Oh, Dear Mom, At The Time We Didn't Think Of It

She opens her mouth with wisdom,
And on her tongue is the law of kindness.
She watches over the ways of her household,
And does not eat the bread of idleness.

Her children rise up and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praises her:
“Many daughters have done well,
But you excel them all.”
Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing,
But a woman who fears the Lord, 

she shall be praised.

Prov.31:26-30 

Mom, a pic from years ago, in her happy place;

a garden with flowers

An old class-mate of mine shared a tribute on Facebook to his departed,

 much missed and beloved mum...

His comment to a memory I shared was the springboard to this year's mom-poem.

He said, "
At the time, we didn't think of it, but now we know how great she was!"

Oh, that says it all to all of us, doesn't it?!! 

At the time we didn’t think of it

We ate and played and dreamed and grew

And in the little blink of it

Learned more than, at the time, we knew

At the time we didn’t give much thought

To what a mother gives and takes

Or of the love that toiled and taught

While we soiled clothes, devoured cakes

At the time we didn’t see the half

Of what dear mother gave and prayed

Until the heart-shaped autograph

Of echoes and memories made

At the time we didn’t grasp the truth

Of values clad in common threads

We tore the cover off her youth

And benefited from its shreds

At the time we didn’t understand

The double-edge of love, but stood

Upon the labour of her hand

And tender tears of motherhood

At the time we thrived beneath her voice

Rebuked if willful words ran wild

Or cautioned in a world of choice

That starts to shape even a child

At the time we didn't know what we had

Or appreciate this careworn saint

Apron-clad and humming-glad

 Never stooping to complaint

At the time we didn’t realize

How much or often we would gaze

At what we now cherish and prize

And will, for all our living days

So now, as I try to express

My gratitude I hope somehow

You feel the humble thankfulness

For all that I am seeing now

Dear mom, today I/we honor you

As by God’s grace you gave your best

For your example, meek, strong, true

Your children rise and call you blessed

© Janet Martin

Rolling With The Crunches...

 Optimist or pessimist,

 this morning's cloak was a struggle to embrace!

(surreal beauty)

 In their hearts humans plan their course, 

but the LORD establishes their steps.

 Prov.16:9

From holy heaven to earth's lowly portal

Mercy, its manifold measure bestows

We witness discourse with ken purely mortal

Only the Giver the full matter knows

Bitter, the brunt of His ways against ours

Man makes his plans but God directs his step

Forgive us, Father when we would choose flowers

But you have arranged a blizzard instead

Make our words fit for ear-consumption

When hallelujah succumbs to alas

Forgive our reasoning, prone to assumption

Help us remember, this too shall pass

Janet Martin

Ah, Poem

Never know where you will take me

Never know where you will lead

Or what you will wake within me

Where syllables intercede

Never know what you will whisper

What reason your rites unfold

Whether you are miss or mister

Wild or bridled, young or old

Never know if you bring laughter

Or a melancholy dread

Sometimes before, sometimes after

Torn between my heart and head

Never know how you will greet me

Fist-a-cuff or tender kiss

when or where you wait to meet me

That’s the way a poem is

Will you be a landscape painter
Or a flower or a sigh/sky
Never know how you will answer
Is it hello or good-bye

© Janet Martin

May Brook

May brook! Spring’s fling of silver hymns

Before warmer days drain your sash   

Beneath bud-heady, leafless limbs

You sparkle, tumble, lilt and splash

May brook, you honor meadow’s nook

With nature’s purest melody

You need no sheet-music or book

To learn or hone your harmony

May brook, you soothe and satisfy

The soul of all who linger near

To benefit from your reply

Should we confide in you a tear

May brook, between banks grassy-green

You ramble, ripple, swirl and sing

You turn each girl into a queen

And each fellow into a king

May brook, an orchestra of stars

Slips smooth across moss-muted stones

Beneath heaven’s riveting bars

Reflected in your undertones

© Janet Martin

Taking/Making Time For God's Poetry

this time of year a sunny, country laundry day

that doesn't smell farm-fresh/ aka manure😊

is a treat to be enjoyed!

 some of this laundry is re-laundered from some days ago because

we didn't feel like smelling farm-fresh AFTER a shower😀

also, if ever there was a time

when cleaning seems less urgent

it's in these days of stay-home-social-distancing!

So, I really couldn't come up with a good reason not

to enjoy at leisure, the great outdoors for a while!
Pure delight!

(if I did dare to point out any flaws/flies in the pudding

they would would be white, fluffy and frosty

 creating the need for warm boots, mittens and parka...in MAY!

yes, it is a bit of a chilled thrill today...

Let’s bend unwritten rules

About workaday week

Time unravels a sky-high spool

 Even now, as we speak (or read)

The theater of earth

Is primed with em’rald bliss

Nature is a showcase of birth

To wonder-full to miss

Let’s change the way we are

Into a gentler poem

Let’s duck beneath Duty’s high-bar

And take the green way home

Let’s pause beside the brook

That chortles to the sea

And take a longer, ling’ring look

At God-breathed poetry

Let’s take at most, some tea (or coffee:)

And leave the clock behind

While studying the scenery

That authors peace of mind

What if, when looking back

To view Past’s soldered sums

We didn’t ever stop to snack

On Heaven’s cookie-crumbs

What if all that Thought sees

When mortal bark is shored

Is forfeited epiphanies

On wonder’s smorgasbord

Ah, who could bear to view

Such life-consuming loss

Because all we were faithful to

Was workload’s albatross

So before ties that bind

Us 'neath the sullen sod

Let’s purpose ev’ry day to find

The poetry of God

Let's keep wants simple, hon
And trust implicitly
He who knows it takes rain (or snow) and sun
For perfect poetry

© Janet Martin