July's Choreographer...

 seven-syllable lines is not the norm 

but the Voice in my head insisted on this form!

Something simply needed to be written for this gem-of-a-July-day!

Wild, sultry winds toss luxuriant trees grounded in sweeps of green 

where subtle golden sheen starts seeping through.

Lilt of light strums gilt of gold

Beauty breaks birth’s virgin hold

From its mold of moment-mist

Ethereal tangos untwist

Torturing, teasing the heart

With fond fragments of love’s art

Driving dreamers gently mad

With the melody of Had

Where the ballad is a blur

…. July’s choreographer

Violinist’s serenade

Never sweeter timbre played

Runs a bow across the sky

Ruffles rows of corn and rye

Lofty, lithesome, sumptuous beat

Falling, light as pixie-feet

Soft as petals waft, sun-warm

Wild as wind before the storm

Wrestling from the restless tree

…July’s choreography

Vexes vim with wish and whim

Wakes a waltz in linden limb

Hails from pubs of hollyhock

Pales the hub that turns the clock

Hones the bones that stir the dust

Metronome of wanderlust

Whips the horse that hauls the cart

Hitched to lanyards round the heart

Causes quite a flower-stir

…July’s choreographer

Whispers in high, hazy noon

Tugs at twilight’s lazy moon

Plays a rousing burst of star

Makes us glad right where we are

Takes us by our hands and twirls

Wizened women like school girls

Searing, soothing, high then low

Tempo of hold-close-let-go

Soloist and symphony

…July’s choreography

© Janet Martin

Colm Keegan cover because Garth Brooks' version is not on Youtube...

This Side of Heaven or Summer Morn

This side of Heaven summer morning is its closest kin

Soft as the sigh of angels slips the light through night’s starred skin

And gentle as the touch of God’s hand stirs the sleepy breeze

Waking nature’s fair-feathered band in meadowland and trees

And on the girth of earth an anthem rises from the dew

The bloom unfolds its praises to the Maker of its hue

The brook gurgles in gladness at the mercy of new day

Farmers inhale the fragrance of heaven in fresh-mown hay

The gard’ner sings as worship from heart full of wonder brims

Heaven’s foothills spill miracles in rainbow-coloured hymns

Where milky-silky mist-scarf veils the valley like a bride

And we feel honoured to be guests of summer’s morning-tide

The happiness of hope is brighter on a summer morn

The heart a little lighter between earth and heaven torn

For surely this is holy ground and surely angels tread

In almost-Eden’s paradise (for we still toil for bread)

Ripple of teal and silver wheels across the glossy field

Where we stand on the brink of ink-wells ilk not yet revealed

Save for the tender splendor where pink tremors on the east

Expand until the land is like a panoramic feast

The wild grass waves its banner over graves of yester-year

Hollows, heavy with slumber yawn as shadows disappear

Where the plush hush before the rush of toil draws us to kneel

Where summer morning is as close to God as man can steal

© Janet Martin

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
    his mercies never come to an end;  
they are new every morning;
 great is your faithfulness.
Lam.3:22-23

Dear Summer....

While it rained the sun set...
SO beautiful!
Summer seems to be equal blends of euphoria and sweet sadness/longing!
It's moving along SO fast!

Soon the lyricists of autumn will be tuning your farewell

Weaving from your wake of echoes that which only wind can spell

Soon the cricket will be quiet leaving in its sea of sound

Tatters of a russet riot spilling wildly to the ground

Soon the airy arms of August will fill with bronze bric-a-brac

Tearing something from our Bearing that we never can get back

Soon we’ll look back on your shimmer; summer, soulful, bitter-sweet

As we worm back into sweaters and tug socks back onto feet

Knowing how, as even now we sense time’s ten-turbulent tug

There is taking in the giving no matter how hard we hug

© Janet Martin

To Think That Poetry Runs Dry...

To think that poetry runs dry

Were to lose awestruck ‘wonder-why’

Were to lose sight of sky-sea-sod

Were to lose faith in faithful God

Were to succumb to fear and dread

Were to forget to pray instead

Were to be deaf and dumb and blind

And be no longer sound of mind

Were to despair in discontent

Exchanging laughter for lament

Exchanging love for bitter feud

Forgetting God’s mercy renewed

Forgetting to give thanks and sing

For we owe all and own nothing

To think that poetry runs dry

Would be to hate Beauty’s reply

To find no joy in bloom-strummed fence

Or in cherubic innocence

Or boyish mischief’s guilty look

Or worlds away inside a book

Or find only a doleful gloom

When beholding a mop and broom

Not feeling blissful as a dream

When windows sparkle and floors gleam

When supper waits in garden-plots

Then finds its way to pans and pots

When feeling glad to be alive

Is like a God-to-man high-five

To think that poetry runs dry

Would be to just lie down and die

And not put flowers in a jar

To marvel at each detailed star

No chuckle for the curious pup

No meadow for the buttercup

No back-front porch comradery

No coffee-break or cuppa-tea

No to-do lists or curly-tops

Or tree limbs threaded with rain-drops

Or grins that steal your very breath

Only the sins that hasten death

And there would be no you-and-me

If poetry would cease to be

© Janet Martin