Old 'New'

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Dawn, with impartial whisper wakes

Familiar fellowships and breaks

The bars that lowered deep until

It filled each window-box and sill

How easily the new is old;

Dawn startles midnight seas with gold

As old becomes untried and new

On morning’s sky-wide avenue

And suddenly we are immersed

In second chances, never cursed

To repeat what was brushed away

To that place we call yesterday

Ah, old and new are juxtaposed

Where twilight drew blue curtains closed

Dawn, with untarnished portions spills

New gold to old dusk-darkened hills

...and here, on boulevards unveiled

Time's New pulses where its old failed

As through a fretwork of old lace

Wakes mercy's brand-new day of grace

 

© Janet Martin

Time's Winsome Ways

Time’s winsome ways can turn one’s gaze

Back to a world of yesterdays

Its stomping ground surreal-ly bound

Where naught but echoes can be found

Its dusty lanes ring with refrains

Of barefoot bliss and summer rains

And things we didn’t know had strings

Until Time tested its new wings

Then how it burned as love re-learned

How nothing but farewell is earned

And each hello is the plateau

Hinged to life’s longest letting go

...where sometimes we walk more slowly

The brink that brushes history

As touch betrays thought’s reaching gaze

Upon time’s winding, winsome ways

© Janet Martin

Rob and Emily came over to watch the game...and  celebrate after a nail-biter!! woo-hoo! Canada wins Gold! And what a short while ago was a mystery already is history...'tis time's winsome way.

 

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How Sweet It Is...

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 These potato wedges were today's special part of supper because its a snow-day! Mix scant tablespoon each of black pepper, dill-weed, garlic-powder and paprika and then a healthy pinch of salt. Add to a large bowlful of potato-wedges. (Potatoes well-scrubbed, not peeled) Drizzle with olive oil. toss and bake at 400F until golden-brown. Approx. 30 min. Served with a side of meat-loaf, green beans and tossed salad.

Sometimes I’ve become so accustomed

To the everyday-ness of it

That I forget to notice

How sweet it is

Sometimes its shapes and colors

Placed on platters, in bowls

Are more like simple habit

Than a miracle

But sometimes its invitation

Slips soft, *like a love song or rhyme

To begin dusk’s celebration,

‘It’s supper-time’

…and I don’t want to grow accustomed

To the everyday-ness of it

Lest I forget to notice

How sweet it is

© Janet Martin

Tonight, suddenly it hit me what a gift it is to be able to sit down every evening with those we love to eat supper...

* I tried letting the invitation 'slip soft like a love song' but I didn't get any response until I cranked up the volume to a rockin' ..."S-U-U-P-P-E-E-R!!

At The Mercy of You, My Year

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This morning as I stood at the fence to greet you I pondered our friendship; how often I've welcomed you with open arms, then turned and you were gone...

For years she’s seen you climb the fence

To cross the yard then wave good-bye

Yes, you were her first real romance

You taught her how to laugh and cry

But always when you disappear

Then you are nothing but A Year

Once upon her fair, girlish dreams

And fantasies foreign to truth

You tugged morning to dusk-hushed streams

And hugged the girl that lost her youth

As motherhood deployed love’s tear

And still simply, she calls you Year

Ah, fairest of them all art thou

Yet, without face or voice or form

Morning and noon and evening, how

Full Want of you ignites a storm

For all she has and holds, my dear

Is but the offspring of thee, Year

Cool Casanova, troubadour

Then will she every truly know?

What your utter intentions are

For she is at your mercy, so

Please, be a darling, be a dear

And be a kind and gentle Year

© Janet Martin

A chuckle courtesy of Victoria from the Peanuts book we gave her for Christmas;

Poetry

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 It's in the clutter and mess, not sterile tidiness, that memories are made...That reminds me; I noticed a coffee spill on the stairs where someone dashed to see if Canada scored;) In spite of Canada's win  Slovak goaltender Denis Godla was unbelievable!!

Dear Life, (or is it Dear Me?)

If I would study you too long

And hard then you would never be

Quite fit enough to hang upon

Time’s wizened walls of

Poetry

For scrutiny reveals your flaws

Then fear would be the death of me

And I would never write because

I’d pity you in

Poetry

Once flesh and bones, old poets dipped

Their quills into your heart-shaped sea

Braving the tide as soul-blood dripped

From fingertips to

Poetry

For imperfection is the grace

Whereby a poet is set free

To humbly, reverently trace

Life’s love-lined face in

Poetry

© Janet Martin

Off to the music that makes the poetry that makes the memories…or, is it the memories that make the poetry that makes the music...;-)?