Of Fresh-spun Threads...and What They Weave

The cloth of night to day

From moment-metered loom

Unfolds from reams into a grave

That no one can exhume

It weaves with fresh-spun thread

Discourse of daily path

Yet, our footsteps always tread

On Yester-aftermath

Last night is washed to sea

A new day fills its spot

And though each soon is history

The aftermath is not

How careful we should break

From Mercy’s providence

Our portion of Love’s give and take

Impacting every Thence

© Janet Martin

Where Smiles Run Deep

 I feel every inch of my middle age tonight but it comes after a good day's work...not before:)

Stick pile from the ice-storm GONE! 

(I didn't get a bench(see above link) but I did salvage a stump;)

Her smiles run deep and cannot keep

The proof of years at bay

The quick return of live and learn

Startles her brow with gray

Her heart plays host to Uttermost

Of love’s laughter and tears

While her form bears and humbly wears

The penmanship of years

 Hope-spurred she strove to live the love

That lights the world afire

Stunned by the ease of memories

That tick and tock acquire

...as lark-song lilt on dawn soft spilt

And dusk’s blue shadow stage

And interplay of time's gold-gray

Clothed her with middle-age

Her smiles run deep and cannot keep

The proof of years at bay

But deeper still is the free will 

Of time slipping away

Futile to fret or fear the threat

Of lessons yet to learn

For Present spills both good and ills

 Into past's No Return

© Janet Martin

Office Like No Other

Writer's Digest PAD Challenge day 18:For today’s prompt, write an office poem. 

Her desk is cluttered with fixings for supper

Her office, a happening place

Of telephone ringing and little child singing

While bringing a smile to her face

Her toil is a humble hierarchy
Rewarded with fridge-door art

And darling chatter, dusting, dishes and laundry

While bringing a smile to her heart

She toils, not for mere money-chasers

For her common service is such

The future depends on the fruit of her labor

And it brings a smile to her touch

Until death, she cannot relinquish

The charge of an Office so dear

That it takes a lifetime to fully accomplish

And it brings a smile to her tear

Where her office is strewn with clutter

Of noise, toys and tools of love’s care

Her title like no other, simply this; Mother

And it brings a smile to her prayer

© Janet Martin

Comfort of the Soul

 Therefore we ought to give the more earnest heed to the things which we have heard, 

lest at any time we should let them slip.

Heb.2:1

Our times are in God’s hands

Sweet Comfort of the soul

In spite of man’s heathen demands

This whisper can console

Time’s mortal stint on sod

Commands utmost respect

For soon death’s rod transports to God

What no one should neglect

There is no most or least

With God, his love full-free

He spreads on morning skies a feast

Of opportunity

And pours into time’s Call

A new measure of grace

Where no care is too big or small

To lay before His face

With day to week to year

Time’s Awesome Wick grows dim

That none but God can commandeer

On our way back to him

© Janet Martin