Here Comes the Morning...

Now, splayed upon the thinning deep

Of midnight-blue and moon-kissed sleep

The morning comes; a Father’s grace

Bends low to kiss Time’s up-turned face

For what we held of yesterday

Is over now and gone away

We turn where mercy-doors swing wide

As morning comes; a beaming bride

…and we, Time’s honored guests embrace

This invitation to God’s grace

The banquet hall of living waits

Where morning comes, ushered through gates

...as here and there a petal falls

To decorate Time's hallowed halls

Where nothing ever really stays

The morning comes; the minstrel plays...

...love's ‘have and hold, from this day forth’

A holy reverence fills the earth

The heavens part, the Master cries

“The morning comes, my friends, all rise”

© Janet Martin

My thoughts have a wedding flavor these days...reminiscing:)

Like Cello-music 'neath Our Feet

 Close your eyes. Doesn't this feel like time rushing beneath our feet?

Time pours from far-flung doors like cello anthems ‘neath our feet

It tumbles where our fingers fumble with its music-sheet

The bower where its flower once excited our glance

Is hushed; a barren ballroom after summer’s last slow-dance

Dawn’s sunbeams nudge new shadow-bars like waltz-notes to the grass

A baton out among the stars strikes chords of come-to-pass

And certain choir members gaze in hope to see, perchance

Someone will plead an encore for summer’s long, last slow-dance

Somewhere The Maestro tunes time’s strings, for He is Choir-chief

A subtle key-change trembles where the air is charged with leaf

‘To everything there is a season’; hope is more than hapless chance

It scans time’s tablature in search of summer’s last, slow-dance

© Janet Martin

Of Surprise Visitors and Such

Today more than likely, will spill surprises like a test

To see how we respond to startling, unplanned-for requests

Our stretch-and-bend and give-and-take muscles might learn new moves

Because it is reaction, not our word that often proves

Who we are on the inside where no one can see but One

And sometimes He sends little tests to shape who we become

I’d like to think that I’d respond with humble willingness

But I know I’ve been guilty of a lesser gentleness

Yet God, so rich in mercy does not leave us or forsake

He lays on living’s trestle new offers of give-and-take

And what we do with them is more than we might realize

As we respond with ‘yes, my Lord’ or mumbling, grumbling sighs

…for opportunity wears shades that take us by surprise

It comes in packages that we don’t always recognize

And Jesus comes to visit us not in chariots of gold

But oft in cups of water or a broken bit of soul

…today, if He drops by when I am in the midst of work

I hope that I will not be too absorbed to hear Him knock

© Janet Martin

 "I am the Lord's servant," Mary answered. "May your word to me be fulfilled." Then the angel left her. Luke 1:38

Love-letter to October Wind

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

You brood outside my door with begging eyes

And dash across a world where summer lies

In disheveled abandon, husk and hull

Why do you have to be so debonair?

You sweep me off my feet with coy embrace

You toy with clouds than dip to kiss the face

Of she who dares to dance with naught but air

Why do you have to be so wild and blue?

The color of your eyes fills poet’s veins

To spill at will in spite of common chains

And laws that cannot bind the likes of you

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

You know my best weakness; October eyes

I cannot see you, yet I recognize

The timbre of raw hunger in your pull

© Janet Martin

It was going to be a perfect day to get a lot done, then the wind had to go and put on the perfect shade of ink!

Half-way to Half-the-Way

His smooth voice sails over the stale, crackled wisdom of age

He is too full of dreams to be hampered by yellowed sage

His belly is hungry for anything he has not tried

Life is a lion on the hunt; his strength, a sense of pride

Inexperience is his greatest asset; fear, he scoffs

Thirst pulses wildly where the reins of caution cannot quaff

His need to learn in his own time in his own way the truth

His voice is oil; it spars with wine of antiquated youth

His highway has no potholes and ‘that road less traveled’ waits

His army of ideals is ready to plunder Time’s gates

He is half-way to half-the-way, nothing can keep him down

On life’s pathway to learning, earning wisdom’s silver crown

© Janet Martin