Our Christmas Song (edited re-post)

Hail the fruit of Mary’s womb

In joyous celebration

Hail the Victor of death’s tomb

And hope of every nation

For this is Jesus Christ, God’s Son

He gives to us our Christmas song

Hail, the hand that held the nails

So we may be forgiven

Hail, hail His love that never fails

Sealing our hope in Heaven

Come gather ‘round and bend your knee

Hail, hail the One who sets men free

Hail, the Seed of mystery

The God who put on flesh

To walk in Love’s humility

And suffer unto death

Lift up your heart and raise your voice

Mankind has reason to rejoice

Hail the King on Heaven’s throne

The Babe whom angels heralded

The Son who passed through Caesar’s stone

Where roman soldiers guarded

Hail Jesus Christ, God’s precious Son

He gives to all a Christmas song

© Janet Martin

Of Poet's and Their Passion

 

We understand

The need to bleed

In drops of ink-shaped jot

As oft we spill

Against our will

The flow of tortured thought

We understand

The urge to purge

Through channels of the pen

And how its want

Will ease then taunt

Again, again, again

We understand

The ache to take

Life’s pain and ecstasy

Of battles fought

Within our thought

To bleed in poetry

© Janet Martin

Come, Come Sweet Virgin Day...

 

Come, come, oh virgin day

Loitering on the breeze

For soon you slip away

To tune our memories

Reveal your mystery then

Moment by moment grace

From heaven down to men

From God to our embrace

What spurs Time’s moment-hues

To pour from springs above

While we use and abuse?

Ah yes, it must be Love

So come, sweet virgin day

Canvas of want and will

For soon your songs will play

At night when all is still

© Janet Martin

Waste Not, Want Not

 

Waste not, want not

She said

as she shook the crumbs

from the bottom of a bread bag

for the birds

or her next casserole

placing the bag in a drawer for re-use

as she brought someone a freshly baked treat

Waste not, want not

She said

as she saved the yarn ends

to hang in trees

so the birds can have some color

in their nests too

Waste not, want not…

and rags were cut into strips

sewn together

and braided for mats (see picture above)

fabric scraps became comforters and quilts

for the needy

…or here and there perhaps a stuffed toy

Pie dough left-overs were scraped

from the counter-top and

put in a dish in the fridge

for next time

and seeds were collected from her garden

for next year

and empty spools were saved

for crafts and creations (see pictures above)

and she would tell me of their wedding

during the depression years

and how they had to choose

between either turnips or potatoes

for their meal

and how her aunt took a cherished vase

out of her china cupboard

and gave it to her

as a wedding gift

because there was no money

and then she would often repeat

‘He who does not value a penny

does not deserve a dollar’

She never heard

Reduce, reuse, and recycle

But she reminded me constantly

That no generation is immune

To hard times or want

As the root cellar was filled with

Preserves from her garden

I am glad to have known

This part of her

As I attempt to pass some of Grandma on

To the next generation

In waste not, want not

© Janet Martin

I am privileged to be living  in the house that belonged to one of the most beautiful people I ever knew; my Grandma.

Written for Poetic Bloomings Final Memoir Prompt

I hope to complete the memoir project this winter. They are very patient Gardeners:)

Of Beggar and King...

On such a night as this I should be glad

And so I am; but love can be so cruel

As solitude unravels from a spool

Where memories both thrill and make me sad…

The want of what is not could drive me mad

On such a night as this thought is a thief

Stealing from garden’s of repose, its bloom

I hold it to my cheek; thought can’t exhume

What Time has buried in its swollen sheaf

We gather but to yield love’s joy and grief

On such a night I would not change a thing

For dearer than love’s smile must be its tear

And Time is but the tenure of a year

Where no one is immune to its keen sting

Of being both a beggar and a king

 Janet Martin

Because of Love...

Because of Love

We cannot heedless face the hour

Not bear its tireless guilt

But by its grace

We claim the power

Through Love on Calvary spilt

Because of Love

We dare not brash or reckless be

Nor disregard its worth  

For by its grace

We are set free

In Love’s divine re-birth

Because of Love

We bear the cross of life with hope

And not with loss

For by His grace

He helps us cope

His Love conquered the cross

© Janet Martin

Drunkard's Love...

Beyond me, in the dark somewhere

He stumbles; the weight of despair

Seeks refuge from a bottle in his hand

Beyond him, in the dark somewhere

His children wish that he was there

A drunkard’s love is hard to understand

Beyond me, in the dark somewhere

He wishes too that he was there

And curses demons lurking in the night

The spirit is a warrior sleek

But oh, the wretched flesh is weak

And sometimes he is just too tired to fight

© Janet Martin

Rainy Night Santa Claus Parade

The rain lies heavy on the foggy street

And there are puddles where there should be snow

The chill drips, melancholy from the eaves

Unlike December days of long ago

When winter bullied through November’s gate

Ignoring numbers of its starting date

The late day weeps in cold and morbid flight

Hissing under the traffic rushing by

The fire in the hearth seems dull tonight

The smoke cowers beneath the sodden sky

Not like December’s of past centuries

Where footsteps crunched toward their destinies

The dusk is laden with December’s tears

It should be snow instead of dreary splashes

And Santa after many snowflake years

Sports an umbrella and goulashes

We huddle ‘neath store-awnings to stay dry

The slicker-clad parade goes waddling by

© Janet Martin

The Writer's Group will watch the parade first, in spite of the rain...