Of Surprise Visitors and Such

Today more than likely, will spill surprises like a test

To see how we respond to startling, unplanned-for requests

Our stretch-and-bend and give-and-take muscles might learn new moves

Because it is reaction, not our word that often proves

Who we are on the inside where no one can see but One

And sometimes He sends little tests to shape who we become

I’d like to think that I’d respond with humble willingness

But I know I’ve been guilty of a lesser gentleness

Yet God, so rich in mercy does not leave us or forsake

He lays on living’s trestle new offers of give-and-take

And what we do with them is more than we might realize

As we respond with ‘yes, my Lord’ or mumbling, grumbling sighs

…for opportunity wears shades that take us by surprise

It comes in packages that we don’t always recognize

And Jesus comes to visit us not in chariots of gold

But oft in cups of water or a broken bit of soul

…today, if He drops by when I am in the midst of work

I hope that I will not be too absorbed to hear Him knock

© Janet Martin

 "I am the Lord's servant," Mary answered. "May your word to me be fulfilled." Then the angel left her. Luke 1:38

Love-letter to October Wind

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

You brood outside my door with begging eyes

And dash across a world where summer lies

In disheveled abandon, husk and hull

Why do you have to be so debonair?

You sweep me off my feet with coy embrace

You toy with clouds than dip to kiss the face

Of she who dares to dance with naught but air

Why do you have to be so wild and blue?

The color of your eyes fills poet’s veins

To spill at will in spite of common chains

And laws that cannot bind the likes of you

Why do you have to be so beautiful?

You know my best weakness; October eyes

I cannot see you, yet I recognize

The timbre of raw hunger in your pull

© Janet Martin

It was going to be a perfect day to get a lot done, then the wind had to go and put on the perfect shade of ink!

Half-way to Half-the-Way

His smooth voice sails over the stale, crackled wisdom of age

He is too full of dreams to be hampered by yellowed sage

His belly is hungry for anything he has not tried

Life is a lion on the hunt; his strength, a sense of pride

Inexperience is his greatest asset; fear, he scoffs

Thirst pulses wildly where the reins of caution cannot quaff

His need to learn in his own time in his own way the truth

His voice is oil; it spars with wine of antiquated youth

His highway has no potholes and ‘that road less traveled’ waits

His army of ideals is ready to plunder Time’s gates

He is half-way to half-the-way, nothing can keep him down

On life’s pathway to learning, earning wisdom’s silver crown

© Janet Martin

Lonely is No Respecter

Lonely is no respecter of places

Even pretty Paris cannot appease

In its finest fashion-frenzied faces

Love’s loneliness; soul-pressed and hunger-squeezed

Lonely is no respecter of persons

Baron and beggar drink from the same well

Even the bard cannot pen an elixir

To quaff oceanic foreshadows of hell

Lonely is no respecter of hours

It bleeds its fathoms through daylight or dark

Merciless marksman, savvy sharpshooter

Aims for the heart; never misses its mark

Lonely is no respecter of seasons

A world full of summers cannot impede

Or stopper the flask that has no bottom

Save in the filling of another’s need

© Janet Martin

"My luggage was snowed under blizzard's of travel-stickers.

I have been alone in Paris,

alone in Vienna,

alone in London,

and all in all,

it is very much like

being alone in Green Town, Illinois.

It is, in essence,

being alone.

Oh, you have plenty of time to think,

improve your manners,

sharpen your conversations.

But I sometimes think I could easily trade a verb tense or a curtsy

for some company that would stay over for a thirty-year week-end."

 They drank their tea.

~from Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury~

Allusive Afterglow

I squint through half-closed eyes

But I cannot retrieve

That Thing that once I loosely prized

and thought would never leave

I inhale; ah, where is

That Thing that I let slip?

And like the Want of almost-kissed

It burns upon my lip

I reach but all I touch

Is ever present Now

The rib cage holds the thund’ring rush

Of That Thing's afterglow

I taste the salt of years

Austere, its season weaves

That Thing that once I blithely cheered

And thought would never leave

© Janet Martin