Something to Jar The Senses

 PAD Challenge 8:For today’s prompt, write a poem that hints at something.

Time holds a ladder through the stars

The rungs of it like gray-gold bars

Where fold on fold of day to night

Eases its climbers to a Flight

That none returns from to extol

The Mysteries that wait the soul

This scope to which Thought is contained

Though it may roam quite unrestrained

Cannot contrive the heights and deeps

Though with most adroit strains and leaps

It tries to visualize and gauge

The vastness of Soul’s boundless age

After Time’s tempo loses pow’r

No tick by tock to mark the hour

No night to day to veer or steer

Us far away or ever near

To where beginnings or ends roll

To change the future of the Soul

© Janet Martin

  

Of More Than A Fork In The Road...

PAD Challenge 8:For today’s prompt, write a poem that hints at something.

The stakes are high where you and I are led or drawn or towed

Soul-mates headed toward far more than a fork in the road

The touch that breaks the bud and shakes the heavens full of stars

And wakes the wide-eyed day and rakes the gale across its bars

Sketches on skin of humankind a hint of Things to Come

The stakes are high where you and I will soon collect its sum

© Janet Martin

When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him, He will sit on His glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before Him, and He will separate the people one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will place the sheep on His right and the goats on His left. Then the King will say to those on His right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.

Matt 25:31-35

...and Then There is This

Today had some wild-tantrum Is-moments,
I was tempted to s-wish over that thin-air-precipice before they turned to Was,
but they passed and now very messy-house sigh-lence prevails!
(p.s. Funny story. My sister saw this shortly after it was posted so she phoned me😁😂 to break the silence and see what I'd say, among other reasons) Sisters are The Best!

…and then There is Is

Slipping over a precipice

Vaulted on thin air

Drawing the shutters

Of blue to black velvet

Over our wide-eyed stare

And then there is Was

The What that we handled

Felled by dusk’s darkening bars

Snuffing the candle

That hung from the heavens

Blowing the night full of stars

…and then there is Will Be

Waiting to wow us

With what nobody has seen

Turning the sparkle of Is

Into blue-purple-y

Echoes of What Has Been

© Janet Martin

Sound of Silence ...

Taming The Blue...

Loosed leaf lilts,

Lands,

Lies upon

The yawn of Autumn Spent

Decking halls

Where flowered shawls

Have scattered

Their lament

Wild wind whirls

Twirls

Girlish

Ballerinas from the trees

Tucking soft

The sullen croft

Beneath a quilt

Of leaves

© Janet Martin

Ink-Spinner

PAD Challenge day 7: For today’s prompt, write a poem with an occupation as the title. 

There is NEVER a dull moment in an ink-spinner's world

everyone and everything is fodder for the craft

where dusk is sort of like a blue echo-banner unfurled

that threads the loom with freshest plume of loved-longed-learned-limped-laughed  

Like tincture in a picture waiting to be autographed...

Words spoken keep walking

Words written keep talking!

From wisps within and threads of grin-and-bear it consequence

From fallen leaves and eaves that drip with Awesome Imminence

From fantasy and reverie and oceanic surge

Of fronds that weave the tapestry of both ballad and dirge

From sum of season spent, or crumbs that fall from nature’s flare

From faces, places, graces that we touch, miss, love, kiss, wear

From colors we call Life where Farewell’s knife cuts keen and oft

As ink-fodder runs rife from wells hard-pressed, yet whisper-soft

From starry eyes unraveled, from a maze sighs traveled through

From strings that spin This Thing that weds wonder with hunger’s woo

From hold and letting go and oh, from Vintage Bitter-sweet

Culled from the hull of moments that we crushed beneath our feet

From tattered fray of yesterday, from hope’s Intangible

They spin mementos from the pathos of strung syllable

From fragments of hearts broken, from the moan of wind and sea

With words, never yet spoken, Ink-spinners weave Poetry

© Janet Martin