Heaven's Wing...is losing feathers!

Buses cancelled far and wide as we thank our wonderful Great Lakes for their winter-gift...snow-days!

Earth is a feather-bed bedecked in heavens eiderdown

Gone is its lumpy mattress, bare threaded, bedraggled brown

Now city, town and countryside with seamless sweep are wed

Beneath heaven’s eiderdown throw earth is a feather-bed

Time is a thing of feathers twirling, swirling, soundless, soft

It gathers beneath heaven’s wing, sky-scraper, street and croft

Where boulevard, bluff and backyard are swathed in winter’s gown

Soundless and soft, time is a thing of feathers falling down

Home is a happy haven warmed by more than flaming hearth

Where smiles and laughter deem its humble hold heaven on earth

Hot soup is like a feast fit for finest of lord or king

Where ‘round the flaming hearth we gather in earth’s heaven-wing

© Janet Martin

Sight Seered and Sound-bound

A powerfully moving story; one of my all-time favorite movies by one of my all time favorite actors,

Sidney Poitier
(when I told Victoria this she chuckled and said, Mom, you sure have a lot of 'all-time favorite movies';

Most of my favorites were made before I was born;-)
They don't make them like that anymore.

Prejudice is dark with lies

And its world so small

To see with nothing but eyes

Is not to see at all

He who hears with ears alone

Misses every word

Listening begins, my love

When the heart is stirred

I have seen a prison cell

Not of bars and stone

But a cold and lonesome shell

Made of skin and bone

Who can teach us how to hear?

Who can help us see?

Who can break the bars of fear

And set prisoners free?

Pity those with only eyes

And ears to hear and see

Confined behind their disguise

Because they lost love’s key

© Janet Martin

Fullness of Joy

Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fullness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.

Ps.16:11 

Night, full of darkness

Day, full of light

Man, full of his weakness

God, full of might

Hope, full of heartache

Want, full of days

Life, full of man’s mistakes

God, full of grace

Sight, full of wonder

Fear, full of prayer

Time, full of circumstance

God, full of care

Air, full of myst’ry

Where ages move

To Past full of history

In God’s faithful love

© Janet Martin

Wishing you a Worship-full Sunday

Pray We Never Outgrow Wonder...

Oh, pray we never grow too old to wonder at the common world

Or marvel at the sundry ways that only nature can amaze

And, pray we never weary of God’s testaments beneath, above

Where eye and ear bears witness to the Handwork only He can do

The workmanship of One so great ought to confound and captivate

The brooding discontent of we who, born with growling bellies see

Full proof of He in every leaf; His mercy lent to seed and sheaf

Each like a wide-flung window to wonders that only God can do

The worries of this world can bind and blind the aptness of the mind

Where faithful through the wooing years the hand of Heaven commandeers

Dark bark that cradles in its womb the nucleus of bud and bloom

Ah, pray we never grow blind to the wonder of what God can do

© Janet Martin

Some Think Tis Ink Inside a Pen...

 Have you looked to see what is hiding in your pen? ;-))

Some think tis ink inside a pen

But I have seen it spill its will

In flowers while winter gales chill

The bone that holds the dreamer’s yen

Some think that black and red and blue

Are bled when pen is touched to page

But I have witnessed frost-kissed sage

And mauve-mist morn, meadows of dew

I’ve held, with nothing but a smile

The wonder of a new-born child

Or wandered moorlands, wind-swept, wild

Where only page and ink beguile

Look! there an autumn leaf drifts by

And there a butterfly, a bird

See how the transport of mere word

Can splash gold sun into gray sky
 

The heart and soul are not immune

To song or sigh or fingertips

That brush the silence as it drips

With ink-anointed winter-June

Eyes do not show all that we think

The hand that moves the pen will tell

Of worlds cupped in its citadel

…the pen holds more, my love, than ink

© Janet Martin