Tuesday, December 11, 2012

December's Song





It trickles in snowflake abandon
Hovering on the frost-keen air
Gentle yet urgent its anthem
A minuet; Joy versus Despair

It wafts in white, whimsical cadence
Softening in somnolent strain
Rising rhapsody of romance
A rare, reminiscent refrain

From tree-limb’s threadbare vesture
A tender mantra of farewell
Roams through the cold, barren pasture
And moans in the stricken dell

List to the song of the season
Draped in a dazzling shawl
Over life’s reckoning reason
Sweet let its melody fall

List to the hymn of December
Hope, joy and peace falling down
Ballad of love-blended memories
As another year dons its crown

© Janet Martin

More on Gifts...



 Photo

Each morning you place it before us
Soon its dark wrapping has fallen away
As we grab its lucent fringes
Often forgetting to pause and say
‘Thank you’

It’s a gift we take so for granted
Failing to cherish its worth
Bestowed in love’s tender mercy
Graciously to each creature on earth
‘Thank-you’

I see it now through my window
Gleaming with hope and grace
Down from the faultless heavens
Into our erring embrace
‘Thank-you’

For each morning you place before us
A gift wrapped in blue, coral, gold or gray
Into our arms, proven thankless
Yet gently you give
Another day…
‘Thank-you’

© Janet Martin





The Best Gift We Can Give...





We won’t find it on their wish-list
They don’t ask for it by name
But as we shop this Christmas
We should remember it
All the same

It doesn’t look very fancy
It’s not expensive, and yet
It can be the most important thing
That all too often
We forget

Because it’s never on their wish-list
We can’t find it on a shelf
But this gift is so precious
Both for our child
And for our self

It’s nice to wrap their presents
To see them dance and smile
But Things are soon forgotten
Their pleasure lasts
But a little while

Beneath the shiny paper
Are toys and treats, books and blocks
But the thing they’ll most remember
Is something we can’t
Fit in a box

It’s a most special present
They’ll remember as long as they live
For to give them our Time
Lots and lots of our Time
Is the most priceless gift
We can ever give

© Janet Martin



Monday, December 10, 2012

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

Sunday, December 9, 2012

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.


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