An Evening Prayer

 In St. Jacobs, Ont. the church bells peal out across the town, those precious, timeless hymns. (at 12:00 noon and 6:00 p.m.)

Dear Lord, before I lay me down to sleep

A thousand thoughts un-uttered press and plead

And though my soul is safe within Thy keep

And though I know Thou knowest every need

I have of Thee;  let me not seek slumber’s release

Without first lifting up my heart to Thee

In humble gratitude; Thy mercies never cease

In spite of vile, wretched humanity

In spite of mankind’s crass ingratitude

In spite of our vanity and lust

Each morning still Thy mercy is renewed

And love forgives our scrimmages of dust

Like dazzling dew, grace spills its mystery

In rampant glory on earth’s dark facade

Thou dost not leave us fumbling hopelessly

Lighting the Way that leads to Thee, oh God

Seasons do not resist Thee nor rebel

Nature submits to Thy holy command

Time labors on earth’s harsh four-season swell

And man will choose to trust or test the Hand

That holds all things in pure, perfect control

And though we do not do the good we should

Still, Thou hast made a way for every soul

To be saved by the power in Thy blood

The rich, the poor, Lord, none escapes Thy gaze

There is no good or evil hid from Thee

Though we will never understand Thy ways

Lord, teach us how to trust unwaveringly

And Lord, before I lay me down to sleep

I pray that all would come to know Thy love

And rest assured within Thy tender keep

Until we meet in glory-lands above

© Janet Martin

 

When My Joy-cup Was Full

…and so you slip from me

Over an ethereal brink

I place your memory

In thoughts of stilted ink

The hour where we laughed

And held each others smile

Has hastened down a misty path

Where echoes tune its mile

The folds of history

Shimmer with smiles and tears

Preserved where none can see

The aftermath of years

Yet, as I sense the power

Of Time’s keen moment-pull

I thank God for the hour

When my joy-cup was full

© Janet Martin

Today was a great day of family as my mom and her daughters (us sisters) enjoyed a day of being 'tourists' in our local town of St. Jacobs, Ontario, Canada. The above pictures are glimpses of this town as it 'used to be'. An artist is 'rebuilding the town' .

Beautiful Dance

You come to me gently

Yet with purposed intention

I covet your candor

And fear your perception

But as you embrace me

I do not refuse

Your kiss to my hunger

An invisible noose

You crease every silence

With naught but your stare

I close my eyes darling,

Yet, I know you are there

I wait for your whisper

You tenderly taunt

For you know you are master

Of my infinite want

Sensuous sorrow

Benevolent bliss

Darling, I never

Have danced quite like this

Oh, how you move me

In pure passion stirred

Beautiful dance

Of the Muse and the word

© Janet Martin

The Darkling Day...

Yellow leaves dive past my windowsill
Like drunken finches pitching to their rest
They pile in pungent layers on the hill
Where musty patchwork quilts a sodden nest
Two seasons worth the chill-wind starves and fasts
Its vigor now turns vulgar, desperate; harsh
It tugs in bullish rage fall’s flimsy mast
And decks with gold, the street, the field, the marsh
As cattails shiver in its iron wrath
The milk-weed spills to sea a silver path

Stark silence threads stripped limbs, exposed and bare
Betrayed by tresses, scattered and wind-blown
If glory to the woman is her hair
Then beauty to the tree must be its gown
The lowered sky offers no modest shroud
But rather it enhances her distress
A backdrop dark; of tumbled glow’ring cloud
Appropriates the ruddy wind’s caress
It sets against the cold horizon-line
Her petrified, yet delicate design

The pasture boasts a shrug of startled green
A folly of ephemeral disguise
Brief is the comfort of deception’s sheen
Too soon beneath an argent sheet it lies
Yellow leaves tumble to earth's ready tomb
Swift, phantom fingers pluck ragged remains
None shall escape the purple-knuckled plume
Of grumbling gale  and raw November rains
As they succumb to winter’s calliope
Waiting for Spring in womb's of quiet hope

© Janet Martin

Of a Mother's Uncertainties

That’s how they leave

In little pink mitten waves

And baby-teeth grins

To doors closing softly at midnight

Tiptoeing and dancing

Through an autumn

Disappearing way too fast

All the while

They smile

And I,

Uncertain of what else to do
Smile back

© Janet Martin

...she can laugh at the days to come. Prov. 31:25

Ink Ignition...another Fibonacci

another Fibonacci

Mute

Pen

Until

Restless Muse

Rouses the still quill

Igniting ink to poetry

© Janet Martin

Tidal Wave...the Fibonacci reversed

 image source: asugnews.com

Poetic Bloomings invites us to attempt The Fibonacci

Gregory K. Pincus created Fibonacci poetry, as a 6-line poem that follows the Fibonacci sequence for syllable count per line.
The number of syllables in each line must equal the sum of the syllables in the two previous lines.
So, start with 0 and 1, add them together to get your next number, which is also 1, 2 comes next, then add 2 and 1 to get 3, and so on.
Fibonnaci: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and 21…
Poetry: 1 syllable, 1 syllable, 2 syllables, 3 syllables, 5 syllables, 8 syllables, 13 syllables, and 21 syllables…
More Info:         http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fib_(poetry)

Night.
Dark
And still
Vast abyss
Of moonless silence
Where thought in rampant perusal
Of sable infinity fills to the uttermost
A chasm, which to the naked eye appears empty and devoid of motion or impulse
Yet surges with under-currents of potent passion
Rising in voluminous waves
Of raging appeal.
This night is
Not dark
Or
Still

© Janet Martin

Though Autumn is Folding...

There is peace in The Knowing

That in life’s keen bestowing

Whether of nature, of body or soul

There is a Keeper

Whose visage runs deeper

He sets the pieces creating The Whole

Though autumn is folding

The frames we are holding

And youth-fantasy, like its leaf falls away

Time is a teacher

An earnest beseecher

Molding and shaping our doubtless decay

There is peace in The Knowing

In life’s moment-flowing

We are not pawns in a God-game of chance

But He knows each creature

For He is life’s Teacher

He knows our hearts and its deepest intents

Though autumn is folding

To vaults in Time’s holding

And moments fall soundless; as leaf to the sod

We trust The Keeper

Whose visage is deeper

As He sets the pieces; for He is God

© Janet Martin