Our Hour Glass

Time does not rhyme, Morning to Night

Follow each other too swift

From sight and far too soon

The afternoon of

Twenty years just

Disappears

Where once

Deceived, we

Believed

Twenty years

To be

An eternity

But now

We see

Though

Murkily

That

Twenty years

Just

Disappears

What good

To mourn

Or gaze

Forlorn

At what we

Did or didn’t do

One thing I know, I love you

 So with all my heart though

Twenty years just disappears

For love it seems barely a start

© Janet Martin

In a few hours Melissa will turn twenty...how can it be?!

We Are Not All Poets

We are not all poets

Though inwardly we crave

To touch that verbal talisman

With everything we have

Covet-able capstone

Is the poet’s lot

Yet, we are not all poets

In spite of our jot

Ingenious wordsmiths

Far and few between

Inspire the rest of us

To try and try again

We are not all poets

But God pours poetry

In, above, around us

In everything we see

© Janet Martin

Of Faith-fuel Refusal

If we do not read God’s Word

We starve our spirit

For, if we do not know His voice

Then oh, how will we hear it?

If we do not read God’s Word

We are dead while living

Ignorant of everything

God longs to be giving

© Janet Martin

Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth. 2 Tim. 2:15

"Obey God. Leave the consequences to Him"

While We Forget...

We pray with good intention to remember

Oh, but then,

While we forget

Our One True God does not,

Praise Him,

Amen

© Janet Martin

It hit me last night while focused on one prayer need, that others completely slipped my mind!

 "Thank-you God for interceding in our often inept pleading."

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.  Romans 8:26

Poet's Paradise...

Thought, like a roving, restless hand runs over curve and line

Searching, ah, ever searching for the right word to define

The agony of letting go, the paradise of touch

Thought, like a footloose wanderer still only holds so much…

Thought, sometimes as a pauper, sometimes debonair and fat

Fumbles and reaches like a hand not knowing where it’s at

Yet with practiced persistence it scavenges, overturns

The stars out in the heavens where an unpenned poem burns

Thought groans beneath the torture of an almost-kiss withdrawn

It melts beneath the murmur that a wayward wind can spawn

It lingers over echoes, yet dismisses in a sigh

The futile climaxes of hunger's hello and good-bye

Thought, chancellor and convict, troubadour and tyrant war

Where ever since the dawn of time poet and prudence spar

And almost it surrenders to jurisdiction of clocks

Yet cannot quite for it must find what only thought unlocks

© Janet Martin

"What a rich book might be made about buds, including, perhaps, sprouts"

~Thoreau~