Harvest Time

Look up; look up, the Master pleas

A gleaming harvest waits

Oh, who will garner in the sheaves

Before it is too late

Go forth; go forth, His urgent charge

Reverberates in love

As He beholds the threshing-floor

In courtyards up above

Behold, behold the whitened yield

A precious, priceless span

Oh, who will labor in the field

To gather while he can?

Look up; look up, the Master pleas

There is so much to do

The harvest bends with ripened wheat

But laborers are few

© Janet Martin

Wayfarer of Moments

 (one could almost feel the exploding vibration of cricket-song here this morning...)

Dear little child, you don’t know it yet

A moment to you is simply a breath

A necessary means

To reach The Beckoning ahead

Moments trickle and gleam

A subtly disguised requiem

As restless you dance

To the melody of a dream

You do not hear the rush

Moaning through wildflower woven hush

Pushing to an ever-expanding hollow

Disguised by living’s underbrush

Rivulets of pleasure and pain

Course through a transient vein

Sweeping through summer’s bower

In a rising-falling refrain

Run, dear little child, run

Your intangible deliverance has begun

Into the vexing arms of life

And the jaws of the waning sun

Nay fly, dear little child, I say fly

Leap from the reels in the spiraling sky

Lest your Moment deflates

And your dream-well runs dry

© Janet Martin

Victoria is always counting down to something...making lists, anticipating...

InForm Wednesday...Trimeric Form

Poetic Bloomings invites us to attempt the trimeric form.

Trimeric is a four stanza poem created by Dr. Charles A. Stone.  The first stanza has four lines,  and the remaining three  have three lines each.   The  first line of stanzas two through four repeat the respective line of the first stanza.
The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.

Sometimes its not enough
to know you are out there somewhere
When all I want is to love you
with your whispers in my hair

To know you are out there somewhere
keens the moan of the wind
as it wanders in search of you


When all I want is to love you
I embrace the beautiful hunger
Folding it into a  prayer


With your whispers in my hair
I  hear you reply
That knowing is enough


J~

Imperceptible Transition

It’s just that way

You depart

Lifting gossamer robes into the air

Above silver-green ground

As August arrives

On your heels

Settling easily into your chair

Without the faintest sound

© Janet Martin

Over...

 With the 'mellow full-moon'  it really is a beautiful farewell party.

Leave then, leave

If you must

Over a carpet

Of cricket-tuned dust

Over the skyline

To bygone beyonds

Over the echo

Of lost, empty ponds

Over the slumbering

Wild-bloom as it nods

Over the platoon

Of  green goldenrod

Over the farmer

Who lays fast asleep

Over the woodland

Mysterious and deep

Over the moments

That ceaselessly rush

Over the mellow full-moon

Midnight hush

Leave then, Sweet July

Leave if you will

August trips lightly

Over the blue hill

© Janet Martin

Drop...

…and

the drop swells

expanding, spreading

lifting, filling, overflowing, spilling

from spoon to cup to clay pots

to puddles to pools to meandering brooks

to winding creeks to gushing, rushing rivers

to churning, surging channels to the mighty, rolling sea

to…eternity where the drop is the sea

and the sea is a…

Drop

July's Departure

I beg you to hold me in your azure gaze

Dance to a warm willow-vesper

Nurture my mind with abandonment’s blaze

Sweeten my mouth with your whisper

Cradle me where you will seal my last kiss

Gather me in your brawny hunger

Torture me tenderly in your farewell bliss

Tarry until I am younger

You know that I will not shackle the gate

I know that you must be leaving

Passion and sorrow; love’s juxtaposed weight

Entwine in bittersweet grieving

I beg you to hold me, sweet azure July

But moments do not pause or linger

Caught in a vortex of half-breaths, a sigh

You vanish on my outstretched fingers…

© Janet Martin

Preeminent Farewell

There’s a key change in the wind today

It drops from a lilt to a sigh

It clings to the tendrils of wild morning-glory

In the preeminence of good-bye

Tomorrow perhaps it may cart-wheel or amble

Nonchalantly over high-noon

Today it lingers; fingering the tassels

Of July; leaving way too soon

Long we a-wait the coveted candor

Of mid-summer’s languid kin-ship

Somewhere within its mellow meandering

Over Time’s fringes it slips

There is a key change in the late afternoon

It trickles from lintels of musk

Pooling in mouths of day-lily blooms

Then disappearing into the dusk…

Solemn, the orchestra of cricket-song

Ushers her over a floor

Of stubble and clover; while we are asleep

July suddenly is no more…

© Janet Martin