Still-life


To pause upon the brink of dawn
And see its languid tone
Begin to creep across the lawn
And silent cobblestone

Too see the heavy folds of night
Lift from earth’s frozen shore
As heaven’s fingers spread the light
Across its darkened floor

...and black-etched form of birch and pine
Drawn starkly ‘gainst the dusk
Begins to soften rigid lines
In shades of gold-chartreuse

To feel the hope of things to come
Awaken with the flower
As earth stirs ‘neath a painted dome
Aflame with holy power

To see the Hand that lights the dawn
In unframed works of art
Restores in me with quiet awe
A meek, contented heart

Janet Martin

I took this picture from my front porch this morning.
I realized that every 'frame' I shot was perfect.
How could they not be? Painted by the perfect Creator!

Thursday, September 8, 2011

A Mother's Careful Lament


The garden walk is covered now with dreams too vague to tell
The twilight lays its garment down on field and wooded dell
The path, once trampled hard as stone by wee and tanned bare feet
Is silent now and overgrown with memories bitter-sweet

The blooms, in wild abandonment of staid propriety
Fling faded petals to the wind in jaded wisps of glee
And thoughts twist upward, upward only to descend at last
To rest within a mother’s heart where she can hold them fast

The night-shaped silence amplifies the sense of ticking time
The cricket anthems fall and rise; dissonant rhythm and rhyme
She cannot feel the fingertips which steal the hurried hours
But simply feels small hands that slip away in search of flowers

The consciousness of letting go is like a heavy shawl
The ache within is keen and slow, love’s sweetest pain of all
The windless night is dark and deep, the earth a dew-filled cup
A world where little children sleep and dream of growing up

Janet Martin

I was sitting on my deck after dark tonight, gazing at the moon-lit remains of a tumbled garden.

This poem is for all the mother's who feel the ache of letting go at this time of year.

Over Forty?


The top of the hill is beginning to tip
We hold on for dear life but our fingers slip
Though we put mind over matter my dear
It’s pure simple logic: it’s down-hill from here

When we turned thirty we thought it was rough
Years in a hurry, time, never enough
But each year our birthdays come sooner it seems
And all we have left of youth is our dreams

So kick up your slipper’s and dance for a bit
We’ve come too far now, to just simply quit
It's time to experience the hill’s other side
So hang on, my friend, and enjoy the ride

Janet Martin~


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

A Message to Duty


Today I will break all your rules, my dear,
So if you don’t mind, please sit over here
And relax just a little, put down your firm rod
Because after all, Duty, you are not God

It seems I spend too much time bowing to you
As I adhere to long lists of things I must do,
God planted fields brimming with wild Queen Anne’s lace
Yet you insist rigidly, 'I must clean up this place'

Through windows I'm polishing I see flowers and trees
You turn my head downward and say, 'back to work, please'
As you wield over me your tireless rod
I should like to remind you; you are not God

The grass sprawls its carpet beneath the blue sky
I want to lie on it just to hear the day sigh
As willow limbs whisper a soft serenade
And I defy Duty to sit in its shade

Duty is valid and wise, this is true
The devil loves hands that have nothing to do
But every so often for just a wee hour
Relax your command, please, for the sake of a flower

Janet Martin~

Summer is winding down and it is a busy time of year
But please, stop for a moment and look deep into a flower.
You may be astounded Who you see!

Summer's Quadrille


We feel a tender beauty-tug
A bitter-sweet caress
As summer, with a mindless shrug
Begins to shed her dress
Choosing instead of emerald green
A gown of red and gold
With petticoats of scarlet sheen
And sashes bright and bold

The azure blue of summer’s eye
Is moody now, and grayed
Across the field her breezes sigh
A restless serenade
While on the cusp of every hill
And by the valley stream
We see the hand of autumn steal
Fair summer’s verdant gleam

She glides across the tousled grass
In pirouettes and twirls
A chattering and buxom lass
Among the trees she swirls
Yet, with each turn her fingers graze
The heavy, shaded limb
Thus setting wooded slope ablaze
In autumn's glorious hymn

Woe to the beggar of the earth
Who pleads for one more day
Or better still, a summer’s worth
Of hours to while away
With staid compliance moments slip
To grace a phantom shore
A fleeting kiss upon the lip
And gone forevermore

We feel a tender beauty-tug
Flamboyant misery
As summer with a mindless shrug
Fades into history
And all that will be left of it
When her quadrille is done
Is but what we have made of it
Her moments in the sun

Janet Martin

I felt it, an excruciatingly blissful 'beauty-tug'.
I drove into town for fuel and from the green tree-lined street
a bold red and orange arm waved to me.