Saturday, August 20, 2016

The Poet's Prayer






Lord, grant within the plant of ink
Not man’s conceited view
But let it ever be a link
That draws our thought to You

Lord, in our humble quest for word
May this our enzyme be
A sacred element that stirs
The heart to cleave to Thee

Lord, as we commit thought to page
Pray its foibles, anoint
So that, when read from age to age
It will not disappoint

© Janet Martin


The Poet's Song




 
 Oh sing to the LORD a new song, for he has done marvelous things! 
His right hand and his holy arm have worked salvation for him.
Ps.98:1



From fronds of seasons scattered like the tatters of a globe
From ponds, like turquoise brooches pinned to Mother Nature’s robe
From tug-of-heart and moment-art, from hello to so-long
These are the jars that pour out bars that hold the poet’s song

From metronomes of locust drones in weeping willow arc
From common worlds that disappear each night into the dark
From twilight full of high-rises splayed lean on flat and slope
Or morning brimming with beginnings of a new day’s hope

From ‘how-are-you’ and ‘who-are-you’ and ‘where-are-you’ songs surge
Ensembles heavy where the dews of dawn to dusk, converge
The poetry of star-struck sea, of summer’s noon-day blue
Of eighth-notes laughter-shaped, of cherub-chatter half-past two

From hollows carved at one a.m., from shallows dipped in June
From cellos lost in fields of wheat, the poet gleans a tune
And never for a moment is she numbly left, bereft
Where oh, it seems the whole world streams with fodder for her clef

From hills and rills seasoned scales spill, from hurt and dirt and grief
From years where tears and fears instill the need for God as Chief
From penmanship of purple plume and scarlet bloom and death
The poet finds a song to sing as long as life grants breath

© Janet Martin

 Sing to the LORD a new song;
            Sing to the LORD, all the earth.

      Sing to the LORD, bless His name;
            Proclaim good tidings of His salvation from day to day.
      Tell of His glory among the nations,
            His wonderful deeds among all the peoples.
      For great is the LORD and greatly to be praised;
            He is to be feared above all gods.
      For all the gods of the peoples are idols,
            But the LORD made the heavens.
      Splendor and majesty are before Him,
            Strength and beauty are in His sanctuary.
      Ascribe to the LORD, O families of the peoples,
            Ascribe to the LORD glory and strength.
      Ascribe to the LORD the glory of His name;
            Bring an offering and come into His courts.
      Worship the LORD in holy attire;
            Tremble before Him, all the earth.
      Say among the nations, “The LORD reigns;
            Indeed, the world is firmly established, it will not be moved;
            He will judge the peoples with equity.”
      Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice;
            Let the sea roar, and all it contains;
      Let the field exult, and all that is in it.
            Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy
      Before the LORD, for He is coming,
            For He is coming to judge the earth.
            He will judge the world in righteousness
            And the peoples in His faithfulness.

Ps 96 NASB 




The Poet's Call





The poet, from inkwells of thought and time and space aspires
To touch the page with wage of words that sets the heart afire
While others, so it seems, pass by with carefree cups to drink
The poet bears the sweet torment of words waiting for ink

Day breaks, dawn is a feast upon the east; a bud, a rose
The poet cannot rush the tug of heart it must compose
While off to work and off to school and off to sundry chores
To other callings Called, they go, unhindered by ink-roars

Like waves that crash across the graves of days gone by, the air
Is heavy with the weight of that which only pen can snare
The sky is like an inkwell with no shore to quell its vaunt
The poet never can foretell what waits within its taunt

…and all day long while others sing the songs of poets-past
Unconscious of the utmost joy when it is writ at last
The poet wears the constant prick and pull of tick and tock
…how mist of moments spill and fill time’s quill with fleeting stock

The bell that tolls, low on the westward scrim of dying day
Consoles the lowly poet with a hymn words cannot pray
Yet, through the ordination of a call they did not seek
The poet cannot turn away from words too hard to speak

© Janet Martin



The Call...

Blind to the clucking chickens

 and squealing pigs,

the little girl of almost nine, breathless with wonder
sensed, almost like an ordination,
The Call.
She sits on the stairs to the hayloft
as words begin forming into poem
then she dashes, rubber-boots slup-slupping through the snow
beneath a black velvet sky strewn with diamonds,
to the house-to the house,
to write the words that rushed through her like
a fire-storm before they would blow away like ash...
She never asked 'Why?'

Sometimes, when  I sit down to write I think of countless others things I should could be doing, 
yet it seems I cannot until I have at least sought from He who instills in each of us a Call, (His Call in all its unique differences in all of us!)
 ... in me, a poem.

Friday, August 19, 2016

It's The Getting There That Hurts...





Life has a way of teaching us the most through its hard knocks
And while we nurse our bruised egos and pull up our torn socks
After pride’s stumbling-tumbling-humbling face-plant in the dirt
We are a little wiser; it’s the getting there that hurts

Life has a way, after it lets us have our own way first
Of reminding us with what, since time began, we are cursed
How, because it seems we must learn the way Adam first did
For every action, consequence is the return of it

But, if we learn from 'the return', the fall is not in vain
Pity the one who will not learn but falls and falls again
Life has a way of teaching wisdom with hard knocks so we
After the sting of it subsides, don't forget easily

© Janet Martin


 Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.
Prov.16:18

Like a Flower From God...





Dawn’s flagon overflows, its hour flowers, pink and gold
The haze of days gone by purples the brink of Still Untold
It breaks the black bowl flecked with silver stars, it wakes earth’s bars
And splays upon green field and lawn, a veil of fallen stars

Tomorrow is not broken yet and yesterday is nil
The aftermath of choice is full of virgin choices still
Today awaits, let not the gates of heaven ope in vain
As Time becomes a tide of light and mercy’s ‘try again’

The weight of worry can be like a pack upon the back
Its fear can commandeer our lack of trust; turn morning black
Oh God in Heaven, help us to relinquish the Unknown
And trust that Hand that sets on sinking sand, hope’s stepping-stone

The way from here to There is fraught with unexpected turns
The heart must learn to bears its share of ache where hunger burns
With The Intangible Awareness of an awesome flask
That fills dawn’s flagon with much more than misery and task

The severance of seasons is a smooth and subtle rend
It startles the onlooker caught where past and future blend
And, though The End is not in sight, we stand where petals lie
The morning, like a flower from God’s love to you and I

© Janet Martin

Last night was a black demon(the kind only talking to God can overcome)
robbing me of sleep, deep into its wee hours...
This morning the sky is a flower in God's hand.

Let's make the most of what often seems like nothing out of the ordinary,
until something shakes that oblivion, and wakes us to its wonder!

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Ode to the Apple...





Apple cakes
Apple tarts,
Apple crumble
Apple crisp
Apple muffins
Apple salads
Apple fritter
Apples dipped
Apple jelly
Apple butter
Apple loaf
With apple tea
Apple grunts
And apple goodie
Fit enough
For royalty
Apple strudel
Apple Danish
Apple stuffing
Apple flan
Apple dumpling
Apple stewed
Apple sauce
Poured from a can
Apple wine
Apple cider
Apple roll-ups
Apple pies
Apple cheese-cake
Apple trifle
Apples for a snow-man’s eyes
Apple Brown-betty
Apple pan-dowdy
Apple torte
And apple pared
Apple cobbler
Candy-apple
Apples sliced, or dried
In squares
Apples baked
With cinnamon-sugar
Apples on a Christmas tree
Tell me is there any other
Fruit with such versatility?

Janet~


Re-posting an oldie because it's applesauce-making day today...