Monday, January 6, 2014

Beggar's Benediction





How is it?
One click of a key
Steals your coy, half-grin
From me
Cerulean
Of summer-sky
Swept
To a bleak
And gray
Good-bye

How is it?
Coveting a page
From yesterday’s
Elusive stage
Can prompt
Quick poetry
Of tears
Or
Season-smiles
For yester-years

How is it?
One click of a key
Evokes
Familiar misery
‘Mornin’ darlin’’
And ‘farewell’
Falling prey
To the
Same
Knell?

How is it?
That the paradise
Of laughter
In a lover’s eyes
Dissolves
In oceans
Instantly
With one half-breath
Click of
A key?

© Janet Martin



Of Things Snowy and Sacred





When each tree is dressed in its winter-best
And earth is tucked deep ‘neath a downy spread
When green-sheen turns plush as a splendid hush
Wraps all creation in frost-whispered thread
When hope’s gracious Giver unfurls a white river
In snowflake fathoms of sugar-spun lace
When mortality reads God’s poetry
Spelled not with ink, but in colors of grace
We pause on its page, speechless and spellbound
Surely we are treading on holy ground


When white is a cape and the sky is its drape
As heaven and landscape coalesce
Picket-fence, pine and brooding timberline
Dissolving into amaranthine tress
Where every gust is a sparkle-thrust
Of diamond deliverance; each dull rampart
Transformed to a thing fit for any king
Who here can imitate this Painter’s art?
As each cheerless sprig is grand; glory-crowned
Surely we are standing on holy ground


When riot of red is shivered and shed
Save for the garnet of crab-apple gem
When bud bled bare is an echo somewhere
Beneath barred bastion of blizzard-hem
Where farm battle-field of labor is sealed
Seed-time and harvest in ordained repose
Soft, we recall summer’s mute madrigal
Of mist-mantled morning and dew-kissed rose
We touch the fringe of Someone awesome-gowned
Surely we are living on holy ground

© Janet Martin

We are in a blizzard warning; school’s cancelled, we are bracing for severe, maybe even record-breaking cold temps! Yesterday was much milder, perfect for skiing. Since the ice-storm two weeks ago the snow on ice has created perfect cross-country skiing conditions; all the fields completely covered.

The Mighty One, God, the Lord
speaks and summons the earth
from the rising of the sun
to its setting.
Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,
    God shines forth. Ps. 50:1-2




Saturday, January 4, 2014

Poetry...





I cannot run away, it seems
From thought to thought and dream to dreams
They swirl and twirl and intertwine
Vexatious, intangible vine
Until I set its tendrils free
In little threads of poetry

Summer, winter, zephyr and gale
Muse-metered murmur, raw regale
Of seeker, slayer, somber-sweet
Plethora of passions compete
Until I set its fires free
In picture-frames of poetry

I cannot run away, it seems
From parting’s ever-testing streams
Soon the enticement of romance
Returns its dividends of chance
And where a sad, old tear would be
I seal its grief in poetry

© Janet Martin

But this...





From yonder brink a pool of pink
Expands into a sea of gold
And none of us can dare to think
Of what this mighty tide may hold
But simply trust the One who wills
The dawn to break across the hills

Oh, who will rest beneath its crest
Ere twilight sweeps the wooded ridge
Twixt earthly sod and heaven-best
And who can know what mercies bridge
Life’s gaping void of mortal woe?
Ah this, by God’s kind grace we go

The hour consumes time’s jasmine blooms
Washing its summer to a shore
Where pantomime of season-rooms
And petals strewn across its floor
Never utter one guarantee
But this; its end, eternity

© Janet Martin

They Never Really Met...



 

He always called her by her first name
Though they had never met.
At the grocery store
or, while he was refereeing a hockey-game
he would skate over to the glass
and grin,
‘Hi Janet, how’s it going?’
She always smiled and said ‘fine’
because she could never remember his name…
He had that uncanny gift of never forgetting a name
though they never really met;
…Friend of a friend.
The other week at the checkout
he said, 'Hi Janet, have a good Christmas!'
And she said 'thanks, you too' and she remembered his name
‘Rick’.
They never really met.
They never will.
Rick died today.

© Janet Martin
 

Rest in peace, Rick.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Thursday Thoughts of Thanks on Friday...


It’s not always easy
Life’s struggle and stumble
Yet it’s these imperfections
Which help keep us humble

***
Sink to your chin
In a tub full of bubbles
Tomorrow is waiting
With a new set of troubles…

***

We cannot edit moments
They sift through our embrace
Ephemeral deliverance
Forever etched in place
So we should treat its mercy
With grateful, utmost grace
These drops soon paint a picture
That no one can erase

***
Equipped with God’s promises
Beautiful stead
We have within us
Everything we need

***
God bless the happiness of noise
And never-ending mess of toys
And heaven’s best; our little boys

 
***
Nature inspires and comforts the heart…
Each day is a canvas of Masterpiece art

***
…But no matter how many miracles fall
Babies are surely the sweetest of all

***

In the muddle of laundry and toast crumbs and such
I’ve felt the beautiful, breath-taking touch
Of something that leaves me full-speechlessly stirred
In heavens too holy for commonplace word

***
This is a Friday unlike any other
Treasure its gifted refrain
For this special Friday of virgin allotment
Will never be granted again!


© Janet Martin




Echoes of Shangri La





There, where the sea runs its melody
Over a shore of footfalls erased
Replaced, until retrospect’s recall
Is suddenly, surreptitiously graced
With keen remembrances skimming the blue
The having and holding and missing of you…

There are many ways to make love, I suppose
Samurai beaches or second mile sweeps
Where sacrifice bleeds colors of the rose
Into the wanting and waiting-drenched deeps
As hope, faith and trust tune tresses of blue
In loving and longing and needing of you…

Ethereal Edens echoing soft
Where once we danced, ere the invasion of
Moments drew us from the Shangri la
Of uninterrupted making love
Better the echo than never to know
Words to a song we whispered long ago

© Janet Martin

Recognize the beauty of love in your hand
Soon its soft echo will silver the sand…

Time's Tender Turbulence...a 'sort-of Sonnet'







We all must bear Time’s tender turbulence
A tide coursing from heaven's ether source
It gathers in its mighty, muted force
Intangible deaths and deliverance
Then rushes o’er a brink into a sea
Where oft we search in vain for its lost shore
But cannot tread Time’s spent for-never-more
And so we brace for storms that yet must be
Before the Captain guides our vessels where
Time does not hinder us from here to there

The footfall of a moment rends the air
In soundless and boundless intensity
Its dividend of brief uncertainty
Soon tugs the ribbons from a wee girl’s hair
And laces traces of silver-soft proof
Where many midnights kissed our dreams of dust
And disappointed schemes of wanderlust
Though we have ducked and tried to stand aloof
There is no bastion for fool’s lament
Where we can hide or escape Time’s intent

…so we embrace the kiss from its abyss
Storm cannot dissuade the morning sun
See how its tide, mighty yet moment-spun
Bestows allotments of heaven-lent bliss
Dumbfounded then, we cannot curse the sweep
Tugging life’s best and worst into its surge
We are compelled by morning’s mercy-urge
To love and laugh and touch and taste and weep
While moments course in river’s through the air
Time's tender turbulence we all must bear

© Janet Martin

I wrote the first two stanzas then looked up to see the Creator stunning the morning landscape with Majesty!