Sunday, August 18, 2013

Of Memories



Tomorrow, today will be a memory. Let's make it a good one!

We cherish our own, each precious and dear
Be they ever so humble how we hold them near
Echoes of living where only thought sees
This is the treasure of memories

Pictures of spring where carefree children dance
Pictures of summer, roses and romance
Pictures of autumn; stunning middle-age
Before winter’s silver-swift turning of page

Softly the sifting of sands coalesce
Brimming with love’s bittersweet tenderness
Oh, how the moment at hand quickly flees
Joining our collage of memories

Nothing on earth can their measure replace
These are love’s offerings of trial and grace
Picture by picture fills thought’s galleries
Time-tempered walk-way of life-memories

© Janet Martin

Mother of the Bride




Oh, do not look too closely
How her filament of youth
Has drifted to the pastures
Where its prey denies that truth
And do not look too closely
Lest her smile of brave disguise
Tells of sorrow in her gladness
As you look into her eyes

Oh, do not look too deeply
She is strong but not too much
You would be her sure undoing
Troubadour of tender touch
Oh, and do not whisper softly
Joy and grief align, you know
As she recalls another bride
A few swift years ago

Oh, do not look too closely
Joy and mourning coalesce
But she wears its meek adorning
With a smile of happiness
For she too was once a dreamer
Now an ocean breaks inside
As they turn to see her daughter
To the tune ‘here comes the bride’

© Janet Martin

Beginning that mental preparation:) 




Saturday, August 17, 2013

August Poem





Heaven on earth is Augusts’ afternoon
Of cricket seraphim; sun-flower swoon
Of parched meadows primed for the draught of dusk-dew
Of harvest sprawled gold beneath dust-denim blue

August is heaven spilled gently to earth
Where hollows are brimming with wild-flower mirth
Where drifts our care; silver flecks in the sun
We count summer’s blessing slowly, one by one

August is heaven in rippling sweet-heat
Cajoling the highways and tickling bare feet
It graces the garden where mother and child
Gather the harvest as memories grow wild

August requiem, you murmur in the stream
You sigh in the willow and cry in my dream
I could not measure your peach-pungent worth
Beautiful pleasure of heaven on earth

© Janet Martin

Of Forevermore





Oh mystery, no one can see
Beyond earth’s threshold or Time’s door
Nor where this brief mortality
Will fade into forevermore
No one can tell how near or far
The road extends before That Call
But this we know; this little life
Leads to the Meaning of it all

Beyond earth’s threshold and its end
Begins this thing that we strive for
Mere mind can never comprehend
Infinity’s forevermore
Oh mystery; Eternity
No one can tell its depth or height
Its span of immortality
Perplexes our mortal sight

No straining of thought’s fantasy
Can form an image to portray
The rise and fall of timelessness
When flesh and blood will fall away
But this we know; none can return
When they have passed through that last door
To tell what joy or grief a-waits
In that timeless forevermore

© Janet Martin



It began with a box of empty baby-food jars, this conversation with Matt, our 15 yr. old son. ‘Where did they come from?’ he wondered. 'I think they were an add-on at a yard sale purchase and they ended up in our garage', I said. 
'Wouldn’t it have been easier to re-cycle?' he asked. 
 Then we began discussing the religious fervency with which some people recycle and why. We agreed that we want to take care of God’s earth, to be faithful stewards and we should do all we can, but we know this earth is destined to end. It will end and we thought, wouldn’t it be great if everyone were as zealous in preparation for Jesus and  forevermore. This life is but a Door to what existence is all about! and my heart burned with desire that everyone may know of The Way, the Truth and the Life before it is forever too late.

Then I thought of this parable;

The Rich Man and Lazarus

 “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day.  At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table. Even the dogs came and licked his sores.
 “The time came when the beggar died and the angels carried him to Abraham’s side. The rich man also died and was buried.  In Hades, where he was in torment, he looked up and saw Abraham far away, with Lazarus by his side. So he called to him, ‘Father Abraham, have pity on me and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, because I am in agony in this fire.’
 “But Abraham replied, ‘Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, while Lazarus received bad things, but now he is comforted here and you are in agony.  And besides all this, between us and you a great chasm has been set in place, so that those who want to go from here to you cannot, nor can anyone cross over from there to us.’
 “He answered, ‘Then I beg you, father, send Lazarus to my family, for I have five brothers. Let him warn them, so that they will not also come to this place of torment.’
 “Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the Prophets; let them listen to them.’
‘No, father Abraham,’ he said, ‘but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.’
 “He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’ Luke 16: 19-31



Everlasting Blue





Some questions I am loathe asking
Do you miss me like I miss you?
When we are far too far apart
Is your heart also billow-blue?
Or is it just another day
Of green and gold with bits of gray?

August is filled with cricket song
And you were gone with spring’s last snow
Future comes swiftly but the past
Reclines beyond time’s moment-flow
Where missing you is like a chant
Of blue where twilight shadows slant

The mind can hold a world of thought
Never released in written word
Strange how wind-song can break the lock
Where fondest farewell tears are stored
I trace the void of missing you
In everlasting shades of blue

© Janet Martin

There's something about cricket-song that evokes the blue in me... perhaps because it's the prelude to summer's end.

Of Heart-tugs and Harvest




 ( I always miss this after we return home, back to the rigorous and relentless rush of duty)

As morning unfolds from sky-rivers of gold
And dawn wears a garment of glistening dew
As yesterday sleeps in past’s infinite deeps
We cradle those heart-tugs of ‘missing-you’

And as the day breaks over valleys and lakes
Chasing night-shadows from earth’s avenue
As morning-song drips from hope’s refurbished lips
We sense seasoned heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

The hour of noon is upon us too soon
Laughter and loving and loss ramble through
The rooms of the heart painting life's ether art
A harvest in heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

Dusk spreads its robe over Time’s little globe
We gather, small beneath daylight’s adieu
And all we can keep as we labor and sleep
Are those precious heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

© Janet Martin

Most serious conversations happen at the most unexpected moments. Such was the case as I drove my son to a friend's house early this morning. He said he thinks we are living in Time's most wicked days so these must be the 'last days'...surely they must be, I replied, yet none of us knows how long these' last days' will tarry...and love for this boy, almost man wrenched my heart, as I prayed there and then that he may grow up strong in the Lord.





The Poet and her Pen



 A comfy chair, coffee, lake and a pen in hand; who could ask for anything more?

When she is gone from you
Or you too far from her
She bears its quiet blue
Without your written word
But still she craves your touch
For she cannot exist
Without the fearless recklessness
Of being almost kissed

You force no obligation
And she with tempered ease
Runs searching fingers over curves
Of want and memories
No chancellor condemns her
No jury sits in wait
Beneath the tune of shimmered noon
Sleeping on silver lake

She slips from dogged hours
And rigid rules of Time
As thought treads bracken-bowers
And sea-song’s rushing rhyme
She does not still the passion
Perplexing Duty's ream
Nor stems its tide; somewhere inside
She dares to dance and dream

When she is gone from you
Your absence keens the deep
Of farewell rending echoed deaths
Where formless poems sleep
Ah pen,what worlds you veil
She craves your humble due
For she is only half a girl
When she is gone from you

© Janet Martin

My family laughed long and loud when they saw my 'farewell' posted a week ago; 9and that farewell is there because when busyness compels me to withdraw I will, for a little;) But the truth is... I see and breathe a little more freely with a pen in my hand;  whether this is a curse or a blessing I cannot say.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Of Holding and Its Molding





We are born for holding,
Holding children as they grow
Holding families or flowers
But in it I’ve come to know
Sweet love’s holding is the molding
For its flip-side…letting go

We are born for holding
Holding moments, memories
But within the touching pleasure
Of love’s present melodies
Comes the flip-side of its measure
Letting go’s sweet agonies

We are born for holding,
Holding those who are brought low
By life’s keen, relentless flowing
Of loving and letting go
We are born for having, holding
And the hurt of letting go

© Janet Martin