Saturday, May 11, 2013

A Poem for my Mom...The Beauty of a Mother's Love



  

for more quotes on mothers click here

How does one spell with inept word
The beauty of a mother’s love?
How does one tell of oceans stirred
Within the heart from God above?

How does one speak of tenderness
Portrayed in humble, simple task
Giving in gentle faithfulness
Beyond what we would think to ask?

How does one shape with trembling quill
The gratitude of tears and years
And prayers of Mother’s yielded will
When she was heavy with love’s fears?

How do we weave in poetry
The thoughts that have no written mold
Of human heart humility
And secret sacrifice untold?

The beauty of a mother’s love
In all its pure, imperfect form
Is perfect; we thank God above
And spell in ink, ‘I love you, Mom’

© Janet Martin

I was wishing that I could write a ‘perfect’ Mother’s Day poem for my mom. (I am a mother. I am keenly aware of my glaring imperfection.) But my love for my children, as it passes through God’s grace, is perfect. When I think of my Mother and all she sacrificed (and that is only what I could see) as she raised a family of ten children I am speechless with gratitude and I ask, ‘How can I spell with inept word the beauty of a mother’s love…?’ No, we are not perfect, but love is!

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers and those with a mother-heart!

When I was a school-girl we learned this song. This is the only print version of the song that I can find and it does not seem to be on you-tube:) ...a pity!

I Ought to Love my Mother

 




Ink-invitation



 Photo

When the urgent push of day subsides
And its remnant care waits while we rest
When flower and infant shuts their eyes
This is the hour the poet loves best

For thought is a drifter, a barefooted beauty
Thought is the hand that draws far loved ones near
And after the urgent persistence of duty
This is the hour the poet holds dear

The darkness is not a morbid, mute conclusion
Its velvet atonement spills from sable spire
Surely His goodness is new every evening
Here in the hour of poet’s desire

This is the hour of quiet compassion
Tomorrow we will be plow-men again
But this is the hour of ink-invitation
This is the hour of poet and pen

© Janet Martin

My Mother ABC's




  



Angel-in-disguise
Beautiful baker and believer
Compassionate caregiver and cook
Diligent and devoted
Empathetic, energetic
Faithful and fervent
Godly,gentle, gracious gardener
Humble, happy homemaker
Industrious
Joyful
Kind
Loving and laughing laundress
Modest, merciful meal-maker
Noble, non-judgmental
Ordinary to others, extra-ordinary to me
Praying, prudent, patient
Quilter, quiet listener
Reader,  
Selfless server, seamstress, singer
Tender, thoughtful teacher,
Understanding, utmost blessing on earth
Virtuous voice of reason
Wise, wonderful,
X-ample
Youthful, (even in her 70’s)
Zealous for God

I love you, Mom.
Thank-you for being an example that we can look to for anything!

Janet~



Mother's Hands...

 

(Yes, this is a re-repost because I know her hands still fold in prayer for each of her children and their children) Happy Mother's Day to all the praying Mother's of the world!

Not because of gold or silver
Not because of jeweled bands
Not because they’re soft and perfect
Do I love my mother’s hands
But because these hands once held me
Tenderly close to her breast
And because these hands would point me
To the path she knew was best

Mother’s hands so gladly labored
Mother’s hands so seldom still
Never seeking her own favor
Giving always her free will
But the thing of greatest beauty
As she tended to each care
Was her source of strength for duty
Mother’s hands were hands of prayer

Mother’s hands would clap to praise me
For a good deed I had done
Mother’s hands were there to save me
When my deeds had hurt someone
And my mother’s hands would teach me
What is right and what is good
Mother’s hands would always reach me
When no other hand e’er could

Mother’s hands so full of power
When her load was hard to bear
Even in life’s darkest hour
Mother’s hands would fold in prayer
Oh, no matter where I travel
Or how great the sights or grand
There is none to make me marvel
Like my mother’s praying hands

Praying hands can reach her children
When they’ve gone so far away
Mother knows that God will reach them
As she folds her hands to pray
Gracious Father, up in Heaven
Bless each mother everywhere
In each country, tribe or nation
Bless the hands, the hands of prayer

Janet~

Friday, May 10, 2013

Beautiful Blessing

Photo




You touch me and tease me
Console and cajole
You know how to reach to
The depths of my soul
I wander, I squander
And ponder your worth
For you are a drifter
Yet salt to the earth

You ravage my senses
Barter with my heart
You are the painter
Of thought’s tender art
You chatter and chortle
You plead and you moan
You flow like the ripple
Of brook over stone

You speak every language
You know every mood
You comfort and nurture
You beckon and brood
For you are a soul-mate
Of perfect passion
A river of longing
And satisfaction

 You cause me to wonder
To laugh and to weep
Your tender-sweet murmur
Will lull me to sleep
You are my hunger
And my coming home
You are the beautiful
Blessing of a poem

© Janet Martin

The Darkness...



 

The darkness covers up the hills
And fields of spring’s first, fairest green
It mutes the outline of frothed rills
And snuffs the blue from rambling stream

The darkness croons a lullaby
To those who pause to hear its tune
It trickles from the sable sky
And ripples from the crescent moon

The darkness splays its solitude
In layered shades of ebony
The rush of middle-day subdued
By minstrels that we cannot see

The darkness tucks this day to naught
A glint in history’s diadem
All that remains are lessons taught
And what we choose to do with them

© Janet Martin

Slowly it obliterated the familiar beneath its soundless descent...

When the Tea-kettle Sings




Sometimes when the tea-kettle sings
I think of life’s most lovely things
Of mint leaves sprouting by the brook
Of poetry sipped from a book

I think of summer garden-strolls
The midnight wind as it cajoles
And vexes poplar tress and thought
I think of spring’s forget-me-not

The laughter of a child at play
The whispering of willow’s sway
The pit-and-patter melody
Of rain and night-song harmony

I see the home-scenes of the past
A farm-girl who grew up too fast
Of kitten's hiding in the loft
With velvet tongues all pink and soft

I think of August's dog-day noon
The sultry haze of locust tune
I hear a tender lullaby
And baby coos of days gone by

Sometimes when the tea-kettle sings
I feel the joy of simple things
A soulful, sweet serenity
When the tea-kettle sings to me

© Janet Martin
  

Here in the Morning...





Here in this morning’s quiet hour
Where rain consoles the budded limb
And sings across spring’s verdant bower
I lift my song in praise to Him

Here in the morning’s hallowed hush
Before the daybreak takes command
And duty hands to me its brush
I reach to touch the Master’s hand

Here in the morning’s muted mist
I cannot see what will unfold
Before this little day is kissed
And tucked into Time’s ether hold

Here in the morning’s silver-blue
Where pitter-patter anthems weep
I breathe a tender prayer for you
And pray the Lord your way to keep

© Janet Martin

...often I pray the Lord to bless those who pause on this porch today. J~