Wonder-lost...

It's a quiet afternoon,

the only sounds are the click of a keyboard in one room

and the clack of a type-writer in the next 

Victoria has long longed for a typewriter 

...since Christmas morning she is the proud owner of one:)

I remarked to her how quiet it is when two people are lost in a world of words...

Lost in a world of words

A pleasant place to be

Where thought is tossed on waves of truth

And footloose fantasy

Through phantom woods we roam

Kicking syllabic dust

Lost twixt a world of home sweet home

And winsome wanderlust

There is no here nor there

We sail and sail away

On nothing but a wooden chair

We touch worlds held at bay

Don’t look for us, my dear

The paths are strange and blurred

Lost somewhere between there and here

In wonder-worlds of word

© Janet Martin

Sentimental Jargon

Across the field steel-rivers blow

And wield a weapon full of snow

Where supper soup and firewood

Have never sounded quite so good

And I will make a pot of tea

Then will you sip a cup with me?

And shall we gently reminisce

O’er ebbs and flows of That and This?

The Warden of a formless clock

Is turning the key in a lock

That soon will seal the gold and gray

Of twenty-seventeen away

Darling, what have we learned from it

Or genuinely earned from it

Will something in its give and take

Soothe farewell’s sentimental ache

And when on soundless hinges Time

Rings out the old year with a chime

That ushers in what none have met

Will we feel hope or sad regret?

Sometimes it seems to me the years

Are but a succession of ‘Cheers’

With a few baffled blinks between

Cold winter’s white, gold summer’s green

Across the field steel-fingered bards

Shake feather-down on quiet yards

Where supper-soup and firewood

Have never sounded quite so good

© Janet Martin

Tatters of Life...

Mute melody of seasons sweeps

In phantom lays from unplumbed deeps

As over snow-bound woodland flows

The cello-notes of yester’s rose

The dark is like a lid that lifts

And spills a myriad of gifts

Where nature weaves a wonder-world

Of buds and leaves and trees unfurled

Is Time a mime with velvet shoes

That tiptoes through stone-tongued adieus

Where one hand gives the other takes

While one hand heals the other breaks

Sometimes it feels like Time’s embrace

Leave claw marks on my upturned face

But when I look all that I see

Is a stranger staring back at me

The mind is like a matador

It needs to fend off bullish roar

It needs to dare to talk with ink

That rocks the reader; makes them think

Ho-ho, the bold young poet scales

Mountains still scored with starry trails

Where life has not kicked him too hard

Or left him licked and battle-scarred

…and they are still spared the regret

Of paths they have not taken yet

Where they are still too green to hear

The wake of leaf-song in their ears

As over snowbound woodland flows

The cello-notes of yester’s rose

And all around the poet’s feet

Lie tatters of life, bittersweet

© Janet Martin

Heart's Content

Some simple-king things that make this heart glad!

(I'm having a 'to-my-heart's-content-writing-day while Victoria plays the piano...

simple things for common kings:)

Tell me, how much is ‘heart’s content’?

It seems the heart is wish-whim bent

It begs, it prays, it pleads and bleeds

And often wants more than it needs

Yet somehow feels as rich as kings

With life’s simple everyday things

A mail-box with a Christmas card

A lone leaf etched on winter’s yard

A baby’s smile, no any smile

Makes us feel richer by a mile

With all the things a heart can hold

Dearer by far than hordes of gold

Red woolly hats, warm, fuzzy mitts
Chubby-cheeked 'bubbas' soft as kitts
Feet walking with nowhere to be
 With one-and-only-you with me
Snow-sugared welkin overhead
And every hill a feather-bed

The heart, though it is prone to wish

Is like an overflowing dish

When it begins to recognize

How simple things are living’s prize

And nothing in the whole world brings

True happiness like simple things

A mug of steaming ‘second cup’

A family with which to sup

A hand to hold and lips to kiss

Tell me, what is better than this?

A whole head full of words to use

In poetry or love; you choose

A heaven wild with pinkest pink

A laughing child, a book to drink

Piano-plink, Bing Crosby’s voice

A plate of tasty sweet-treat choice

A morning, still smooth and unmarred

A teenage face with eyes dream-starred

A winter woodland paradise

A sudden steal-my-breath surprise

Because the love I have for you

Feels like a bike shiny and new

And then I sing and sing and sing

Spurred by the happiness you bring

And to my heart’s content I grin

Glad for this weathered bag of skin

That houses more than blood and bones

It is a vault of precious stones

That tames the beast of wish and whim

And pours joy right up to the brim

A nook of vine-wisped look-at-me

A brook of sun-kissed poetry

A fenceless field of azure sky

Above a grove where dreamers lie

To soak in moments mercy-spilt

Where childish voices waft and lilt

…and satisfy the heart’s content

No greedy gain, no money spent

Just one wide open afternoon

Where it is always middle-June

And everyone is rich as kings

In a heart glad with simple things

© Janet Martin