Song of Grace

How Great Thou Art Alan Jackson

But by the grace of God go I

See how the rain falls from the sky

See how the spring time spawns new birth

How summer wheat leaps from the earth

Humbly, I lift my voice and cry

But by the grace of God go I

But by the grace of God go I

See how the fledgling learns to fly

See how the baby learns to walk

How corn hangs heavy on the stalk

And all that I can do is cry

But by the grace of God go I

But by the grace of God go I

We are born, we live; we die

The only boast within life’s hour

Is what is rendered by His power

As we join nature’s hymn to cry

But by the grace of God go I

© Janet Martin

The Poet's Pen

The poet’s pen

Is filled with blood

And stars

And flowers and tears

It spills

According to the mood

Of Muse

Or tilted spheres

The poet’s pen

Is like a knife

Or scalpel

Ruthless; keen

It slices through the outer flesh

To hearts

And scars

And dreams

The poet’s pen

Can be a curse

Or a divine-breathed quill

It shapes dull letters

Into sobs,

And aches

And chills

And thrills

The poet’s pen

Is filled with lust

For all unwritten things

It tears man’s longing

From the dust

It wails

It sighs

It sings

The poet’s pen

Is filled with blood

The tears of heart and soul

And oh, the passion

Of its flood

When it

Loses

Control

© Janet Martin

Pen and I

…and so we dance

On some days bold and sure-footed

On others

Trembling; uncertain

We trace the landscape

Of time and experience

Or inexperience

Always searching

For what lies

Behind those eyes

Beneath the smile

The skin

Sun-warmed 

The earth

Knowing in the end

Our dance will be

A configuration of curves and lines

To spell a poem

© Janet Martin

Of Ticks and Tocks

It ticks away

April then May

Fair June, dashing July

I cannot thwart

Its cool cavort

Into the by and by

It ticks away

Silent sashay

Moment to memory

Only God knows

How far time flows

Until eternity

© Janet Martin

Yesterday I laid in the backyard for a long time with a book and a camera...the sky was a constant slide-show of texture and change...and that's how and where the summer goes. I determine to slow the rush, absorb the hush of sunshine sultry-sweet...too soon the clutch of Autumn's touch will dull its rippling heat!

International Housewives' Day

Today is International Housewives’ Day

We will acknowledge the domestic ranks

For months and years and centuries

They have toiled with paltry thanks

Many are ignorant of her worth

They spurn the thought of mundane chores

Considered low-balls of the earth

Fit for cleaning drawers and floors

Orange rind from the coffee table

All the clutter as it falls

They think that she is merely able

To wash dishes, clothes or walls

But this is International Housewives’ Day

So we will shout her accolades

Eternity will owe her pay

For all the beauty she creates

She fills a home with simple joy

Not for monetary wealth

But for the love of girl or boy

For home and happiness and health

She toils in sweet obscurity

Subtracting nothing from her worth

No sting of shame encumbers she

For housewives are salt of the earth

Here’s to housewives the world over! Cheers!

© Janet Martin

Sunday Whirl

 

I Love July

I love July

Her cerulean eye

Embroidered gold

Against the green

I love the sweep

Of azure deep

The sultry fold

Of midday sheen

I love the blush

Of late-day hush

The garden brimming

With its laud

As seed and root

Become the fruit

In gracious giving

From our God

I love July

I laugh, I cry

I dance and hold

Its music near

For this I know

Too soon the glow

Of blue and gold

Will disappear

© Janet Martin

Perhaps It Is Nothing...

Perhaps it’s the perfection in the azure of blue

Or the way the clouds wander and tumble awry

That reminds me so keenly of how I miss you

And of how times slips so quietly by

Perhaps it’s the fabric of mid-summer bliss

Perfect and sheer and transient at best

Perhaps it’s her sultry and wanton caress

That stirs the missing you deep in my chest

Perhaps it is nothing; or everything lost

That suddenly clenches my innermost part

Perhaps it is simply surreal oceans tossed

In unfathomed reaches concealed in the heart

J~

Gracious Insufficiencies

Of things too near and dear to me

It seems I cannot speak

Or breathe its form in inept verbal art

I tremble, for the pen I hold

Is powerful, yet weak

Too weak to spell the silence of the heart

Though pulses throb with quiet want

To spill its candid draught

The pen obeys the movement of the hand

The words I crave dangle and taunt

Unformed within my thought

Sealed just beyond my beckoning demand

Perhaps there are no syllables

To shape our deeper pines

Is this life’s gracious insufficiency?

Perhaps it is enough for us

To read between the lines

And understand what word can never be

© Janet Martin