Thursday, November 8, 2018

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

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

...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