At The Mercy of You, My Year

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This morning as I stood at the fence to greet you I pondered our friendship; how often I've welcomed you with open arms, then turned and you were gone...

For years she’s seen you climb the fence

To cross the yard then wave good-bye

Yes, you were her first real romance

You taught her how to laugh and cry

But always when you disappear

Then you are nothing but A Year

Once upon her fair, girlish dreams

And fantasies foreign to truth

You tugged morning to dusk-hushed streams

And hugged the girl that lost her youth

As motherhood deployed love’s tear

And still simply, she calls you Year

Ah, fairest of them all art thou

Yet, without face or voice or form

Morning and noon and evening, how

Full Want of you ignites a storm

For all she has and holds, my dear

Is but the offspring of thee, Year

Cool Casanova, troubadour

Then will she every truly know?

What your utter intentions are

For she is at your mercy, so

Please, be a darling, be a dear

And be a kind and gentle Year

© Janet Martin

A chuckle courtesy of Victoria from the Peanuts book we gave her for Christmas;

Poetry

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 It's in the clutter and mess, not sterile tidiness, that memories are made...That reminds me; I noticed a coffee spill on the stairs where someone dashed to see if Canada scored;) In spite of Canada's win  Slovak goaltender Denis Godla was unbelievable!!

Dear Life, (or is it Dear Me?)

If I would study you too long

And hard then you would never be

Quite fit enough to hang upon

Time’s wizened walls of

Poetry

For scrutiny reveals your flaws

Then fear would be the death of me

And I would never write because

I’d pity you in

Poetry

Once flesh and bones, old poets dipped

Their quills into your heart-shaped sea

Braving the tide as soul-blood dripped

From fingertips to

Poetry

For imperfection is the grace

Whereby a poet is set free

To humbly, reverently trace

Life’s love-lined face in

Poetry

© Janet Martin

Off to the music that makes the poetry that makes the memories…or, is it the memories that make the poetry that makes the music...;-)?

For Winter's Child...

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Hark, hark, what mean those words

Of sweet-sacred alloy

They drift upon white-swaddled dawn

In heaven-splendid joy

And little fellows whoop

And little girls, the same

For on the morn is sweetly borne

A heavenly acclaim

...for every child to hear

What did Weatherman say?

The sweetest words you ever heard

‘Today is a snow-day’

© Janet Martin

Yes, from Christmas break to Snow-day...These are the moments of childhood sweet memories.

I'm trying to come up with a 'special something' to shape this one into...

In Winter

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You pummel the air

With feathers

Soft-cold, you hold

Our breath in a shroud

While transfixed,

We laugh aloud

That a cloud’s

Burden of beauty

Splinters

And covers the earth

In winter

© Janet Martin

Circle-Song

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The field that wore the flower where

Its yield becomes a thoroughfare

Of unborn things while winter flings

Its coat upon Time’s rusty chair

…and fills each nook and crook and roof

With diamond-stars from bars aloof

‘Four-seasons worth of time tunes earth’

The rubric of a year its proof

...here, we from its allotment learn

The epic scope of no return

And what we know of hold-let-go

…the season-flow that fills its urn

…still, ever leads us back to where

We see the bud that breaks to bear

The bonny yield that fills the field

That sleeps beneath Time’s rusty chair

…and nook and crook and roof are brushed with diamond-dust where Winter rushed

To take a seat, put up his feet and fill his pipe with stars soft-crushed…

© Janet Martin