Where are the Songs of Spring?

Where are the songs of Spring; aye, where are they?

The notes that tune the dawn with jubilee

As shrouds of frigid respite melt away

And hope, a shrine renewed startles the lea

While we of dreams and duty part our lips

To drink the sun-warm nectar from a glass

Spilling its passion where the apple-blossom drips

Its fervor to the fresh, innocent grass

But now its naked arm is cold and stark

As day is swallowed early by the dark

Where are the songs of spring; aye where are they?

Muffled it seems by autumn’s drifting dirge

Or buried where the silent willows sway

As winter fills the air with silver splurge

The maestro of spring’s triumphant choir

Is resting now, a bittersweet repose

As we who seek the broken woodland spire

To warm our frozen fingertips and toes

Where choristers arrayed in virgin-white

Stand petrified against the onyx night

Where are the songs of spring; aye, where are they?

Where is that honey-trickle from a spoon

Where sunshine pools on moments now dull gray;

Sweet, golden luster on the afternoon?

Where are the songs of spring; the waking bloom?

The melody of bird and buxom breeze

To fill the earth, a gaunt and ghostly tomb

Of quiet homage to its memories

Ah yes, we know they wait, a calliope

Of splendor sealed as yet on heaven’s slope

© Janet Martin

Poetics Aside asks us to take a question asked by a favorite old poet and answer it in our own words. This question is a in a favorite poem of mine by John Keats entitled Ode to Autumn.

Ode to Autumn by J. Keats

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Deep in the Heart

It is so long, long ago now

Time; the great healer

Has rendered its part

But still in the waning

Of echoes and shadows

I feel your whisper

Held deep in my heart

Vexed by the kiss of a memory

Mulled by the passing

Of autumns and spring

Sometimes at night

By the soft firelight

Deep in my heart

I feel your whispering

Back when love was a rosebud

Virgin; un-weathered

Before Time’s rendered part

We loved as the petals

Fell from the flower

Shaping the whispers

Held deep in the heart

© Janet Martin

Life's Merry-go-round

poetics aside prompt; circle poem

First a smile, then ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’

And before we know it we’ve made a friend or two

But just as we begin to know more than their names

Instead of ‘hello’ it is good-bye again

If I could then I would if a way could be found

I’d grab on and slow down this merry-go-round

But we all climb back up and ride for a while

Until it’s good-bye and a farewell smile

We share our triumphs and sometimes our sorrow

Tell them of dreams in a hopeful tomorrow

We laugh together and shed tears when they cry

Then suddenly, just like that…it’s good-bye

If I could I would stop this merry-go-round

But it seems to this merciless circle we’re bound

For almost before our tears are dried

We dare to climb on for another ride

Why do we fail to treasure today?

But wait ‘til we see someone walking away

And then, how our hearts over-flow with pain

To know we may never see them here again

If I could, then I would stop this merry-go-round

But I can’t seem to bring this moving circle aground

So I climb back up, forget that I cried

Smile, say ‘hello’ and go for a ride

Janet~

One from the un-blogged archives.

Of Life-circles and Choices

 PAD Prompt: circle poem

We serve, Creator or created

Before dust returns to dust

Whether prince, priest or pauper

We must choose whom we trust

The leaders of earth rise

Transient they fall

There is One, Supreme Being

Above us all

From our very first cry

As He grants us breath

We know, you and I

Will someday face death

And as we choose Whom to serve

In life’s brief circle we

Choose not for mere Time

But for eternity

© Janet Martin

Of Flesh and Blood Compassion (edited re-post)

...when flesh and blood lies bleeding

futile thoughts against the sky

as farewell prayers, gasping and pleading

weep out life's final good-bye

...when freedom’s price is blood-bought

with a brother, daughter, son

our grief is universal

and our teardrops flow as one

...when freedom’s charge is gathered

again…again… again

we see, not their race or color

but simply women, men

With flesh and blood compassion

we implore to God above

to comfort those who deeply sorrow

for the ones they dearly love

When freedom’s price is blood-bought

charted ramparts disappear

for in death we all are kindred

and our sorrow is a tear

© Janet Martin

Is Peace Really Out of Reach?

Is there anything new under the sun?

Will ever we learn how to truly love?

Will ever there be a putting down of gun?

Love’s surest, purest part to prove

Blindly we gaze from north to south

Where autumn glory gilds its span

And while her goodness stuffs our mouths

We turn to slay our fellow-man

Will ever True Love that was spilt

On Calvary from Son of God

Vanquish the horror of our guilt

That seeps blood-red into earth’s sod

Is ever a battle truly won

Of anger, hatred, spite or wrath? 

There are no victors where the gun

Renders its deadly aftermath

Friend, enemy; are we not one

As we lie in a common grave

When our life-battle here is done

And only Love our souls can save?

Will foolish war and bickering

Forever taint this troubled berth

Of Time, ceaseless and quickening

Where love is ever its lone worth?

Is there anything new under the sun?

And will man’s striving ever cease?

Or, is earth the valley of the gun

And Heaven our hope of peace

As tiny droplets form a sea

And golden grains of sand, the beach

Ah, surely one by one thus we

Can form what now seems out of reach…

© Janet Martin

   

Of November...

Is it really there?

This sense of space we cannot bridge

Or is it the November air

Enveloping autumn’s ridge

It’s cold out here today

And I wish we were together

Is it loneliness I feel

Or just November’s weather?

Is nostalgia a color

Or just days we remember

I think it pulses

In shades of November

November has the reputation

Of being dull, dismal and bleak

I don’t really mind it darling

With your sigh against my cheek

© Janet Martin

A Little Fun with Left and Right

Poetics Aside Prompt: Left Poem/Right Poem

In this left-foot-right-foot journey

We are left with one certainty

The consequences of our action

And whatever that might be

Of wrong or right

***

You left because it was right

***

I write with my left hand

And eat with my right

Thereby to appease

Both appetites

 *** 

Left side or right

I do not care

Oh my darling, as long

As I know you are there

***

Some things are better left alone

Right where they are

***

Right after the words left my lips 

I wished they hadn’t

***

Oh God, You remain right where you are

Yet it seems you are not there

Is it I then, who has left?

***

The left-overs

Are right under

Your nose

***

Sweetheart, we have this left

In love’s pleasure and pain

The right to keep trying

Again and again

***

Right now

I left…

© Janet Martin