Ways of Dust

We have no choice; we must adjust

To season-summoned ways of dust

Futile to lie prostrate and weep

For crumpled leaves we cannot keep

To say’ I told you so’ is vain

…base boasts upon fellow-mates pain

We have no choice; all must accept

The voice of clocks, stoic, adept

My, how thought splays a shadow-show

Of tender holding-letting-go

Yet we return, for who can fight

The tide that turns morning to night?

We have no choice; we all must bear

Time’s bold ambassador of air

Its naked whisper teases youth

Before that first taste-test of truth

…when, startled by its austere voice

They realize they have no choice

But must endure like all men must

Time’s season-summoned ways of dust

© Janet Martin

By The Persuasion of Moonlight

By the persuasion of moonlight dead lilies are reborn

Etched raven-black on canvas that is blue and gold at morn

And by a faint falsetto of an almost setting breeze

The heart and mind by day confined sets sail on phantom seas

The hour that flung wide the skies like freeways beckoning

Succumbs to the insistent rise and falling way of things

Time’s ball-room floor is littered with the aftermath of day

Where guests save for a few forlorn, have gone their merry way

By the persuasion of moonlight romantic stragglers brave

This other world of black and white and echo-wielding wave

Those fingers that ran lightly over summer-golden grain

Close now and hold more tightly to thought’s intimate refrain

The texture of a night wrapped in the silk of opaque mist

Slides soft across longing and loss to love and life half-kissed

By the persuasion of moonlight and what has come to pass

Of have-and-holds; moonlight unfolds a polished looking glass

© Janet Martin

Intangible Free-fall

Falling like raindrops nobody can keep

Tick-by-tock tempo of soul-rending sweep

Arabesque ocean of deep unto deep

This is the way of moments

Slipping like silver of mist over moss

Tick-by-tock triumph with tick-by-tock loss

Through folded fingers they vanish because

This is the way of moments

Melting and molding in synchronized breath

Leaving no trace of its birth or its death

Never a footfall on highway or heath

This is the way of moments

Miniscule measure with mammoth import

Business and pleasure cajole and cavort

Leading to that final, full-fledged Report

This is the way of moments

© Janet Martin

Here Comes the Morning...

Now, splayed upon the thinning deep

Of midnight-blue and moon-kissed sleep

The morning comes; a Father’s grace

Bends low to kiss Time’s up-turned face

For what we held of yesterday

Is over now and gone away

We turn where mercy-doors swing wide

As morning comes; a beaming bride

…and we, Time’s honored guests embrace

This invitation to God’s grace

The banquet hall of living waits

Where morning comes, ushered through gates

...as here and there a petal falls

To decorate Time's hallowed halls

Where nothing ever really stays

The morning comes; the minstrel plays...

...love's ‘have and hold, from this day forth’

A holy reverence fills the earth

The heavens part, the Master cries

“The morning comes, my friends, all rise”

© Janet Martin

My thoughts have a wedding flavor these days...reminiscing:)

Like Cello-music 'neath Our Feet

 Close your eyes. Doesn't this feel like time rushing beneath our feet?

Time pours from far-flung doors like cello anthems ‘neath our feet

It tumbles where our fingers fumble with its music-sheet

The bower where its flower once excited our glance

Is hushed; a barren ballroom after summer’s last slow-dance

Dawn’s sunbeams nudge new shadow-bars like waltz-notes to the grass

A baton out among the stars strikes chords of come-to-pass

And certain choir members gaze in hope to see, perchance

Someone will plead an encore for summer’s long, last slow-dance

Somewhere The Maestro tunes time’s strings, for He is Choir-chief

A subtle key-change trembles where the air is charged with leaf

‘To everything there is a season’; hope is more than hapless chance

It scans time’s tablature in search of summer’s last, slow-dance

© Janet Martin