Tomorrow...

You are the poem I will never quit writing

For I cannot see you the way I long to

Miles fill the hollow between us, my darling

And are your eyes brown; are the green; are they blue?

The words to spell you have not yet been created

Rush of the wind and sun-sparkle of sea

Dew on the midnight and mist of the morning

Kilimanjaro as dusk bathes its lea

Sometimes I picture you having your coffee

Slipping from flip-flops to stroll on the beach

But over and over though I feel you near me

You are the poem still out of my reach

Sanguine of summer and sweep of the ocean

Whisper of wanting as I feel you sigh

Samurai sunsets and love in slow-motion

Willing your kisses to fall from the sky

You are the poem that keeps on inspiring

The hunt is the thrill of it; yes, it is true

Miles cannot keep hearts apart, oh my darling

Are your eyes brown; are they green; are they blue?

© Janet Martin

To Whom It May Concern...

They are our greatest charge

Their winsome innocence

Is shaped by what they see and hear

By we, their first conscience

They are life’s greatest joy

And they deserve our best

Each precious little girl and boy

Depends on each of us

They are the best there is

Look long into each face

And never dare to choose something

That gives them second-place

They are a holy charge

How swift the little flight

From cradles and sweet mother’s arms

To forge their way in life

They are the future; oh,

Be patient, love them, then

Remember today’s children are

Tomorrow’s women; men

© Janet Martin

Oh, how often I fail, but I will not quit!

 Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.Prov. 22:6

Half of the Harvest In...

As I drove home this morning there seemed to be an urgency in the sound of the combines and tractors.  This has been a drenching fall and many fields are still waiting to be harvested. Today the ground is frozen and they can finally get into the fields.
...this half-harvested field evoked a bigger picture in my thought...

What if the Lord of the vineyard

Weary of sickness and sin

Called us to ‘Come’ and we only

Have half of the harvest in?

What if we looked up to see Him

Pull back the Great Doors of Heav'n
And then saw the fields, still heavy
With only half of the harvest in

...and what if He left while we stood there
Shocked to see what could have been
If we had not waited with only
Half of the harvest in

Janet~


 Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness.  When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.  Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.  Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.” Matt. 9: 35-38
 

A Self-help Exercise

Day 13 PAD Challenge; write a self-help poem.

Remember to
eat right,
take out the trash,
finish homework,
do laundry
pay the stash
of bills on the microwave...
remember of course
to pray
thanking God
for another day 
remember to pick up
the dry-cleaning, the kids
to pat your self on the back
because no one else did
remember to exercise,
oh, and to shower
remember to gather
for a dinner-hour
Remember to vacuum,
the house,
wash the car,
get groceries,
scrub bathtubs
oh, and rake the yard
but sometimes
when this list
feels like worn riff-raff
remember to
throw back your head
and laugh...
let it fill and thrill you
then oh, let it spill
up to the starlight
and out to the hill
feel its full measure restore
those old bones
feel how its pleasure
dissolves weary groans
Life is a list of
'do this and do that'
but always remember
to
take time to
laugh.

What? nothing makes you laugh??!!
Dare you to watch this without cracking a smile...

  

May you having a de-laugh-ful day:)

Janet~

A Self-help Poem

PAD Challenge; day 13

For today’s prompt, write a self-help poem. It can be written in the style of a self-help article or book. Or you can take it in a more subtle self-help direction.

If I help myself to the colors of love

and touch with awed reverence the gift of new day

If I pause to ponder the wonder of God

Spilling from heaven to thrill this meek clay...

If I stop to savor the air that I breathe

and drink from The Fountain we simply call grace

If I bear with honor the cross I receive

to  'fight the good fight and to finish this race'

...if I stoop to study the art of God's word

Forming the flower and filling the air

as over and over, each season is stirred

and over and over we gobble its fare

If I kiss the tender-warm face of a child

to touch the reminder that hope is not dead

If I slowly turn to see art dripping wild

From The Artist's paintbrush somewhere overhead

If I help myself to the whispers of Love

Not disregarding the things that I see

But knowing it spills from God's palettes above

Then I am a humbler and more thankful me

Janet~

 Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance?

 Who hath directed the Spirit of the Lord, or being his counselor hath taught him? Isa. 40:12-13

...to whom then will we liken God? Isa.40:18

“To whom will you compare me?
    Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One. 

 Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:
    Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one
    and calls forth each of them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
    not one of them is missing.

 Why do you complain, Jacob?
    Why do you say, Israel,
“My way is hidden from the Lord;
    my cause is disregarded by my God”? 

 Do you not know?
    Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
    and his understanding no one can fathom. 

 He gives strength to the weary
    and increases the power of the weak. 

 Even youths grow tired and weary,
    and young men stumble and fall; 

 but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint.  Isa. 40: 25-31

Midnight Minstrel

The fog and rain exchange their doldrums for a stiff northerly squall

Tonight the dark is deep and lonesome though a skiff of starlets fall

And it seems we hear the moaning of a wanderer at loss

For he cannot find the leaf-song where the willow-timbrels toss

So the minstrel of the bower takes his fiddle and his bow

Lays them down among the flowers that have shed their summer-snow

Now he turns to tune the tempest; strikes the maple mandolin

Silver sparkles ‘neath the lamppost as a throng of stars join in

If the softer strains of summer must be done, then so it be

He hails to the restless drummer waiting where we cannot see

But without a second bidding he releases want and woe

Spilling to midnight marauders a silk canticle of snow

Charm, chimera and chimney smoke and unchained melodies

Of days gone by and autumn sky slips from his lips with ease

And suddenly the wanderer has found his rightful place

He fills the air with Christmas cheer and trims the trees with lace

We snuggle ‘neath our quilted covers, close to love or fire’s blaze

As we listen to the darkness where the midnight minstrel plays

© Janet Martin

November Eyes...

I am in love with you

You make my summer-heart race

Ever the moody fellow

With ponderous, beguiling face

Whether of gaze downcast

Or rugged, or scowling or blue

I can’t help myself

From falling

In love

With you…

You color the air that I breathe

The shade of your restless sighs

Broods outside my window

Until I get lost in your eyes

Then, you spill a reckless half-grin

Tease me with purple and gold

Some days a bashful urchin

And other days calloused and bold

Summer can never compete

Matador of sizzling romance

But you spill your tears at my feet

Lure me to forgive you and dance

Poet, philanderer, rogue

What is it about your eyes?

For I cannot resist you

My darling November skies

© Janet Martin

some crazily, cool sky goin' on today;)

Of Royalty and Robes

The paling sky has flung afar

Her robe that wore the evening star

And as She tossed its shroud away

Tomorrow then became today

Yester-morning’s mystery

Is now our latest history

The boys and girls of earth it seems

Are one day closer to their dreams

And now upon time’s sheer-less tide

A virgin ream of hours preside

Before Her gleaming gown is clenched

And its allowances are quenched

Here on earth’s porch beneath the sky

Our dearest hope should be to try

To take from heaven’s out-stretched hand

Her cloth, then do the best we can

For soon her gleaming filament

Returns the threads that Time has lent

Enfolding it to Past for aye

As today becomes yesterday

 

She never wears a hand-me-down

Each day a new and unsoiled gown

We ought to treat Her Royalty

With respect and humility

© Janet Martin

 Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Ps. 90:12