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

  

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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

 

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~

Beautiful Blessing

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~