Occupation-less

I’ve never really done anything,

She stammers, beneath the shrewd gaze of a peer

waiting with pen poised.

That is, nothing worth mentioning, really.

I’ve read stories, wiped grubby, chubby hands. I’ve kissed tears.

I’ve rocked little girls and boys to sleep,

and picked up an ocean of toys.

I’ve mended clothes and sometimes even a tender heart or two,

But I can’t think of anything worth mentioning to you...

-as the peer awaited an explanation for a title

to post beside ‘Occupation’.

I’m not sure what to say other

Than, I am a mother.

A stay-at-home mom some call it,

…and I suppose it is a cool name

For the one who attends every hockey game,

dentist appointment,

school recital,

Christmas play,

check-up,

shopping trip,

rides to and from friends,

teacher meeting,

The list in detail never really ends…

A name for the laundress, the gardener, the baker,

The cleaning lady, florist and bed-maker,

The cook, the nurse,the seamstress, the tutor and teacher too,

The artist to point out rare shades of green and blue

Or the red beginning to frost the autumn maple tree…

But it’s nothing to put on a resume`…

Now if you will kindly excuse me,

There’s laundry to be done,

At three ‘o clock I must pick up my son.

And the salsa I mixed up last night still needs to be boiled.

I should can it today before it is spoiled.

I wish I could tell you in a word or two

Exactly what it is that I do

But it seems I cannot think of any other

Title, besides the word…mother.

Janet~

Apparently 'mother' is not an acceptable occupation on a resume`:)

Sonnet on the Unraveling of Summer...or is it Life?

Politely we take our seats, as it were

Upon the long side of the afternoon

To behold the unrav’ling of summer

Like gossamer threads from an azure spoon

Dulcet disarmer of green tree and lust

Stealing the murmur of warmth from the sun

Where rust-petaled dreams parade to the dust

And memories like wild, blue rivers run

Even the rhododendron must succumb

To terms of relinquishment and autumn

***

A stealthy Spartacus captures the land

The tallest oak tree is no more immune

To pleading its grandeur ‘neath his command

Than the starlight of pallid anemone

Soil is the equalizer of earth

Where nature and mankind will not sleep

Segregated by rank, status or worth

As winds and cent’ries the blood-stained sands sweep

The tears of the rich and poor man agree

That life and death wait beneath the same tree

***

Solidarity wanes ‘neath sober sky

Unable to maintain its green façade

The pious marigold prepares to die

The scornful weed reckons now with his god

While flaming hill, field, wooded dell and slope

Rise to meet death in scarlet crinoline

Autumn is not a ruthless calliope

Serenading the slumber of a queen

Nor is he a grand, flagrant new-comer

But simply a hand unrave’ling summer

Rail-way Back-track

Once, long before the thought of counting years

crossed my mind

I walked here, counting railway ties

soaked in sweat, tar-drenched sunbeams

And dreams,

blue eyes scanning the line where skies

and the impossible met

in passions unrealized.

I didn’t know the meaning of regret

Yet.

The sumac still burns red in the purple autumn dusk

Supple breeze teases the stalwart cattail.

Choke cherry and mountain ash flaunt fruits of tempting betrayal

and in the stillness I can almost feel the thrilling and ominous

humming of steel on steel, sparks grazing the earth below

in a blazing shower of golden snow. Little girl,

tuck that hand-stitched quilt beneath your chin. Don’t cry.

The train is not really lonely at night

as it hurries by, with its long and plaintive cry.

O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.

Progress has taken it all away.

No longer feasible, is what they say,

tearing away labor, sweat and tears of the past

with labor, sweat and tears of the present.

Eyes look to the future,

and where once I counted railway ties to the sky,

now corn-fields sigh and twilight gleams upon the echo

of a young girl's dreams. Mother, tuck that hand-stitched quilt

beneath your chin. Don’t cry. Little girls still dream out to the big sky.

Janet~

An attempt at free-verse, hidden rhyme, sort of…

I have not done very much traveling in my life...yet:)

...so my initial reaction, when I saw this prompt was 'not for me', but the more I thought about it the more I realized how often a smell, a sound, a season, triggers a memory, a re-visit to those places near and dear to the heart. Last week on one of the poetry sites the prompt was 'trains'. I would have loved to try it, but could not remember where I saw the prompt. I loved watching the train pass through the back of our property.I loved its long approach on a quiet winter night, the anticipation, a thrilling rush of fear and excitement at the first distant moan, oh, so very faint, then increasing, increasing to a thundering rush of steel and whistle and bells, reaching a crescendo,then fading, fading, fading....until all was silence once more, still gives me goose-bumps. I think this is why I thought of the railway track today...

http://i1.trekearth.com/photos/52255/railway_track_in_matheran.jpg

This photo is not the actual track but I thought it portrayed perfectly my memory...the picture is found at above link.

Object of my Desire

I hear you moaning upon the dark limb

Your troubadour passion is passive and dim

Once I, delighted in your boldest vaunt

Eagerly longed for your audacious taunt

But your flagrant charm is vanishing thus

And I cannot claim one moment of us

You sprawled before me with flirtatious eye

Sure-footed, willing and ready was I

Laughing, we threw caution into the night

Imbibed with sweet nectar of summer delight

I knew you would leave; I hoped you would stay

Why do I grieve as you’re slipping away?

This morning your teardrop caressed my cheek

No words were exchanged; there is naught to speak

For Time is unable to restore to me

One moment of us or what used to be

My heart has no seasons; what can I do?

I’ve run out of reasons to stop loving you

I study the object of my desire

Is it you that I love, or simply your fire?

Is it your parting or Time that I grieve?

If you stayed too long would I ask you to leave?

I reach out to touch you; but all I can hear

Is Time’s adulate ticking as you disappear

J~

Paradox

We spend trillions

Deploying aircraft,

armies and artillery

Into a country

Goal-blast city to rubble heap

Death is an unfortunate

Cost of doing business

We look to the sky

Begging, weeping, asking why

God would allow earth-quakes,

Fires, hurricanes, floods

And all manner of devastation

As the death toll rises

And we deploy mercy missions

Janet Martin

inspired by a line in -Thoughts from the Woods by Robert F. Harrington

Beauty is Happiness

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/09/midnight-snack-004.html

Today I do not ask for the world

With a wishlist of selfish demands

I desire only life’s bare necessities

Your eyes, your lips, your hands

Life has many a beauty to boast

Some of them glorious and grand

But I’ve found nothing that moves me more

Than your eyes, your lips and your hands

A scalpel and blade, a suture, a tuck

Are not tools of beauty, my friend

If you seek it there then I wish you good luck

On a quest that will never end

Beauty is born of selfless love

It cannot be bought on demand

I’ve been beautiful beneath the touch

Of your eyes, your lips and your hands

Janet Martin

I realize as I penned the words ‘selfless love’

That is an oxymoron…

If it is directed to satisfy one’s selfishness it is not love:

On a Silent Dance-floor

The moon has climbed her lofty trail
above the timberline
It drapes its silver-tinted veil
across the darkened pine

The midnight wraps its sullen fist
around the hour of mirth
which slumbers now beneath the mist
Enshrouding climes of earth

The wind composes melodies
Soft, slow and sorrowful
Its lyric rouses memories
That time cannot annul

The river slides out to the skies
Its sultriness is gone
I wrap my arms around your sighs
I will not dance alone

Janet Martin

Barriers

There is a box
or is it a wall?
It has no locks
No form at all

We share things
a touch, a glance
sometimes we laugh
sometimes we dance

Behind our eyes
the truth implores
A vault of cries
without doors

There is a box
Or is it a lair
That guards those things
We never share?

J~.