March is a Dreamer's World

This is a summer-dreamer’s world;

We scale its umber bars

To sit upon the soon-green slope

Where buttercups splash stars

And red-wing warblers trill from reeds

Still stiff and winter-stark

Where soon spring-peeper orchestras

Will serenade the dark

…and what so long we waited on

Will spill from east to west

In love-songs written where the dawn

Is soft and dew-caressed

And dusk is like a lusty bard

Holding a musky quill

And from it drips the evening star

The inkwell is a hill

And Time, ah, time is our friend

Its pockets spilling blooms

Where bare feet linger once again

In Nature’s living-rooms

And brooks will splash their silver sash

Where swallows dip and dart

And earth is like a gallery

Of almost-summer art

© Janet Martin

Victoria and I are dashing through chores so we can spend the afternoon

splashing through a June-like March day!

A great beginning to March-break in Canada!

Bonjour M. Mémoire, Je Te Déteste Mais Je T'aime (Hello, Mr. Memory,I Hate You But I Love You)

Sometimes you visit, surreal, yet explicit

Rushing through years that no longer exist

Sometimes you hover like a far-off lover

Leaving the sense of something I have missed

Sometimes you take me in your arms and wake me

To the awareness of what used to be

Sometimes you leave then oh, how you grieve me

That I should lose such a dear memory

Sometimes you hold me and sometimes you scold me

Sometimes I would set you free if I could

I cannot hate you, though oh, I berate you

As you afflict and caress; virile flood

Sometimes elation turns into vexation

Realization is a two-edged knife

Sometimes you find me simply to remind

How swift these memories become a life

© Janet Martin

Where? Here...

And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him,
Luke 23:33

Here mankind finds peace and pardon

Here forgiveness saves the soul

Here is healing and redemption

Here, though broken, we are whole

Here is sacred, sacred sorrow

Here is hope’s fullness of joy

Here the rich man and the beggar

Find true wealth none can destroy

Here we lay down our burden

And here we take up our cross

Here we trade in man-made treasure

Counting all but Heaven loss

Here we see grace unrequited

Here where sinners bend the knee

Mankind finds life through Love dying

Where? Ah, here at Calvary

© Janet Martin

In Return...

If I, upon some straying thought

Should chance to hap across your mind

Then I would like to think perhaps

Your thoughts of me are glad and kind

Then likewise, if and when, my dear

The thought of you stirs me to yearn

Oh, I would like to think I’d think

As kindly of you in return

© Janet Martin

For all the joy that still is, on some days I wildly miss
what is no more...
those days before womanhood drove dreamers close to us
toward farther-away doors,

...but, if asked to trade back this day for Then
I would say 'no',
Because I would rob them of the joy
that comes before the hard heart-tug of letting go...

(This thought-line caused me to ponder other friendships that came...to pass.
Spring-cleaning cupboards allows thinking-time;-))

Song Of a Mild Spring-wild March Day

Brook-song babbles and meanders through the brawny hinterland

Mirth of sun-warm zephyr chuckles where winter withdraws its band

Hill and hollow, chilled and fallow, hint at tints we nigh forgot

As the dreamer sighs and eyes the beaming slope and garden-plot

Barren vault exalts the laughter of the crow perched proud and bold

On the tree-top primed with pockets bursting with springtime’s first-gold

Now the moorland is a-glitter with the farmer’s passion stirred

And the morning is a-titter with the twittering of birds

Sun and shadow skims the meadow like a gray-gold patchwork quilt

Wafting over panoramic vistas bereft of leaf-lilt

Still, the thrill of ages surges through the onlooker once more

Where the ill of frigid splurges recedes to a far-off shore

Choristers of spring’s glad choir warm their voices, clear their throats

Long these song-soldiers have waited, shivering in threadbare coats

Nature’s Maestro draws His baton soft across the budded string

Holy, holy, hear the anthem of ten-thousand minstrels ring

© Janet Martin

Inspired on my way home this morning...