Non-optional Juxtaposition

We are teachers;

We are students

Someone is watching

when we least expect

Action is speech

It tests our fluent

creation derived

of alphabet

Action is merely

a thought’s reflection

Thought is formed

by what we absorb

We teach while we learn

A juxtaposition

of far-reaching impact

we cannot ignore

We are teachers;

and we are students

No one escapes

this practical truth

We are never too old

to cease our learning

yet we become teachers

in tender youth

…for there is always

somebody following

observing the choices

we thoughtlessly make

Action speaks volumes

Love and compassion

are beautiful legacies

we cannot fake

Action is merely

a thought’s reflection

The wise man endeavors

to keep this in mind

for when we don’t expect it

somebody is watching

and thought is the medium

in which character is defined

We entertain

either angels or demons

in thought’s mystic cell

where only God can see

But sooner or later

as thought becomes action

Truth is revealed

In clarity

© Janet Martin

Mary's comment bears repeating!

...So true, Janet. We probably teach many in our lives when we don't even realize we are teaching! And many who are our teachers don't realize their role for us either. And then, of course, there is the Great Teacher who teaches the greatest lessons of all.

Settlements~

 Image Source; Clark Little

We settled back against the night

Drinking in the luxury

Poured from the flask of half-moon light

The wine of blue tranquility

We did not speak but understood

Instinctively the others thought

Oh, I would hold you if I could

But I am here and you are not

J~

Life's Sweetest Luxury

 

I have known life's sweetest luxury

Child's hand in mine

Asking for nothing more

I have known life's greatest entrustment

Child's hand in mine

Asking for nothing more

Janet

Of Gray or Golden

We cannot beg the little day

To add another hour

We cannot plead the bloom to stay

When it has ceased to flower

We cannot urge back to the stem
The petal that has fallen
Or taste youth's fair springtime again
To dodge the grip of autumn

We cannot un-speak uttered things

When it has once been spoken

Nor undo yester’s offerings

Of moments bent and broken

We cannot return to the past

To touch the gray or golden

But we can give our utter-best

To moments we are holding

© Janet Martin

Timeless Madrigal

No instrument, minstrel or crooner

Can imitate, or compete

The low, melancholy languor

Of this melody, tender-sweet

Into deep-hushed charcoal hollow

Over moon-gilded plateau

It rises and falls at my window

Now restless, now moody, now slow

No violin quickens the pulses

Like its haunting madrigal

A ballad of longing and losses

Wanders earth’s somnolent hall

It curves quickened notes in an ocean

Clutching love’s bitter-sweet thought

A solo of dissonant emotion

Soothing, yet searing the heart

There is no other song equal

In lyric, in measure or rhyme

No composition to rival

This hymn since dawning of time

Over the graceful willow

And earth's silver-blue diadem

Over the tear on my pillow

Croons the wind-song of one a.m.

J~

The Best Medicine...

Laughter…the best medicine

Hubby just called…

Here it is going to feel like 34 degrees Celsius today,

Jim is in Sask. He woke up with snow on the hood!

Apparently, according to the farmer he loaded at…

The way to happiness is…

You want just enough money to get by and lots of laughter.

He told Jim he knows of a farmer last year who collected flood and drought insurance…

This farmer is 5’3” and said he is still waiting for his growth spurt.

Their daughter is not growing very fast so the Dr. ordered them to see a specialist to discuss hormone therapy. When they arrived at the Specialist he took one look at the parents and said, ‘he doesn’t know what DR, they are seeing or what he is telling them but you can’t make rats out of mice!’

Janet

Over Yonder

Over yonder the little stream

Where once I used to play

Or sit upon its banks to dream

Like years, has seeped away

The frolic of the water-fall

Is but a sluggish drool

Where cattails drink its umber gall

And reeds the remnant pool

Over yonder the willow tree

That leaned, like daring child

Across the stream, is history

It’s grave, overgrown and wild

And over yonder the little girl

That wandered on its shore

Watches her own wee daughter twirl

Across the dreamer’s floor

Over yonder the little stream

Where swallows dive and dip

Revives the echo of a dream

In moments as they slip

Silent; the ebb of subtle tide

Flowing toward a sea

Where Time relinquishes its stride

In vast eternity

© Janet Martin 

...a few weeks ago I took the little guys to the creek where I loved to wander and play as a child. It was bitter-sweet, this vaguely familiar yet strangely foreign place. I recall my grandfather commenting as we took him to a place he used to work at that 'it just isn't like it used to be'...a four-lane highway ran through the 'place he was looking for'. I remember feeling sorry for him and wondering what that would feel like ...slowly I am beginning to understand.

When we were kids the cattle still roamed through streams eating all the over-growth on the banks etc... that is now illegal because they are concerned about the quality of our drinking water...e coli, and other bacteria.. Many creeks are now over grown with brush.

Wealthy...

Is any wealth richer or grander than this?

The soft breath of dawn on night’s dark abyss

The wind as it chases through steeples of grass

Or dances on ball-rooms of sea-tempered glass

Wild-apple jewels on scraggy-cut limb

The timbre of reverence in twilight’s soft hymn

As far on the skyline each tree is a tower

Etched in precision like a delicate flower

The bird in the bower, the pale, new-moon wraith

The innocent wonder of a child’s perfect faith

The bumblebee hovering o’er delicate bloom

Drunken with nectar from spring’s heady plume

The patchwork of shadows, warm memories to hold

The sway of the willow-tree feathered in gold

The bronze-burnished blush in the waning of day

The impromptu hush as the wind drops away

Then let miser’s covet the fruit of the purse

Money and the love of it is but a curse

Genuine riches leap from vaults at hand

Sapphire-blue heavens over silver-white sand

Ruby-red rose and emerald green hill

The echo of love when the hour is still

For true wealth is found in a moment’s essence

Its treasure is free to both pauper and prince

© Janet Martin