Saturday, May 26, 2012

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

Friday, May 25, 2012

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.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

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