Spring Symphony

Allegro of sunbeam dapples the slope

Where winter has gentled its stance

The gale now softens her harsh calliope

As nature responds to its glance

Warm, eager fingertips strum rigid spires

Rousing the bud from its sleep

As umber fallow surges with desire

Embraced in a dark, restless deep

Subtle adagio breathes on the sod

Earth trembles as its naked shell

Responds to the Maestro, Creator, God

For no man His music can quell

And into the crypt of buried decay

Heaven’s wondrous melody seeps

As from entombed chambers of yesterday

Resurrected choruses leap

Pure intonations of violet and gold

Of periwinkle, magenta, blue

Rippling with passionate abandon bold

Across earth’s dormant avenue

Emerald rhapsody covers the hills

Woodland and meadow reply

Sweeping the landscape its harmony thrills

Humble, dust-formed passers-by

© Janet Martin

It seems as if, over-night the landscape has erupted into exotic bloom. 

The NAANI

Poetic Bloomings invites us to try writing a NAANI

The NAANI is one of India’s most popular Telugu forms,  Naani means “expression of one and all.”  It consists of 4 lines, totalling 20 to 25 syllables. It is generally untitled, although the subject may be inferred in the first line. The poem is not bound to a particular subject, but is often about human relations. The form was introduced by one of the renowned Telugu poets, Dr. N. Gopi.

 

While I tally

My scores of failure

She climbs into my arms

Hugs me and falls asleep

***

The television does not

Drown out the silence

Yet, newspaper walls

Can be impenetrable

***

Yesterday, today, forever

He IS, the only Way,

The only Truth

And Door to eternal life

***

Darkness thickens stealthily

In countless layers

But one tiny flame

Dispels its utter blackness

Janet~

Of Hidden Tempests...

Clark Little Photography...

Against the shoreline of my thought

Your ceaseless whispers swell

No pious benediction

Will its timeless surging quell

Well-rehearsed intonation

Melts unnoticed on the hour

But raw untried emotion

Clutches me within its power

The ebb and flow of moments

Tunes the timbre of a sea

Surging in a mammoth ocean

Somewhere deep inside of me…

J~

Mountain-climbing

To reach the top

We are guaranteed

Darling, I know if we keep climbing

To give up or to stop

To release you

It never was my intention

I struggle upward and pray

From vows of my youth

Dangling precariously

While moments slip away

Gripping the truth

I cling tenaciously

So when it comes to us

Love weathers all weather

And when it comes to the heart

When it comes to love

Than to be apart together

I prefer to be together apart

Not compelling resistance

I release the hour

That is the way of love

Without creating distance

Expanding history

Moments push between us

© J~

Hello down here…are you confused? Congratulations! You just read this poem backwards…we are mountain-climbing so we must begin at the bottom(as with all things in life:) and work our way up! I felt like having a little fun:)

No Wasted Days

As long as love

Fills the heart

There will be no empty days

As long smiles

Adorn our mouths

There will be no darkest days

As long as duty

And desire blend

There will be no futile days

As long as you

Remain my friend

There will be no wasted days

Janet~

Pour Me Another...

The poetic notion of over and done

For me, has ceased to exist

The aching essence of love lingers on

Like the afterglow of a kiss

Memory is like vintage wine

We savor its warmth on our lips

Today’s moments are fruit on a vine

Tomorrow its harvest we sip

 I hold the aura of you on my tongue

Its ambiance soothing my thought

Forever old or forever young

To me it matters not

For the poetic notion of over and done

Is for moments, not memories

Pour me another; love lingers on

In moments such as these

The fingers of time run over my skin

Darling, what must will be

Time cannot touch moments sealed within

The vault of memory

J~

In Poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

I find great allure in the translucent strings

On which a tender thought is hung

And thus, a legacy is strung

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

I am content as the robin sings

And the green unfurls on distant slope

And suddenly the world is a beacon of hope

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

I love the pleasure too lowly for kings

As I pause in a meadow of ten-thousand suns

Lifting their exuberance to everyone

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

The music of heaven unceasingly rings

In a calliope of present then past

As I hold the treasure of a memory fast

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things
I thank God daily for the mercy He flings
In nameless moments of intangible verse
...of hope and love as thoughts immerse
In poetry

© Janet Martin

Mother's Day Thoughts...

Oh, that my life would be

A humble, loving legacy

When time and life have slipped from me

…their Mother

What will my children say

On some distant Mother’s Day

As they recall their childhood play

…and Mother?

Will the unyielding sod

Not quell the path I trod

Because they learned of God

…from Mother?

And will my memory

Somehow thread tenderly

Through generations still to be

…of a godly Mother?

Oh, that my life would be

A humble, loving legacy

When time and life have slipped from me

…their Mother

© Janet Martin

Yesterday morning at church an elderly gentleman shared memories of his mother, long gone and suddenly I wondered what my kids memories will be when they are asked to share something about their mother...

They do not know

as I draw them to me

of the tug-of-war beauty

surging in me

and they do not know

that I fight back aching tears

realizing suddenly

how the thief of years

snatches vapor-moments

from longing fingertips

turning wee girls to women

as time ceaselessly slips

from the before to the after

covering the ground

with the joy of love's laughter

and the tender-sweet sound 

when the night is quiet

on the mist-tinted air

...I hear a song hovering

of a rocking chair

As I held wisps of heaven

in the dark, stilly-deep

While rocking and humming

my babies to sleep...

 

Chosen Generation

We are not just ‘playing house’

As we toil and plant earth’s sod

But we are treading moments

On a stairway up to God

We are not just biding time

Twixt rise and set of sun

But we will give account to Him

For every deed we’ve done

We are not flesh shadows

Skimming time’s brief, pallid glance

Nor drifting flukes of nature

Victim’s of circumstance

But we are precious creatures

Born with a living soul

For whom our pure Creator died

So that we may be whole

And we are born with purpose

Not meaningless off-spring

In a field of dandelions

We are children of a King

...born in His wondrous image

Knit together by the touch

Of a tender heavenly Father

Who loves us very much

© Janet Martin

 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. Gen. 1:27

 

But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. 1 Peter 2:9

For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. ^{John 3:16-17}

Glorious and Free

Some week-end frames of 'God's country...'

God's country; is what my daddy called it

As rolling hills in a country-drive slideshow

Moved across the screen

Of the station-wagon window

…this panorama of meadow-rich green

Creased by woodlands and marshes

The meandering stream

Rolling to the big blue sea

This is surely what God’s country must be

And the farmer’s eyes roved the blazing west

Imbuing his soul with renewed hope and zest

For surely the one who painted our rural plot of sky

In a whispered masterpiece

Would provide the needs for he and I

His mercy would not cease

Ah, in this we found peace

So, the farmer whistled with a spring in his step

And the corn fields rustled beneath twilight’s fingertips

…and the little girl stood proud beneath red and white

And sang ‘Oh Canada’ with all her might because Daddy was right

‘Oh Canada' included the little thumbprint of Southern Ontario

Where apple orchards bend and bronze wheat fields glow

And where the Great Lakes, in turquoise gems

Gleam, a grand and glorious diadem

Crowning God’s country;

This 'true north strong and free, of timber and loam

Will forever be my home sweet home

© Janet Martin

 Poetic Bloomings asks us to share a piece of where we call home!

A Mother's Thoughts

Dear God you’ve seen fit

To grace me with the good

and beautiful gift

Of motherhood

Let me never squander

Love’s whispers of gold

But cherish with wonder

This treasure I hold

…in a name more lovely (and daunting)

than any other

As children look to me

And call me

Mother 

Janet~

Mother's Hands ...A re-post

Not because of gold or silver
Not because of jeweled bands
Not because they’re soft and perfect
Do I love my mother’s hands
But because these hands once held me
Tenderly close to her breast
And because these hands would point me
To the path she knew was best

Mother’s hands so gladly labored
Mother’s hands so seldom still
Never seeking her own favor
Giving always her free will
But the thing of greatest beauty
As she tended to each care
Was her source of strength for duty
Mother’s hands were hands of prayer

Mother’s hands would clap to praise me
For a good deed I had done
Mother’s hands were there to save me
When my deeds had hurt someone
And my mother’s hands would teach me
What is right and what is good
Mother’s hands would always reach me
When no other hand e’er could

Mother’s hands so full of power
When her load was hard to bear
Even in life’s darkest hour
Mother’s hands would fold in prayer
Oh, no matter where I travel
Or how great the sights or grand
There is none to make me marvel
Like my mother’s praying hands

Praying hands can reach her children
When they’ve gone so far away
Mother knows that God will reach them
As she folds her hands to pray
Gracious Father, up in Heaven
Bless each mother everywhere
In each country, tribe or nation
Bless the hands, the hands of prayer

Janet~

Whispers of Grace

Golden dawn lures me

From cover-warm sleep

Night’s fabric diffuses

As soft moments creep

Over the skyline

They hover to pass

Brief transient shadows

On sun-dappled grass

Shake off wooly slumber

A new day a-waits

Pouring in splendor

Through morn’s lofty gates

As restlessly moments

Slip over our skin

Drops in an ocean

Of what might have been…

…should we fail to seize them

Inhale from each gem

The nectar of mercy

In hope’s diadem

Trickling gently in moments

To an ethereal sea

Whispers of grace

And opportunity

© Janet Martin

Friday Thoughts~

Love is a Three-letter word

Y-O-U~

Love is also a six-letter word

M-O-T-H-E-R

 ~Spring Portraits~

Oh, let me never pine nor plead

For my neighbor’s garden fair

And let me never seek with greed

Life’s blessings that were meant to share

But as each day to history folds

Oh, let me labor thankfully

Lest I should miss the field of gold

That God has placed in front of me

Of petal-pink promises

Unfolding their hope

Of green and gold palaces

Gracing earth’s slope

Of winter forgotten

On emerald floors

And cloud-ships of cotton

Bound for gossamer shores

Of zephyr-lips tender

And azure diadem

Matriarch of splendor

And her name is Spring

She shakes out the girth

Of her floral-sweet gowns

And covers the earth

In for-get-me-not crowns

She tosses her tresses

And every limb

Dons pretty pink dresses

Or lacy green trim

Fleet-footed belle

Of laughter and grace

She restores a smile

To every face

Janet~

The little guys I babysit and I went on a spring stroll...here are some pictures in full spring color!

Portrait of a Mother

She leaves her youth upon the grass
Where all her happy children pass
She dons a robe of profound merit
God will show her how to wear it
Its filament is firm yet mild
Woven by fingers of a child
Marked by the tears of joy and strife 

And quickened years that form her life
Graciously she bows her head
To wear this cloak of meeker thread

While stages fill and man applauds
The march of fame and lesser gods
She has known the best there is
In childish hugs and good-night kiss
And she has seen love's fairest prize

Gleaming in her children’s eyes
No wild applause or acclamation
For the hand which holds a nation
Silently she bows her head
And trusts God for His faithful lead

Her children rise and call her blessed

To recognize earth's utter-best
As humbly she her will resigns
To Hands which brush her face with lines
While Vanity would stop and gaze
With pity on her love-lined face
She would do it all again
To know she has not loved in vain
For Vanity with all its charms
Can never fill a mother’s arms

No great award, no Hall of Fame
To reward this humble name
Yet there can never be another
Name, as honorable as Mother
So while the buxom hours pass
To shed their petals on the grass
She will thank God for the hours
Where she tended sweeter flowers
In a garden like no other
Reserved for one which we call Mother

Janet Martin

Because of Him

 

 

Because of the grace and the love He has shown

Because of His word that will not pass away

We have a foundation of rare, precious Stone

A blueprint for living as we build day by day

Because of His absolute forgiveness of sin

We are set free from the burden of guilt

No condemnation remains deep within

Redemption impartial flows in His life-blood spilt

Because of His infinite mercy and care

Hope will sustain us in spite of travail

We have a Father who does not despair

His way is perfect; His love will not fail

© Janet Martin

Let no man deceive himself.

If any man among you seems to be wise in this world

let him become a fool that he may be wise.

for the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.

For it is written: He takes the wise in their own craftiness. 1 Cor. 3:18-19

Coveted Illusion

While others sleep

The poet seeks

New forms to spill

Her unnamed thought

For poetry

Stirs quietly

In air

Tattooed without a jot

It's just a feeling

Without shape

And an ache

Without just cause

But to poise

In contemplation

In the midnight hour because

Time offers no outstretched palm

Where the poet can devour

Long un-tallied realms of calm and

Stolen moments from an hour

So while wiser souls lay sleeping

Poets toil in tender bliss

For that coveted illusion

In a poem’s perfect kiss

© Janet Martin

What Mother's Anticipate...

Mothers can wait for the house to be tidy

When footsteps no longer dash over mopped floors

And mothers can wait for those years of pure quiet

No shouting voices or slamming of doors

Mothers can wait for the days of no laundry

And sparkling windows with no trace of a kiss

Where curious noses press to its barrier

Because they are wondering ‘where mother is’

Mothers can wait for long days with no duty

For surely to be busy is heaven on earth

And toiling for loved ones is life’s finest beauty

Filling each moment with purpose and worth

…but mothers smile softly with anticipation

For they cannot wait for that most special day

When childish eagerness plucks for sweet mother

A humble, yet glorious dandelion bouquet

© Janet Martin

Just a Song...

If it’s just a song, then why am I crying?

If it’s just a violin, why can I hear it plea?

If it’s just a dance twixt living and dying

Oh, darling let’s make it the best it can be

If it’s just a song of cello and timbrel

Then why do I hear the tempo of time

Charting its chorus; a relentless minstrel

Clutching my heart in its rhythm and rhyme?

If it’s just a song, why do the words move me

Until I’m unable to see through my tears?

If it’s just a song, darling, will you love me

Long after the music of life’s quickened years?

If it’s just a song, then why am I crying?

Why do I hear more than its raw melody?

If it’s just a song twixt living and dying

Then darling, let’s make it the best it can be

J~

On the Threshhold of Twilight

Here is the hour of musk-tender power

Drawing the shadow of dusk on the day

Here is the hour that unfolds like a flower

In petals of amber and soft silver-gray

Here is the taunting in warm-whispered wanting

For one precious hour of fair pasts to return

Here is the portal where time-tempered mortal

Recalls dim-lit gardens for which softly we yearn

Here is the meadow where memories echo

Bitter-sweet sonnet of sorrow and mirth

As twilight comes stealing, life’s hurt and its healing

Swells in the stillness that blankets the earth

Here is the hour as darkness creeps lower

When exile is sweeter than noon’s laughing clan

For darkness makes clearer and somehow draws nearer

The whisper of memories common to man

© Janet Martin

Perfection

What lies beyond the pale blue hill

Of moments as they flow?

Why, simply this; God’s perfect will

Wherever we may go~

Janet

Trouble Me Not...

Trouble me not; oh fear of tomorrow

Unknown is the visage of future intent

Trouble me not; oh yesterday’s sorrow

Firm is the seal on a moment when spent

Trouble me not; oh guilt that would haunt me

But for the Hands bearing scars in my stead

Trouble me not; though failure would taunt me

But for the Hope as my pardon flows red

Trouble me not; restless oceans of longing

Vain are the futile endeavors of dust

But oh, what fulfillment and peace in belonging

To He in whom we can affix our trust

Trouble me not; Lord, I plead for Your presence

To conquer the demons that quake ‘neath Your gaze

When I am weak God, Your strength is perfected

As I relinquish my will to Your ways

© Janet Martin

 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, 

for my power is made perfect in weakness. 

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, 

so that Christ’s power may rest on me.  2 Cor. 12:9

Things Change~

a-a-a-ah! I thought Poetic Bloomings said 'take a line from a favorite movie' They asked for the title...oh well, this still remains a favorite line for the inspiration of this poem...I'll try a title later:) My kids are coming off the bus as I post this.

Things change. They always do, it's one of the things of nature.

~Bridges of Madison County~

Things change…

For better or worse

Blessing or curse

Things never stay the same

In the hour of sorrow

There is hope…

…for tomorrow things will change

And in moments of laughter

We know

They will echo

Long after

The good-byes and the tears

Because we realize now

Things change

And somehow the years

Make us more keenly aware

Of this absolute truth

We cherish moments with care

While dreamers of youth

Reach

Aspire

To the great beyond

We dwell

In the desire

Of this moment... on…

© Janet Martin

In the midst of  all change One remains changeless....thank-you God.

The Possibilites of Chance

Sunday Whirl 55

There is nothing absolute in the realm of chance

An ellipsis of maybes’;

But your cute wink and glance

Caught me off-guard

As I seek to align

My head

With my heart

Resolutions grind

To a hook-line-and-sinker halt

For something in your cobalt-blue gaze

Turns clear-print resolve to a vibrating haze

Then, in contrast to my practicality

I follow the dots of chance and maybe…

For I see, emerging from my sudden trance

The possibility of a beautiful dance

© J~

Sonnet of Spring's (or Life's) Deepening Twilight

 Take Me Home

See how the wave of twilight converges

Over pine spires to the shore of the skies

Feel how its motionless euphony surges

In earth-scented eighth-notes and willow-limb sighs

Far in the distance the spring-peeper heralds

In vespers of innocence, its wee acclaim

Beyond the hills a backdrop of coral

Deepens to ruby in ethereal flame

The brave bloom of spring-time closes its mouth

As sassy noon zephyrs repose to the south

Stillness in choirs of heavenly tenure

Dissolves life’s temporal struggle and hurt

A melody of longing and languor

Wakens the diamond asleep in the dirt

A river of moments and memories roll

Over the spectator perched on night's brim

No word or syllable touches the soul

As earth’s Creator conducts twilight’s hymn

The shimmer and shadow of moon-haloed tones

Brushes the meadow and cool cobblestones

See how the rise and fall of eve’s ocean

Clutches the heart in the swell of its cape

Feel how the tide of wordless emotion

Aches in the hollow of thought without shape

Loss and fulfillment, failure, forgiveness

End and beginning, future and past

Hurting and healing and hope coalesce

Under the banner of twilight’s broad mast

The Maestro directs the subtle release

Of night as it falls in an anthem of peace

© Janet Martin

Steal Away...

as I listen to this I simply have the 

over-whelming need to write something! 

...also this Take Me Home...The Island

J~

...is Poetry

To bleed a heart upon a page

Can be a fearful leap of faith

To taste the flavor of a word

Can juxtapose pleasure and hurt

To free a thought from ivory skull

Can be a tortured push and pull

Commiserated misery

And ecstasy

Is poetry

J~

  

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway

Of Gossamer Eclipses...

Away, away, the past is laid

In coffers firmly sealed

Afar, afar the future waits

Its mystery unrevealed

But now, but now one moment breathes

A gossamer eclipse

As future becomes present

For one gasp upon our lips

Then it recedes; a silk-spun waft

To time’s elusive crypt

Just as another, whisper-soft

Brushes our finger-tips…

Future to present to the past

The shadow of all three

Coalesce as they are cast

In breaths, to history

Janet Martin

Defining Present...
...inhaling future
exhaling past

 

Friday Thoughts~

When loved ones weigh

Upon my thought

I hold them close

And pray…a lot

When loved ones feel

Too far away

God brings them closer

As I pray

When loved ones wonder

If I care

God hugs them for me

Through my prayer
 

J~

There are so many people I know and dearly love
with heavy burdens to bear...all I can do is lift them up
to God in earnest prayer...
and He will do the rest!
But by His grace go we.

 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Rom.12:12 

His Embrace

A soft May dawn rises to brush

The thunder-cloud awry

Its gold and silver-misted hush

Drapes low against earth’s sigh

And from the throat of bird and breeze

Glad anthems tune the air

Their free, unhindered praises please

The One who placed them there

Lord, tune the measure of my praise

To flow without restraint

Forgive me for my errant gaze

And vain, foolish complaint

Nature in grand perfection blooms

Submissive to your will

As flowers leap from earthen tombs

And leaf to wooded rill

A soft May dawn rises to brush

The past into the mist

His mercy stirs the unmarred hush

Of heaven’s gracious gift

Into my out-stretched palm He pours

Another day of grace

Let me desire nothing more

Than His present embrace

© Janet Martin

 May the words of my mouth 

and the meditation of my heart 

be pleasing in your sight, 

O LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer.

Ps. 19:14

Channels

Who cuts a channel for the torrents of rain,
    and a path for the thunderstorm,
 to water a land where no one lives,
    an uninhabited desert,
 to satisfy a desolate wasteland
    and make it sprout with grass?
 Does the rain have a father?
    Who fathers the drops of dew?

Job 38: 25-28

Beneath the tumbled awning

Of a thunder-laden tress

A sudden jolt of dawning

Amplifies our nothingness

How oft have we, with troubled gaze

Traversed unfathomed deeps

Longing to understand the ways

Of One who never sleeps

But as we search the astral plains

From porticos of dust

He cuts a channel for the rains

…all we can do is trust

…in Him, who has a higher thought

Than man can realize

Beneath His touch nature is taught

And man, if he is wise

Beneath the tumbled awning

Of a thunder-laden tress

He whispers to our longing

And He fills our nothingness

© Janet Martin

A Pantoum...Spring Fever

 Poetic Bloomings asks us to try a Pantoum

The PANTOUM consists of a series of quatrains rhyming ABAB, in which the second and fourth lines of a quatrain recur as the first and third line in the succeeding quatrain; each quatrain introduces a new second rhyme as BCBC, CDCD… In the last quatrain, the two unused lines from the opening quatrain are used to fill in the last stanza, with the first line of the poem becomes the last line of the poem (ZAZA). Walt’s example illustrates this traditional form of PANTOUM.

(This sounds just challenging enough to be alluring)

I’ve come down with a sudden fever

Aroused by breezes tumbling through the screen

And I’ve become an old, renewed believer

In words like violet, indigo and green

Aroused by breezes tumbling through the screen

Passion stirs a yearning wanderlust

As words like violet, indigo and green

Draw me to pastures rich with rain-drenched dust

Passion stirs a yearning wanderlust

A longing to return, I know not whence

So I choose pastures, rich with rain-drenched dust

Wiggle like a child, beneath its fence

A longing to return, I know not whence

But Father Time does not restore the past

As now a woman squirms beneath the fence

Content to revel in its shadow cast

Father  Time does not restore the past

So, I’ve become an old, renewed believer

Content to revel in its shadow cast

Oh, I’ve come down with a sudden fever…

© Janet Martin

Hope's Wonder

Do not despair

As petals fall

Returning to the earth

For this is not

Hope’s curtain-call

But its humble re-birth

As sullen soil

Reclaims its fruit

And dust returns to dust

The seed of hope

Remains secure

Beneath this transient crust

For in the bloom

Abides the Source

Although we cannot see

He imbues

In Time’s discourse

Hope’s wonders yet to be

© Janet Martin

 Psalms 103:15 As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.

To Walt and Marie...

Their kind words fall

Soft, whispered seeds

Into a fallow plot

They sprout

Creating poetry

From gathering of thought

Kind words are seeds

They strip the weeds

That fain would choke the flower

They nurture where

Bleak, dark despair

Would seek to over-power

Translucent seeds

Kind words inspire

A universal garden

Where poetry

Blooms rampantly

Beneath love’s tender pardon

© Janet Martin

Congratulations to one year in bloom!