Poor, Poor, Poor, Poor Johnny

Johnny brought a note home from school today

For mentioning ‘private parts’

But Johnny learned those words at school

Disguised as ‘health’ and ‘the arts’

Johnny brought a note home from school today

For a naughty, naughty word

But Johnny only repeated something

That he often overheard

Johnny brought a note home from school today

About ‘unruly play’

But Johnny was simply being ‘the guy’

On a show that he watched yesterday

Poor, poor, poor, poor Johnny

For he is only six

And reprimanded for ‘bad choice’

By those who lay the bricks

© Janet Martin

Desperate Pleasure...

I’ve heard the suggestion voiced, because of the prolific nature of this blog that ‘poetry must pour from your pores’…

It feels more like a breaking through bone of thought in groan and moan…

‘Tis a serious and desperately pleasant-yet-sometimes-painful business to bear the weight of words into birth then dare to share them.
Those who hear the Call cannot ignore it with ease...so it has been for centuries.

 

Full poem here

full poem here

What awesome bearing, this

To commit to a page

The birth of thought for one to read

In some far-yonder age

What undertaking, this

To pen for heart and soul

Something to keen the spirit to

The wearing of a soul

What trembling Want ensues

By it we cast off fear

Lest by neglect we fail to write

What someone needs to hear

What awesome Being, this

To press with curves of ink

A tender scalpel deep enough

To make its reader think

© Janet Martin

From Beckoning to Reckoning

 The sky went from fire-ball red to ash gray in mere minutes...

there is freezing rain in the forecast so drive safe, everyone.

My, my, how soon the dawn is drawn

Beyond its beacon lit

How soon its beckoning becomes

The reckoning of it

My, my how swift this gift of dust

Propels morning to noon

Where soon the purple mist of dusk

Dissolves time’s latest boon

My, my, how soon a day is done

How smooth moments adhere

One to the next, a seamless spawn

Where lifetimes disappear

My, my, how soon death will unveil

What now we but suppose

My, my, time pours an awesome grail

Toward its curtain-close

© Janet Martin

Mostly I Write To Touch You

Mostly I write to touch you

Brush your lips with a smile

Stroll, like friends, the lanes of life

And linger there awhile

Poems are soul-mates, comrades

Stringing dull days with stars

Helping us to appreciate

How loved and blessed we are

Mostly I write to hold you

In a slow dance where sound

Of kindred whispers draws us and

We meet on common ground

Mostly I write to wonder

About you; how the will

Of words, though we have never met

Deems us acquainted still

So, mostly I write to touch you

Lest in time’s blur and fuss

Both you and I would overlook

The poetry of us

© Janet Martin