Untraceable

You leave no trace or footprint

No bloom is crushed in your wake

But I know you are here; I can feel it, my dear

In every breath I take

The dew-gilded dawn remains flawless

Its pristine slope bears no mark

But I feel near as you come to me, dear

Out of the thinning dark

Where do you come from and how, love?

Do you tiptoe, fly or leap?

I know you are here, for your whisper, my dear

Draws me from out of my sleep

But you leave no trace or footprint

Oh beautiful memory

I hold you my dear, in a smile and a tear

As softly you come to me

If you could see into my heart, love

Where memories wander and such

Then it would be clear, there is no spot, my dear

That your memory does not touch

© Janet Martin~

Simply... People

Some wear threads of satin and silk

While some wear plain, meager cloth

Some sip fine wine while others gulp milk

But God is the God of both

Some speak with cultured refinement

Some say ‘you is’ and y’all

But I’ve come to the conclusion

We’re simply people; that’s all

Some strut across earth’s grand stages

While others cheer, shout and applaud

Some serve in deep, hidden places

Where nobody sees…but God

Some hunt for food in the jungle

While others feast every day

With people serving people

It’s always been this way

God made both servant and master

Rich, poor and in-between

He does not love one o’er another

And none are misplaced or unseen

Then, when this little life is over

We all pass through one common door

So we ought always to love one another

For we are simply people; nothing more

© Janet Martin

 There is neither Jew nor Greek, 

slave nor free, 

male nor female, 

for you are all one in Christ Jesus.

Gal. 3:28

Midnight Marauder

Mystical midnight marauder

Creature of gossamer sway

You pluck from the sheaf of your nebulous robe

The morrow and make it today

While in this synchronized moment

Today slips into the dark

Donning yesterday’s garment

Yet snuffed like a drifting spark

Mystical midnight marauder

You never reverse your take

By replacing today with yesterday

So perhaps we could evade a mistake

Simultaneous taking and giving

Are rendered in a half-breath wink

Oh, mystical midnight marauder

You come and you leave in a blink

Tonight I stood at the window

Determined to glimpse a wee trace

Of this footloose and free-faring stranger

Of morrows and lost yesterdays

But try as I might to espy her

All that my strained eyes could see

Was the hint of somebody’s laughter

Tossing the willow tree

© Janet Martin

Reminded...

Profusion of temporal blessing

From courtyards of indifference swell

But still, the night-breeze is caressing

The wild-flower that nods in the dell

And the bud, it blooms then withers

To plant spring’s rebirth in the sod

Where feet run hither and thither

Mindless of our subjection to God

Not one sheaf has mortal hand gathered

That grew by endowment of man

No cursing nor blessing nor flattery

Can coax from the sky sun or rain

The boasts of our gracious existence

Must ever and always be

To the power and glory of He who abides

In spite of our laxity

God, deliver us from the temptation

To pine for what we cannot see

Lest we fuel holy indignation

In our blind and covetous plea

Cricket-song fills the dark valley

Mercy fills clay pots and bowls

And eternal blessing fills the universe

With hope for our undying souls

© Janet Martin  

I included the bottom photo because it is that book that is re-reminding me how to live thankfully right where I am. Thank-you Ann.

Best Investment

We lay in an ocean of purple

Gazing at cloud-ships sailing by

Then watched as the red sun slipped away

To dawn in a distant sky

We talked or simply listened

To the cricket symphony

As twilight washed in around us

In coral tranquility

We strolled along wind-tossed fences

And talked about life and such

She told me she wishes she could see

Beneath our foot-step’s touch

‘if the dirt would be clear, she pondered

As clear as a sheet of glass

We would see what we now only wonder

Of what is hidden beneath the grass…

And we could see all these crickets

Where they burrow to go to sleep

The worms, the bugs and beetles

Living in soil retreats…

…and we chattered about little nothings

Though they were not really ‘nothings’ at all

As she asked me what I liked when I was a kid

So I do my best to recall…

And I realize my memories

Are warmed by the wonderful touch

Of seemingly everyday moments

When we were doing ‘nothing much’

Because my dear mother knew the importance

Of Time; how it runs free and wild

But never a minute has been wasted

When it is spent with a child

 © Janet Martin

A little re-cap of last evening:)

Time-travel

There is an ache akin to grief

As you slip from me

Like a rain-drop from a leaf

To never-more-will-be

Ethereal droplets

Miniscule spheres

Too sheer for texture

Yet the timbre of years

I cannot feel you

Nor hold your glance

You come and you go

In an invisible dance

Ephemeral morsels

Are they jewel or stone

As they rest in a vault

Where the unknown is Known?

There is something akin to longing

To fill you with much

More than my floundering

As you slip from my touch

…into an ocean

Where past-scapes expand

In the trickling of moments

Slipping from my hand

© Janet Martin

 

A Poet's Lot

We do not ask for this

Beautiful torment

This dangling distraction

Of vowels and consonants

But we are lured and lavished

With their mystery; we are stirred

As we hunger to be ravished

By the perfect blend of word

And we cannot stop the whisper

Or the taunting of their mien

Are we servant; are we master?

We care not; but we are keened

For the taste of ink-filled fire

Ravaging the mundane blue

As we dance with the desire

Just to pen a line or two

Or three or four or perhaps twenty…

Look; who’s counting? matters not

As we strive to spill on paper

The hard-copy of our thought

As we dare to spill on paper

The hard-copy of our thought

This is our belov-ed labor

And it is the poet’s lot

This blessed, begging torment

To be word-smith to a thought

© Janet Martin

Somehow when I dip my hands in the sink, the scrub-bucket, the washing machine I pull out…a thought! This is the first day of ‘quiet-house’ all summer.

Jubilant Jading

It’s summer-soft; the subtle jading

Like the stealthy brush of age

As we behold the purples fading

From the crest of strife and sage

And the tides of rushing emerald

Ravishing the breadth of June

Have slowed to golden-umber

Like warm honey from a spoon

Now the breezes pause to tickle

Milk-weed plume and golden-rod

Now the brook is but a trickle

Where the fern and wild-bloom nod

Now the girl becomes a woman

Now the rebel sees the truth

It evades the might of human

To dissuade the thief of youth

How this season bends with beauty

Spring is but the bud of prime

As the fruit of love and duty

Yields a goodly harvest-time

Now the earth-scape is an orchard

And the orchard but the scrim

That veils the resting-place of seasons

Leading ever up to Him

© Janet Martin

I was out just now to drive my daughter to a birthday party....the day and the landscape felt like warm honey...golden and sweet. I hope you have a happy August day!

Thank-you td:)