Mad With Joy

Inspired by Sasha's post here

Write then,

Go; mad with joy of newborn day,

Or pup

Of lithesome grin of lad,

Of fresh-mown hay

Drink up

This cup where its air runs, rife

With un-penned poetry

And life is far too small to bear

In silent agony

So, write then

Mad with bliss, let life kiss you full

On the lips

Ere it slips to oblivion

Gossamer, an

Eclipse

Of moment over moment, lost

To past’s eternity

Of sad joy never madly snared

And bared in Poetry

© Janet Martin

No Shadow of Turning...

Far-off heaven sheds its shadow

Like a grand bough loosed of leaf

The meadow emerges ‘neath splurges of gold

Night garnered to Orion’s sheaf

A common tide rife with Mercy

Pours from lofty well-springs of grace

We cannot tell what its citadel veils

But we know Who holds it in place

There is no shadow of turning

In He who directs Night and Day

A steadfast Presence midst Time’s essence of change

That even the mistrals obey

 Therefore, ere eventide chases

 Night-shadows to meadow and range

Tis sweet peace to know we go grounded in grace

Of God in Whom there is no change

© Janet Martin

 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

James 1:17

There is a lot of talent on The Voice this year, but I can't help but cheer for this guy.
This song was esp. touching performed the week after the Paris attacks.

Waiting To Be

Close your eyes, love

Oh my love, do you feel it?

Wafting silk-soft, an intangible weight

Waiting to be…

Close your eyes, can you see it?

Leaning bold, eager behind a barred gate

Close your eyes, love

Oh my love, do you taste it?

Steeping the silence with ravenous sigh

Teasing the air

Close your eyes, do you smell it?

Musky like autumn, dusty like July

Close your eyes, love,

Oh my love, can you reach it?

Gossamer spiral, phantom filigree

Tossed to Time’s tress,

Close your eyes, can you touch it?

Life in a poem still waiting to be

© Janet Martin

Sometimes, after writing a poem I close my eyes and let stillness run through my senses;
Listen,
reach,
taste,

...is that it, or is there another poem waiting to be?

Time's Maternal Touch

We come to expect and find comfort in the sameness of season-traits in an ever-changing world...

With kind, maternal ease Time tucks the earth

‘Neath leafless trees; with mem’ries slumber-kissed

She draws a star-spun quilt across a girth

Where centuries dissolve like morning mist

Despite its tides of change, Time’s changeless way

Keeps with sound comfort, a world otherwise strange

We, on the breadth of history’s cold clay

Become familiar with the exchange

…of seasons; from the window-scape of years

We peer and welcome home like family

Its sameness that our hungry thought reveres

Where nothing is quite like it used to be

Moments moil forth, toil, mirth like roiling seas

Winnow with steady ease, prizes we clutch

While we turn eyes toward skeletal trees

Clawing the skies ‘neath Time’s maternal touch

© Janet Martin

Happiness Is Not Like Socks...

Happiness is not a toy

That soon loses its first joy

Happiness is not like socks

We can’t fit it in a box

Happiness is not a Steal

Lure of sale-sticker appeal

We don’t pick its shape or size

By the color of its eyes

We can’t wrap it up, oh no

Nor garnish it with a bow

We won’t find it on store-shelves

We can’t buy it for ourselves

Happiness is not like Stuff

Packed inside a box of fluff

It is a strange paradox

Not like balls or blocks or socks

Happiness is a free prize

If... 

we learn where it’s secret lies
For...

We can not keep it and yet

The more we give the more we get

© Janet Martin