Fair-weather Friend

You seemed so small and miniscule
Too trite to mind or fear
I rather liked your vestibule
Of non-committal cheer
No rules to which I must conform
No lesson to be taught
But simply leniency and charm
Within your idle thought

You made no list of goals to reach
Offered no reprimands
No sweat and tears did you beseech
Nor labor from my hands
But strove to lure me from the desk
Of wisdom’s finer school
Assuring me of happiness
In musings of a fool

You did not scold nor did you praise
But offered me instead
The very best of all things base
To soothe deception’s lead
How cold, infatuation’s end
How sad its lesson taught
A loathsome and fair-weather friend
This thing called idle thought

Janet Martin


Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

What Then?

I think perhaps I’ll go fishing today
Or maybe I could watch the Yankees play
I could stay home and read a good book
Or I could go on-line and take a look
Household duties firmly, kindly beckon
I should tackle those jobs first, I reckon
I could call a friend, ask her out for tea
Or simply stay indoors and watch TV
I could teach my baby to count to ten…
I could write a fine novel, but what then?

I could climb mountains and stand on their peaks
Or become famous by mere words I speak
I could ride tall waves, have a reckless time
Be noted as brave for walls that I climb
I could be lazy or shallow or bold
Or focus on gleanings in pastures gold
I could hoard pennies, a miserly fool
Or gain great knowledge by staying in school
I could be remembered a while ‘mongst men
For some great accomplishment, but what then?

When the curtain falls on life’s final scene
When my Maker calls and I hear my name
When I stand at last as all men will do
When life is past at my final adieu
When I leave my shoes on eternity's shore
And He reads my reviews at Heaven's door
What will He see as He takes a long look
At pages I’ve written in my life’s book
As I look at Him and He holds my hand
Will this life have been worth it; oh, what then?

Janet Martin

I re-vamped an ‘oldie’ from the archives,
Remembering it when I saw the prompt, The Show Must Go On…

Observations...

http://ellasedge.blogspot.com/2011/10/what-do-you-see.html


I was inspired by the above post...


I see the wind, its sorrow weeps
On autumn’s tear-stained face
And valiant blooms in ragged heaps
Return to their birth-place
The echo of a jaded love
Lies silent now and still
As summer sleeps in tattered heaps
Against the stricken hill

I see the joys of girls and boys
Abandoned in their flight
And all the music we called noise
Now somehow seems just right
They fly away on wings of play
Like birds, answering a call
And far too soon June’s afternoon
Succumbs to tides of fall

I see the years in tender tears
And hurried moments pass
Too soon the vibrant bloom appears
Too soon it dusts the grass
Too soon the limb of summer’s hymn
Extols its sad farewell
As I embrace the time and place
Where once our shadows fell

J~

The Show Must Go On

http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/2011/10/carry-on-tuesday-127.html


The show must go on
The play in our palm
Is not quite written yet
The show must go on
From dusk until dawn
And all through the day ahead
When our Maker calls
And the curtain falls
Will we hear the angels applaud?
As gladly we rise
To accept our prize
Safe in the arms of God

Janet

It's You

It’s an ache in my chest that will not go away
It’s a soft blue caress when the skyline is gray
It’s a whisper of hope when I feel like I’m through
It’s you…

It’s a smile on my lips when my heart’s in my throat
It’s your warm finger-tips beneath winter’s harsh coat
It’s the long in love’s suffering, yes, that is true
It’s you

It’s the want in my wish, love; the song in my dance
It’s one thing I am sure of in life’s game of chance
It’s a heart full of laughter though bills are past due
It’s you

It’s the breeze that blows troubles like bubbles afar
It’s a piece of my childhood, like evening’s first star
It’s everything that I dream of coming home to
It’s you

Yes, it’s you, little girl
Little bright-eyed boy
Life’s smile in the world
Love’s heart-beat of joy
It darling and beautiful
And so precious too
It’s everything wonderful
It’s you

In Poetry and Love...

I know, sometimes I use words that I should not
Words that finer poets of today simply would not
Taboo subjects seem to be discarded or ignored
Taboo to whom I wonder; then what is the truth for?
I cannot let my Fear of the mighty Unknown dissuade
my love for you; nor let it undermine the poetry we’ve made
Prime-ministers and presidents and kings are merely men
Their offices and roles relinquished time and time again
Rain washes the earth; as confession does the soul
When I am all alone with you, eternities may roll
For I begin to realize how, in love’s subtle way
Ten-thousand years might easily dissolve in one half-day
In love and poetry for me there are no laws to break
I wish that you were here with me for love and prose’s sake
Yet with this passion I am never really all alone
For you are in my heart, love, and God is on His throne
Prayer does make a difference; if I just let go and trust
Faith small as a mustard seed can reduce rock hills to dust
I cannot see God or the wind, but still I know
They are in the faithful dawn and in the breeze that blows
Taboo excuses faint of heart and weak;
I believe we find the answers if we dare to seek
In poetry and Love we find the Truth
Ah, methinks these well may be the fount of virtual youth
I know, sometimes I use words that I should not
It is hard to tether or control the flow of thought
Love is not a feeling or a thing produced by men
Poetry is not concealed within a lowly pen
I believe in sacred Power from above
And there is really no taboo in poetry or love

Janet Martin

Haunted

The moon hung low outside my north window
Before the deep sky swallowed it up whole
Barring the lucid eye to midnight’s soul
Bustle dies beneath night’s giant shadow

The ragged tree offers no resistance
To breezes tugging at her faded dress
Silence weaves a somber cloak of darkness
Tonight the leaves are too heavy to dance

The stage, weighted with rain and sullen wind
Is perfectly arranged, my dear, for you
Hov’ring like silver threads of frozen dew
Elusive yet so heavy on my mind

The moon hung low outside my north window
The greedy sky snuffs out its valiant spark
I cannot see you for it is too dark
But I feel you shivering in the shadow

J~

Old Man

He sits in his chair by the window,
And watches care-free children at play,
Listening to the sound of their laughter
As in it he is carried away,
Back to the days in his memory,
And oh, its tender music is sweet,
Before silent years when he’s simply
The old man who lives down the street

Once he was that boy on the sidewalk
So full of endless vigor and vim,
Spending happy hours on the ball-field,
Playing until the daylight grew dim,
The laughter drifting through the window
Could well be his friends as they’d meet,
Never dreaming someday he would be
The old man who lives down the street

He studies the faces of young love
Arm in arm they go, strolling by,
And he smiles in wistful reflection
As a teardrop escapes from his eye,
For he too was once a young lover
With many a fair girl at his feet,
And his youthful dreams never pictured
A lonely old man down the street

He sees weary mothers and daddies
With lively dear youngsters in tow,
Their chatter and quarrels and laughter
Are just as they were long ago,
When all of that clamor was heaven,
To be busy and weary was sweet,
Now he rocks, alone in the silence,
An old man who lives down the street

He remembers the hours of working
With a family to feed and to teach,
Bills over-due and dreams waiting
And one always out of his reach,
Mindless of the years as they flew by
Filled up with endless dead-lines to meet,
Too busy to think of an old man
Alone in a house down the street

Now he sits in his chair by the window
And watches people hurrying by,
If you stop you would see him smiling,
But often with a tear in his eye,
For everyone is still so busy
With too many a dead-line to meet,
No time to sit down just to visit
An old man who lives down the street

Janet Martin