Maiden Voyage

Janet~

This Flight of Faith

This flight of fantasy will soon be fact

Yesterday’s triumph soon exhausts its thrill

To moments carving fresh modes of attack

Where morning wends its way across the hill

We trace the outline of our hopes and dreams

Sketching them on the pleasure of a thought

Before the disarray of maudlin schemes

Jars with the javelin of life’s despot

This easy flight of moments jolts our flesh

The measure of a memory probes the air

Where fantasy and faith and fact enmesh

In imminence of laughter or despair

The folly of our fumbling arrogance

Is not enough to render peace at last

Within the vertex of a moment-glance

Present annuls the future to the past

And lest the fear of it derides our faith

We would do well to reach for Mercy’s rod

Remembering ‘tis He who leads the way

As we go thence, but by the grace of God

© Janet Martin

What Are You?

for WWP Prompt

You

Are the word

That lights the flame

That vexes thought

That searches long

Its sea for song

In perfect harmony; its rush

Amalgamating with ink-touch

To spell the thought

That lights the flame

Beneath a word

In oceans stirred

To form

Its per-

Fect

Poem

© Janet Martin

Dawn's Dance-card

Come, oh my love, the sea of night recedes from ether beach

Its smattering of star and half-smile moon caught on its crest

As morning quells blue lullaby and beckons us to reach

To take her hand proffered, drawing us to living’s test

The feather-tree outside our winter-pane is in full-bloom

And I would be inclined to brush away its frigid sheaf

But we cannot haste moments nor their tasted drop exhume

In time, in God’s good time the limb will don spring’s lacy leaf

Come, oh my love, for who can tell what wafts upon the wing

Of silver-gray teasing the fainter shadows from yon sphere

I cannot bear to walk alone life’s sacred suffering

‘Tis easier to dance with your half-sigh against my ear

The willingness of clock caress compels us not to sleep

Already we can see the first-fruits of fair morning fade

‘T’would be a pity love, to miss what we can never keep

By slumbering through wide-flung frames of memories unmade

Someday perhaps when Duty-reins soften their rigid stance

Then you and I will sleep ‘til noon if we are so inclined

But until then, oh, come my love, we dare not miss the chance

To dance upon an hour soon, too soon left far behind…

© Janet Martin

We Write is sharing this video today...ah yes, let's dance to the music God gives us! Let it get caught in our toes and carry us...where? Who knows? Meanwhile, Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee!

Lonesome-ly Glad

There’s something ‘bout a house at night

Wrapped timber-dark in deeper hue

Of sequin-light and boreal-blue

It makes me feel all lonesome-like

And where the dearest place on earth

Snuggles within night’s mute embrace

A tiny love-tear warms my face

To think upon life’s moil and mirth

And how its little care is borne

On living’s highway; how at night

We crave the humble-sweet delight

Of furniture, love-scarred and worn

And tea-kettle placed o’er a flame

Small hand slipping soft into mine

As Duty eases its design

Letting plush hush employ its claim

And how we crave the lamp-lit room

The chair, the book, the cup of tea

The comfort of you next to me

While overhead unfurls the plume

Of brooding mantle, midnight-mad

Gilded silverly by moonlight

There’s something ‘bout a house at night

That makes me feel lonesome-ly glad

© Janet Martin

Have you felt it while driving home at night and seeing other houses with their lights on...that lonesomely glad feeling?!

Heartlands

Stealthy, across the snow-bound heath the dark is closing in

And silence like a frosted wreath muffles the busy day

Ah, Flight of moments, once again how subtly you wing

The hope of morn to noisy noon to brink of yesterday

As pantomime of suppertime and eventide ignite

A fire on a hearth somewhere in heartlands out of sight

From rush to hush the chanting tick-tock carries our feet

We hurry to the harbor of that dearest place on earth

Of wood and stone, oh darling home; though to labor is sweet

Our heartlands pine for family-time and hours round the hearth

And now the dark mounts aerial steep and draws the shutters tight

The hour is a thing of beauty in deep blue twilight

Time’s journey whirls in sanguine swirls and colors on the air

How easily it seems the dark slips over gold-gray-blue

As easily as youth slips through the gleaming raven hair

To taunt the man of middle-age with silver-stricken hue

The convoys of life’s moments melt on heartlands breath by breath

Riding the darkness closing in across the snowbound heath

© Janet Martin

The kids have no idea how much I love that 'gather-round-the-table-time' as I listen to the tales about their day ...

'Neath the Influence of Ink

No 'private property' signs, no fare. A pen can take you anywhere!

‘Neath the influence of ink

No blockade or broom can bar

Us from that fair and phantom brink

Where our un-penned poems are

Take me to that place, my sweet

Where Time’s field is giddy-green

We will wander in bare feet

Pen away this snow-spell sheen

Lie beneath magnolia-tree

Wade through knee-deep flower-streams

Touch the pen to paper; we

Will dance the doggerel of dreams

Kilimanjaro-height

Noon-hour on Pacific Grove

Mediterranean midnight

Morocco at dawn, my love

Summer-touch on winter-dusk

We can bear the cold, my dear

Fill the quill with moody musk

Vex the senses with a tear

Ne’er will we imprisoned be

As long as our minds can think

Life becometh poetry

‘Neath the influence of ink

© Janet Martin

It Never Grows Old

I was staring through the window, saying to myself as I watch another storm vent itself, ‘This picture is growing old!’ And in the same breath I am spell-bound as a junco battles the gale to land on the snow-drift beneath the feeder…

 No, His wonders never grow old.

It never grows old; His blue-golden-gray

Falling in pictures along living’s way

Author of everything; see how His Hand

Moves through the ages in changeless command

Stunning man’s gaze with the power of His might

Filling our hearts with love-songs of delight

It never grows old; white, scarlet, bronze, slate

Awing spectators of lowly estate

Always spring-green overwhelms white-capped limb

Pictures of wonder and worship in Him

Over and over this canvas of sod

Tugs from its depths darling portraits of God

It never grows old; briefly we embrace

Each vapor vertex of season-spun grace

Ere it slips softly into history’s hold

While a new painting has replaced the old

Drawing our eyes from the crypt of the heart

To nature’s gallery of heaven-art

© Janet Martin

 Look around and praise Him if you are well and fed and clothed enough to enjoy it! What a gift indeed to be ticket-holders to the greatest gallery of all; God’s creation.The past two days were filled with sun-snow SPECTACULARS!

(these are a couple of the 100 or so shots that I've taken in the past few days:)