Winter Picnic-Table

For now

The birds may feed

Upon some drifting seed

That lodges there

Where ice and snow

And cold winds blow

Instead of sunbeams fair

For now

No bare or flip-flop feet

Will pause to rest a bit

No peanut-butter

And jam sandwiches

Enjoyed slow

As we sit

To languish in the high noon sun

Or sample summer-fare

Of garden-goodness

Freshly-picked

In sassafrass-sweet air

And for now we do not gather

At the supper-hour of day

To exchange love-laughing stories

Where the dappled shadows splay

Or to listen to the jortle

Of the robin and the lark

Sharing watermelon moments

Letting light slip into dark

No,

For now

We let warm memories

And echoes soft re-play

Over winter’s picnic table

Spring is not

Too

Far

Away

© Janet Martin

Cold anyone?
A little warm-up:)

Of Nature's Banjoists and Balladeers

This morning the minstrels deliver snow-song...again:)

Open up our eyes, Oh Maestro, open up our sluggish ear

For the piping song of nature spills into the atmosphere

‘Twould be a sin of grossest greed to blind and deafly pass

Without acknowledgement or heed, the reed that tunes the grass

The choristers of clover-mead and snow-swept solitude

The minstrels clad in sultan-thread attuning winter’s wood

The wild-bloom choir, the vesper fire, the hazy noon refrain

Of locust drone or wild-wind moan or silver-throated rain

How rare the aria  that wafts on midnight’s ether realm

The cockcrow canticle on soft and purple-misted helm

From barren branch to leaf-lace lilt; majestic madrigal

‘ere nature dons the dappled kilt of summer-song and fall

Where is the violin that vexes poplar tress and pine?

The timbrel and the tambourine attuning fair and fine

Her midnight, morning, noon alloy with stunning melody

Filling the air with giddy joy where else sorrow would be?

Oh Maestro of ten thousand, thousand orchestral designs

Dare I to breathe obliviously love’s beauty-blended lines?

Dare I to tread in blind, deaf greed this scope of snow and sand

Without acknowledgement or heed, the reed in Heaven’s Hand?

© Janet Martin

This poem was inspired by the poem below...

I have felt the 'rush' he speaks of. Have you?

Jayne Jaudon Ferrer delivers a daily highlight (aka poem) to my in-box faithfully!

This morning was one of those poems that immediately had to be re-read!

…and I thought oh yes, I know that wild and wondrous feeling…

‘F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo, 
Like dat one upon de wall.’

A Banjo Song by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, dere's lots o' keer an' trouble  In dis world to swaller down;  An' ol' Sorrer's purty lively  In her way o' gittin' roun'.  Yet dere 's times when I furgit 'em,--  Aches an' pains an' troubles all,--  An' it 's when I tek at ebenin'  My ol' banjo f'om de wall.  'Bout de time dat night is fallin'  An' my daily wu'k is done,  An' above de shady hilltops  I kin see de settin' sun;  When de quiet, restful shadders  Is beginnin' jes' to fall,--  Den I take de little banjo  F'om its place upon de wall.  Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me  In de fadin' o' de light,  Ez I strike de strings to try 'em  Ef dey all is tuned er-right.  An' it seems we 're so nigh heaben  We kin hyeah de angels sing  When de music o' dat banjo  Sets my cabin all er-ring.  An' my wife an' all de othahs,--  Male an' female, small an' big,--  Even up to gray-haired granny,  Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;  'Twell I change de style o' music,  Change de movement an' de time,  An' de ringin' little banjo  Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.  An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,  An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise  Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water  Dat was flowin' to my eyes;  An' I feel dat I could sorter  Knock de socks clean off o' sin  Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny  Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.  Den we all th'ow in our voices  Fu' to he'p de chune out too,  Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry  Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.  An' our th'oahts let out de music,  Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,  'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin  Echo wif de melody.  Oh, de music o' de banjo,  Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,  Is de greates' joy an' solace  Dat a weary slave kin know!  So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',  Dough de chune be po' an' rough,  It 's a pleasure; an' de pleasures  O' dis life is few enough.  Now, de blessed little angels  Up in heaben, we are told,  Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime  'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.  Now I think heaben 'd be mo' homelike  Ef we 'd hyeah some music fall  F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,  Like dat one upon de wall. This poem is in the public domain. Purchase a framed print of this poem. Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) was from Ohio. He wrote his first poem at the age of six, was editor of his high school newspaper, and published his first book at twenty. His writing attracted attention from the very beginning, and Paul became well-known in both America and around the world. Like James Whitcomb Riley, who was a fan of his young contemporary's work, Paul wrote many of his poems in dialect. Besides a dozen books of poetry, Paul wrote four short story collections, five novels, a play, and the first  Broadway musical ever written and performed by African-Americans. A tremendously successful poet whose work was being published in all the major literary publications of his day, Paul's life was cut tragically short by tuberculosis.

Time's Testing Tempest

Come; touch your faith to morning’s sky

Where Hope’s new fathoms gleam

Time has not shut her weathered eye

Nor sealed its silent stream

Come; mercy’s well-spring is not dry

So drink its pure esteem

For else the heart will vacant die

A pulse without a dream

What wild or wondrous joys yet wait

 Beyond this frigid rime?

Come; climb aboard morning’s frigate

We sail the seas of Time

The mistral must amalgamate

With bonny-breeze sublime

Ice cannot solder winter’s gate

Nor quell spring’s kinder clime

We cannot barter with the air

Nor weather-choosers be

And all must suffer ill and fair

Upon Time’s tempest-sea

So come; dawn spills from moorings where

Cold dark shuttered its lea

This waking dream its fruit will bare

Beneath the blooming tree

© Janet Martin

Come on, all…we can do it; Another snow day!

Dear Old Man Winter

 The drift just ahead on the crest of the hill near our house is so high that the road was impassable. Even the snow-plow was declined passage until a tractor and snow-blower could make room to push the snow back. Countless vehicles were stuck and ditched last night and this morning! A lot of roads were/are closed. We're in a little break until round two tomorrow.

Dear old man winter,

I must write you tonight

For we are so weary

Of white topped with white

The patience of patrons

Is worn to a shred

Optimism seems

To be on its last thread

For frost-bitten fingers

And ch-ch-chattering teeth

Are aching for some kind of

Sun-gold reprieve

And dear old man winter

I wondered if you can

Stray from your lone color to

Say…something like tan?

I know that you have

A reputation to keep

But look; your reputation

Is ten feet deep

And even if you let

Sweet sunshine smile

Your icy-cold presence

Would last quite a while

And we prefer highways

Black, not muffled white

Your gale is a fiend

Howling morn, noon and night

Delivering faithfully

White wrapped in white

And I wondered if possibly

There could be respite?

Somewhere it seems

In a far memory

I recall the gleam

Of a wind-rippled sea

And oceans of barley

Mornings drenched in dew

Where the lark dips and rises

Up into the blue

…dear old man winter

I will go now

Outside I hear you

As you seethe and blow

But if perchance

You’d care to rest for a bit

I thought I would tell you

We’d appreciate it,

Sun-cerely,

J-J-J-Janet~

Strange What One Can Hear at Night...

Strange what one can hear at night

When there’s nothing playing

But wind on white

Strange what one can almost touch

As the wind reminds us

Of Time’s passing and such

Strange how the wind moaning slightly off-key

Stirs things like a

Long-forgotten memory

Strange what a little wind-song can do

Rising and falling

Between me and you

Strange what one can hear at night

When there's nothing but wind-song

And firelight 

J~

Of Bard and Battleground...

The battleground where wars are waged that only One can see

Can make or break the strongest bard in unformed poesy

The tear that never dims the eye, but burns the midnight oil

Slays legions only thought descries as enemies recoil

The sword where faith and hope takes wing would falter in despair

If want were satisfied with things and fate our only prayer

But peace and joy their gifts employ in kind simplicity

Its Giver helps us to destroy thought’s evil enemy

The rogues that bully branch and bush in winter-wild torment

Recruit allies to crush the soul in bitter, vile dissent

But, though the elements unleash their raging escadrille

Thought proves where its allegiance lies when battle-cries are still

The bard must bear, unlike the rest uncommon agonies

Sometimes the air cannot attest to heart-intricacies

Word-thirsty battle-cries reverberate without a sound

Where bard and pen must mitigate thought’s brutal battleground

© Janet Martin

T'was The Night Before Superbowl 2014

Having a little fun with my friend Jen tonight:)

T’was the night before Super-bowl; all through the house

Cushions were collected for the floor by the couch

The big screen was polished with uttermost care

Then turned to be certain there would be no glare

For t’would be a sad pity to miss carelessly

The touch-down that clinches the Vince Lombardi trophy

While mama makes chili and brownies and bread

Visions of Broncos celebrating danced in her head

She was fussing over last-minute touches a bit

Making sure everyone would have somewhere to sit

When there rose in the next room a most horrible clatter

And she rushed in to see what awful thing was the matter

The room weighed with dread of an impending storm

Though the furniture glistened in fresh polished charm

There was more to the ominous, electric air

‘cause Dad, he was perched on the edge of his chair

He looked like a cross between bear and giraffe

While son was nigh purple from trying not to laugh

So with hands on her hips she demanded, ‘say, tell

What could be the reason for such a blood-curdling yell

Why the neighbors must wonder ‘bout the crazies next door’

And ‘for goodness sakes will someone tell me, why the roar?’

Then Senior stood up with an ominous growl

While son couldn’t help it; he began to howl

With laughter, incensing the victim of rage

Papa circled like a tiger prepared to sprint from his cage

Then he roared, I have failed as a father, Miz Mox

My son is a fan of the Seattle Sea Hawks

I fed him and clothed him and taught him to throw

The long kick, the tackle, interception…you know?

But tell me how could I have missed this, my dear?

Somehow I neglected to teach him how to cheer

His head drooped, shoulders slumped, ire a-spent

The grandfather clock clucked in tick-tock lament

When suddenly he rose up to his full middle-age height

‘By junipers’, he shouted, ‘everything is all right!

Bring on the nachos and chili, my friends

Because tomorrow night here is where it all ends

On Manning, on Welker, on Decker, on Koppen

On Thomas and Caldwell, on Holliday, Johnson

Bring on the tackle, the rush, the touch-down

Let Hail Mary pass be the star in your crown

For son, let me tell you, fans might be choosers

But in every game there are winners and losers

And soon you will learn it, I have no doubt

It's all over but the crying when the clock runs out

Tomorrow night son, tears will wash your face clean

When the Broncos win Superbowl 2014

 

© Janet Martin

Worth waiting for...

 Waiting for the above while watching white waves whistle and blow across a sea of snow...See below snapped just now:)

We wait long

For those things worth waiting for

Long after summer is washed from the shore

Through white winter wonderlands

Warm April rain

Until it is summer once again

We wait

For love suffers long

Holding tight to the hope

Harbored in hearts

While fall strips green slope

And winter, spring, summer

Their circuits attend

We wait

For love cannot pretend

Nor does it surrender

Its faith to fate

When the thing we wait for

Is worth the wait

© Janet~

If you use your imagination there is a slight similarity...right?