Listening to the Silence

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They say that walls cannot talk
and it may be true most of the time.
It has been years since I passed the little cabin
tucked between hemlock, cedar and pine.
The windows that used to laugh and beg
are lonely, dark and sad.
The room no longer smells of spruce
or fresh paint and turpentine.
The wind moans through hollow black eyes
teasing the ivy vine
dangling in the yawn where a door once creaked.
I am sitting alone listening to the silence.

It was hot that night
and the moon was so low that the pine spires
nearly touched its lenient, friendly smile
The breeze tousled the ferns and whispered
in a reckless sense of style
as the night cajoled us with nature’s orchestra
It was hot that night and we were alone.
Too far away from home for fear
and still too close for comfort.
In the quiet I hear you asking,
mostly with your eyes,
and I hear my reply, in like manner.
I am sitting alone, listening to the silence.

Janet Martin

Melody of Hope

There’s a lonely sort of pining in the quiet dawn of fall
When the green and crimson awning of the autumn tree is null
As, in thought we place a kiss upon the meek and weathered stance
Of this brave, forlorn battalion stripped of glory and romance

Yet, the oak retains its grandeur though its vesture warms the sod
There’s a raw and naked splendor in this mighty work of God
Like a forest in an acorn or a warrior in the womb
The redolence of late autumn succors promise in its tomb

There’s a winsome sort of sadness in the silent autumn’s eve
Amplified by absent cricket-song and percussion of leaf
As the wind in rising dissonance tosses the pine-tree spire
In rehearsal for performances of chilling repertoire

Yet, within its melancholy note a stirring passion grips
The tender ache within our throat and restless fingertips
For the song of lonely pining and the sorrow in its eye
Are the soulful new beginnings of an evening in July

Janet Martin

Points to Ponder

So, where do people really go when they ‘just go away’?
And how can melancholy flow in twenty shades of gray?
Are love and sorrow intertwined; pure gold or tainted brass?
When we are old will bitter wine or sugar fill our glass?

Does joy or sadness dominate the measure of our thought?
Do we regret mistakes we’ve made or just that we got caught?
Will laughter or heartache consume the ever-hastening years?
If one should die before we wake will love sweeten our tears?

Did God make new-born babies extra-dear because He knew
That life with all its maybe’s needs a perfect smile or two?
Are wrinkles really all that bad, or looking old a sin?
If God allowed us to go back, oh, where would we begin?

Are we the kind of friend to others, we should like to have?
As brother defends brother, is there one that is born brave?
If freedom’s cost is worth the fight will we redeem it then,
By how we live upon this earth and treat our fellowmen?

Janet Martin

Avenues

The cold sky scowls and runs its icy fingers down my spine
Your memory prowls and skulks in shadows with no clear design
Gray melancholy raindrops weep from heaven’s darkened berth
To shards of summer’s withered heap and June’s forgotten mirth

Desire wanes within the clutch of Autumn’s empty shell
To crave lost passion’s candid touch imbues a silent hell
There is no window to the past; no door that we can choose
To wander in the trampled grass of bygone avenues

The tree does not become a tree by dying in the cold
And we begin who we will be long before we are old
The dreamer does not die until his will to dream is gone
So too my love for you will thrive; true love is never done

The cold sky scowls and runs its icy fingers down my spine
The blue wind howls and thoughts of you flow dark as blood-red wine
A kaleidoscope of love and grief and longing paints the day
As summer in each little leaf is coldly swept away

J~

Today is wet and nasty and cold...and 'I'm gonna cry if I want to.'
and then I'll enjoy it, perfect for staying indoors and doing things we love
like reading and writing, perhaps.
and if the sky is scowling at you, smile back! It really does feel good:)

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