Of Transitions and Trust

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This dust is the Must and the tester of trust

Oh, how its demons ambush and assail

Its care that we bear would drive us to despair

But for the promise that God will prevail

We grope for The Hope whereby mortal can cope

Oh, blessed assurance; this sorrow and strife

Will pass like the grass or time’s sand in a glass

This but the transition to eternal life

© Janet Martin

Praying this: Psalm 141 for those suffering in Syria and in South Sudan.

  I call to you, Lord, come quickly to me;
    hear me when I call to you.
² May my prayer be set before you like incense;
    may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice.

³ Set a guard over my mouth, Lord;
    keep watch over the door of my lips.
⁴ Do not let my heart be drawn to what is evil
    so that I take part in wicked deeds
along with those who are evildoers;
    do not let me eat their delicacies.

⁵ Let a righteous man strike me—that is a kindness;
    let him rebuke me—that is oil on my head.
My head will not refuse it,
    for my prayer will still be against the deeds of evildoers.

⁶ Their rulers will be thrown down from the cliffs,
    and the wicked will learn that my words were well spoken.
⁷ They will say, “As one plows and breaks up the earth,
    so our bones have been scattered at the mouth of the grave.”

⁸ But my eyes are fixed on you, Sovereign Lord;
    in you I take refuge—do not give me over to death.
⁹ Keep me safe from the traps set by evildoers,
    from the snares they have laid for me.
¹⁰ Let the wicked fall into their own nets,
    while I pass by in safety.

Gardener's Winter-hope Refrain...

When earth is robed in waves of white

And summer seems a world away

When hearth is warm with firelight

And skies are stoked with icy gray

Above nude tree-copse, stiff, austere

When all the flowers disappear

We do not lose our faith; we know

A garden waits beneath the snow

When dark comes early and stays late

In overtures of moody blue

The heart, a meek and muted slate

Of resolution and review

And when at last the day is born

In cold, colorless winter morn

We do not weep; for each requiem

Dawns nearer to hope’s flower-dream

Beneath the dead of winter; life

And oh, beneath its soldered deep

Faith waits; someday it will be sight

Where summer’s flower-gardens sleep

When winter’s climax grips us; cold
Spilling gray grumbles over gold

We are upheld by hope’s refrain…

Where sun and flower-gardens reign

© Janet Martin

 ...lest we forget:)

Gentle-born Dusk

As I drove home this evening I watched dusk roll over the day, like a gray-blue tide obliterating the familiar in its surge.

Gentle-born dusk rolling soft like a sea

Where workman and wanderer roam

Filling our thought as farewell fills the lea

With whispers of home sweet home

Aerial anthem, arabesque descent

Twirling, unfurling to earth

See how the hour with night-sky is bent

Over blue fallow and firth

Time is a rebel; ah nay, it is I

Fighting what cannot be fought

Gentle-born dusk rolls from gates in the sky

Over our scribble and jot

Methinks the trill of a flute drifts somewhere

Wait; or is it just the wind?

Searching for roses to place in the hair

Of someone that he cannot find

© Janet Martin

Mind-pictures

The other evening as we left on an errand I was berating myself for forgetting my camera... again.The sunset filled the sky with...wow! 'It's okay', consoled Victoria, 'just take a picture with your mind!'

'Take a picture with your mind', she smiled

So I do

Etching the profile

Of a young woman-child

Where dusk-pink

Has drenched high-noon blue

But this image breath-taking; fair

That I cradle where

Only thought can see

Is bitter-sweet

I can never keep

Its present clarity

And this picture of her

Will eventually blur

Though I stare long now

And hard

Soon it will fade

Cherished and frayed

Like a precious, lost postcard

And I have learned

Though my intent is firm

Soon I cannot find

That sharp-edge rush

As I turn to touch

Those pictures in my mind

© Janet Martin

Cutting-room Floor

The pen weighs heavy in her hand

Reluctant to heed thought’s command

As minuet and silhouette

Scatter like shards on living’s sand

And where a moment used to be

She sifts its air for poetry

An echo of a laughing child

Or haste’s redemption; tears run wild

Raging repentance and romance

Are intricately reconciled

And hope aligns with sympathy

Lacing the air with poetry

There is no ocean in a shell

No turning back after farewell

We face the morn; past’s pages torn

To drift in thought’s infinite swell

Where now and then passion runs free

Splashing the air with poetry

She leans upon her staff of ink

And where dusk drained the day of drink

Dawn breaks through bars of blue and stars

Life's cutting-room is bathed in pink

Soon it will fade to what must be

Of memories and poetry

© Janet Martin

Soft Sprawls a Lake of Blue...

Soft sprawls a lake of blue, blue sky

Above the wake of snow and ice

A startling dreamer’s edifice

or tiralee of summer’s sigh

It stirs the wanting in my eye

Love’s holding on and letting go

In subtle half-kiss notes bestow  

Its slow swan-song and lullaby

Soft sprawls a lake of bluest blue

Above a dreamer’s paradise

Where azure sanguine summer-eyes

Gaze kind on shoals of frozen dew

Cadence of winter's wanton chime

Evokes echoes of missing you

But this vast lake of bluest blue

Cradles all things lost unto Time

© Janet Martin

This Thing...part four

Where is this crooning ether-gilded Thing?

It mocks and keens our quiet coveting

A shadow or an echo cannot cloy

Or stuff the searching spirit with its joy

The sorrow-blooms of longing and despair

Have flung their broken petals to the air

And by the heath of laughter’s giddy youth

Time’s disrobed past exhales her somber truth

And still the heart wails with its wondering

Where is this crooning, ether-gilded Thing?

Where is The Thing that heals our innermost

Bereavement with a kind, quickening host

Of softer-sweet forget-ance; ere the bell

Of mourning tolls our long and last farewell

And ever-more its desperation stills

Beneath cold, folded hands and silent wills

Our vainest boast and paltry pittance then

The footfalls in a vale where mighty men

Repose as one with lowliest and weak

The Equalizer leaves nothing to seek

Pale shroud of skin veils thin the screaming heart

And where we fall and crawl, the minor part

Of our existence; hope’s immortal spring

Increases our cry, where is This Thing?

As every now and then vague glimpses of

Something not earthy stuns us; is it Love?

Confession pleads, vain farce; clanging edicts

Without This Thing which comforts and convicts

And still we strive in earnest pursuing

Where is this crooning, ether-gilded Thing?

To be loved once by Love, the great I AM

Fulfills our deepest need; lust’s wretched sham

Distracts, confusion paints a paper smile

Where disappointment lines its plaster guile

Yet we would be calloused, sadly remiss

To count our wants and shake a thankless fist

…the blood-stained God of Calvary implores

Alpha-Omega Love swings wide the doors

Of its inheritance; his Offering

Replies to our cries, Behold This Thing

…and though our shame and wretchedness is great

To call upon His name is not too late

Unless we turn our backs and stop our ears

Until that Great and Awful Day appears

…Another morning tunes our sigh and cry

On season-spangled highways to the sky

Across this sun-sod orb of suffering

We press toward the promise of This Thing

Perfected; not the cloy of ether-gild

But then, the hope of heaven’s joy fulfilled…

© Janet Martin

The Far Side of Today...

Soon, like the wayward wind

This too shall pass away

To deck the landscape of the mind

On the far side of today

Soon, like the flower thrills

Falling in petal-fray

This darling hour softly spills

To the far side of today

And soon this jeering chant

Of can’t and can foray

Will be swept up in dusk-capped waves

To the far side of today

The penmanship of Time

And moment-poetry

Fills eons with hope’s half-penned rhyme

And full-penned imagery

Soon, soon the silence tries

Those things which slip away

For even now a moment dies

On the far side of today

Janet~