How Doth The Poem?

Midnight’s star-struck metronome

Breeds the hunger for a poem

Morning pours in sun-gold brew

To time's poem-avenue

Noon, swoons soft slurs to her cheek

Muse flirts, playing hide-and-seek

Dusk melts poems, shadow-blurred

Mind-ink musters thought to word

Dark night’s star-sparked metronome

Haunts the hunter of a poem

© Janet Martin

Of Garden and Child

One way to grow a garden

One way to grow a child

…by being there in person

Or else it will run wild

© Janet Martin

...tonight my vegetable garden got tilled and ready for planting!!
(needed to wait 2 weeks for my lovely neighbor to return home from a trip to Pa. to visit his daughter:)
...and within a few hours of his return here he was!

 Nothing quite excites me like this canvas...sort of like a Christmas Eve thrill in May

Flower-garden digging is put on hold!

A Picture-Poem

It splays on walls

On meadow-halls

On ramparts, lofty-blue

It spills to hills

And silvered rills

To wooded avenue

It lies against

 

 

The forlorn fence

It steals the dreamer’s heart

With every hue

We ever knew

In Mother Nature’s art

© Janet Martin

...so, what kind of flowers do you think Janet should plant in here when she is done digging?' I asked the little guy I babysit.

'How 'bout dandelions!' he suggested

 

On Days To Getting Old

 Today is as young as I'll ever be, remarked someone to Hubby recently, so I figure I better make the most of it!

How lovely though the valley streams

In splays of gray and gold

A new born day to dream our dreams

On ways to getting old

How precious are its untried deeps

That sweep across the dale

See how its grace-lent portion seeps

From heaven’s gleaming grail

Day is a cup that overflows

With more than we can hold

And gathers where nobody goes

Our ways to getting old

The pendulum of ‘yes, we can’

Swings east to west once more

Where we are always older than

We were the day before

How sacred is the tide that rolls

Time’s lease across earth’s shore

Where we are always getting old

-er than we were before

© Janet Martin

Time To Take The Time

When care of love the life of laughter dims

And presses weary sighs between our lips

When cup of heartache drains our song and brims

With sorrow-hues and mournful fellowships

When will and want are not enough to heal

Or seal the strife that troubles season-sands

Then it is time to take the time to kneel

And tell it to the One who understands

When hope is like a howling hunger-storm

And need a labyrinth, deep, undeterred

That runs in raging rivers through a form

Of skin and bone with groan too raw for word

When try-again flounders and fails to fill

The hollow where we cannot stem the tide

Where doubt and fear and pride unleash their ill

And we seek One in whom we can confide

...then it is time to take the time to bow

Before the Hands and Feet that once wore nails

He suffered every grief earth could allow

And renders peace and love that never fails

In spite of what we face, His grace sustains

With tender mercy He covets our cry

Oh, praise the name of Jesus, He remains

Kind, faithful fellowship for you and I

© Janet Martin