Of Seasons and Purpose...a Sonnet

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Seasons; the filament of mortal year

Four-season worth and never more or less

The palm on which we lay our toil and tear

A cradle for our grief and happiness

Four quarters make a whole, thus nature’s course

Of seasons flow, not by human design

Beneath this universe a Mighty force

With naught but thought, these galaxies align

As we submit; for none dissuades the tide

Of Time’s incessant ever-forward stride

What lies beyond this cosmic altitude?

…off-spring of Adam’s marred and sullied bliss

Why is the spirit shaken and subdued

As we behold life’s dust-fraught wantonness?

The beauty poured against earth’s frigid sod

As spring imbues its budded tendril; hope

And hope yields harvest if imbued by God

Returns at last to fill this earthen scope

Seed to the soil; proprietor and slave

Sleep side by side within a common grave

What is the purpose of the boasts of men?

What is the point of life when it is spent?

Is it the hope of three-score-years and ten?

Is this the pinnacle of our content?

And when we lay aside our gathered worth

To fold our hands upon a lifeless breast

Is this the sum of it; as cold, hard earth

Reclaims our empty shells of nothingness?

Is the allotment of our labored breath

Simply a forward tumble to our death?

Four season’s worth; these are the fronds of dust

The purpose of life’s gift we cannot grasp

Within the greedy fingers of our lust

But with the eyes of faith its truth we clasp

For Immortality put on a man

Creator bore the robe of servant-hood

As perfect love endured His Master-plan

Securing hope for sinners through His blood

We are not victims of four-season sod

Bought with a price; we are the heirs of God

© Janet Martin

...and this is the Living Hope which imbues duty with beauty, pain with gain, daily strife with Life .

Amazing Grace

Moody and Vexed

Twilight descends in layered blue

Quite befitting, I suppose

For it arouses thoughts of you

So far away and yet so close

In remnant wisps and twists perplexed

Tonight the sky is moody; vexed

Time is not tangible to grip

And yet I feel it amplify

That space beyond my fingertips

Broadening twixt you and I

In remnant wisps and twists perplexed

Tonight my heart is moody; vexed

The evening sky is sullen; still

In solemn robes of cobalt hue

It draws you close against my will

And I succumb to missing you

In remnant wisps and twists perplexed

The evening air is moody; vexed

© Janet Martin

The heavy quiet tonight feels like the evening is mourning
the swift passage of summer...
...and life

J~

I Won't Forget You  Jim Reeves

Collections...

Some collections we store on shelves

And some we place in bins

Or baskets or crocks or wine-racks

If the collection is rolling pins

(for those who’ve wondered how to display them:)

…I have a rare collection

Portraits of priceless art

I preserve their perfection

Safely in my heart

 Picture perfect memories

Collected lovingly

Placed on walls within my heart

To keep me company

God, let me make each moment

A priceless work of art

And one that would be fitting

To store within my heart

© Janet Martin

Simple Pleasures

There are many pleasures

This world would suggest

But I love the measure

Of simple things best

I love the reprieve

Of a garden nook

With a cup of tea

And a poetry book

I love to yield

To guilt-free temptation

Strolling a field

On a mini-vacation

…beneath blue-sky canvas

Of cotton-tuft art

While sun-flower glances

Soften my heart

I love the music

Of walnut tree sighs

Etched in perfection

Against summer skies

Of all the fine pleasures

This world would suggest

I love the measure

Of its simple things best

© Janet Martin

A Country-summer Morn

 This morning from the deck...

Blissful threshold

Brink of dawn

Sea of diamonds

Grace the lawn

Soft breeze strums

The misty morn

Of honey-wheat

And tasseled-corn

Green-gold patchwork

Quilt expands

From the Giver’s

Gracious hands

Tender salutations

Pour

Lavishly

From heaven’s door

As croon of

Dove and meadow-lark

Tune with joy

The thinning dark

While farmer’s rise

To face the test

Of faith and toil

Before harvest

And in the stall

The cattle lows

And in the field

The clover blows

While in the air

Its heady scent

Culminates with hay

Pungent

Aroma, pure
And nature-drenched
...the thirsty summer-soul
is quenched

Blissful threshold

Lily-clad

Rejoice, rejoice this day

Be glad

© Janet Martin

Park Street in July

 

‘Granny-patches’ Grandma says

‘Going to be a cushion for you…

To remember me by when I am gone’

Every July the maple-trees

Transformed the sunny street

Into an enchanting corridor

As overhead verdant arms would meet

In a summer-long embrace

Every year I returned

A little older than the year before

But never too old to play with the antique bell

On the wooden front-door  

Or to politely sip Grandma’s tart lemonade

From the painted blue porch-step

In late-day shade

Hating and waiting for the snob next door

To walk by and stick out her tongue

A ritual since we were very young

Across the street Holly’s mother yells ‘supper’

The screen door slaps…twice

Once for *Holly, once for *Jack, her little brother

Who got spanked an hour earlier

For spilling his Dad’s ice-cold beer

And poor Jack’s wails

Split the sultry atmosphere

Of sun-dappled sidewalk

And *fried chicken

Grandma's rocker just kept on creakin’

While her fingers and crochet needle flew to its rhythm…

‘Must be going to rain,’ was all she said

‘I can feel it in my rheumatism ’

And I twirl a honey-colored braid

Wishing the yarn was any other shade but

Gold, dark brown and beige

‘Granny-patches’ Grandma says

‘Going to be a cushion for you…

To remember me by when I am gone’

Once more I politely say ‘thank-you’ and turn

To count fifteen

…that’s how often Crash has cruised

The main street

Showing off his new-used Comaro
With a modified muffler

And keeping a sharp look-out for

Girls

Crash, with his big afro-curls

His name isn’t really Crash

It’s Hank, but everyone calls him Crash

‘Cause he’s had a few

Girls, that is

Tomorrow we’re going to walk to the market

Slowly, up the shady street

The girl with the honey-blonde braids

Beside the grandma with her nylon kerchief

In July, and her shiny satchel

Swinging lightly from her dimpled elbows

…off to get the usual

Cheese curds and sugar-rosettes

© Janet Martin

Writer's Unite homework Assignment:  Homework = Small town living - write a poem, story, song...describing some aspect of life in a small town. 

Every summer I had a wee taste of small-town life when I visited my 'town-grandma'.

This 'poem' could have been a mile long; so many memories to choose from.

Thanks Glynis, for this assignment. It was so much fun. I have not recalled some of these memories for a long time!


*names have been changed out of respect for each one's privacy.
* there was a Kentucky Fried Chicken Restaurant at the end of the street. 

A Good Place to Be...

Tomorrow’s forecast is doleful

The future-predictions bleak

I don’t really like to think about

The tomorrow of which they speak

They say darker days are coming

I’m tired of ‘they say, they say’

And oh, I’m so very thankful

That I live in Today

'Do not worry about tomorrow'
Its fears are as ancient as dust
Greater than all our tomorrows
Is the God in whom we trust
The unknown lies before us
Who knows its 'what if's' or 'what mays'?
Only One; He watches o'er us
In all of our 'Todays'

© Janet Martin

 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, 

for tomorrow will worry about itself. 

Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Matt. 6:34

Of Bubbles and Troubles

Soon this bubble

Of toil and trouble

Will meet a bubble’s fate

We ought to say

What we wish we would say

Before it is too late

Don’t let the trouble

On this earth-bubble

Rob you from love’s precious smile

Life is a glance

Of fleeting chance

So let’s make its moment worthwhile

© Janet Martin