For Those Who Pray...

http://ponderingprinciples.com/2011/10/difficult-journey/

Inspired by above post. (click on link to read)

There is no wall that a prayer cannot scale

No hill it cannot rise above

No plea too unworthy; no whisper too frail

For the God of compassion and love

No beggar too poor, no scholar too wise

No wealth that can ever exceed

The mercy descending, as we lift our cries

To One who beholds every need

In poverty, sickness, in sorrow or pain

In hopelessness or despair

In all of life’s troubles we do not understand

We may touch God in a prayer

When words are too hard and the misery too deep

His pure, gracious love intercedes

He hears the groan of our hearts as we weep

And ministers to our deepest needs

He hears our praise and our creature complaints

He sees every tear that we shed

When spirit is willing, but our body faints

He carries us through vales of dread

Far, far away across oceans and plains

In jungle or dungeon or tent

Prayer reaches out as it heals or sustains

The one for whom it is sent

In every nation, in every tongue

He hears and He understands

No mortal too old or ever too young

To put their trust into His hands

'For those who pray...'though we don’t understand

As we place in His keeping, our care

What comfort to feel the touch of His hand

As we reach out to Him in a prayer

Janet Martin

The power of prayer is unsurpassed.

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. ²⁷ And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God. ²⁸ And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who^[i] have been called according to his purpose.

Romans 8:26-28

Why Do I Write?

Why do I write?

For the sheer love of it

For there is nothing quite

Like the thrill of the perfect fit

As mind slips over textures and curves

Inhaling oceans, spurred by tireless verve

Searching haunted tresses, exploring dimly-lit cells

For the intoxication of the perfectly-shaped syllable

And the wild exultation, the inexplicable pleasure

Of stumbling upon the most thrilling of treasures

Then, aligning so tenderly, word against word

With a gleam in the eye and passion stirred

As thought takes shape beneath a pen

And finally, as one breathes again

To find, in word pictures of art

The pieces of a poet’s heart

I cannot get enough of it

So I write for the

Love of it

Janet~

...and still to the Muse

…ravish me then

Do not make me beg

As I chew on my pen

For that elusive word

While you dangle

Before my weary eyes

That ‘shining spangle’

As you tantalize

Me with perfect prose

Just beyond my grasp

I’m on the tips of my toes

But alas, alas…

You find it a highly

Entertaining affair

To watch me claw wildly

At nothing…but air

Persistent Muse

You do not ask permission

As you slip in through the locks

I bolt the door and pull the shades

For all the good it does

Upon my shoulder you alight

And vow to keep me up tonight

I play my part to perfect fault

A wrinkled brow, a tight-lipped frown

You laugh and turn a somersault

Inside my mind scattered and blown

Taking full charge for you know well

Each curve inside this ivory cell

I fain would beg you to depart

Then miss you madly when you’re gone

You volley twixt my mind and heart

And seem to know when I’m alone

Are you a blessing or a curse

Tormenting me with rhyme and verse?

I cradle you between my lips

Then spit you out in wry disdain

You tease my restless fingertips

And taunt me from the wayward pen

Muse persists and Muse endures…

…take me, take me, I am yours

Janet Martin

Autumn Night

You drop your broad hem in a subtle mist

Wrapping the earth in your ample blue robe

As wand’ring hours melt into your kiss

Tranquility circles the half-moon globe

Too late to toil and too early to dream

You sweep the soil in a translucent stream

You snuff out the wink of noon’s golden pear

Tuck your dark edges o’er twilight’s pale fray

I hear a memory finger the air

Of sea-song and sunshine on shore’s far away

Why do you hasten with deep velvet plume

To brush out the roses and wild purple bloom?

Heart held in limbo beneath your cool gown

Bittersweet anguish exudes in a sigh

As futile as knowing that daylight has flown

Into the hollow of night’s lambent eye

Your crescent brooch gleams like an uncut stone

Inspiring dreams; I am not alone

Janet Martin

Kitchen Window

Through this framed square the seasons pass

Time's languid whispers on the grass

As parents with a tender eye

Watch its swift slideshow flicking by

They reach but they cannot restrain

The pictures passing through this frame

It frames the wak'ning of the earth

Of bud and spring, of hope and mirth

Of tiny, bumbling baby feet

Discovering nature, curious, sweet

Where Time for one brief moment halts

Before it cart-wheels, somersaults

On sapphire backdrop scenes unfold

In summer’s laughing hour of gold

A frame where dogs and children run

Toward the bar of setting sun

Their voices falling on the eve

Like drops of rain or drifting leaves

…and autumn paints its pictures too

Murals of amber, red and blue

Yet, as we struggle to recall

The fleeting essence of them all

We grasp, at best, upon our hearts

Impressionistic works of art

Through this stark frame a life unfolds

'Neath summer's sun and winter's cold

As restless moments leap and fly

In ethereal prisms to the sky

We let our tears fall without shame

For it is such a precious frame

Janet Martin

Get-away

It’s  like reading poetry,

 presumptuous feeling

 I drift surreal

on the arms of the autumn wind

with nothing to restrain my mind

relying fully

on a few gaudy synthetic bubbles

and poetry

to carry me over

a world of dwarfed troubles,

a canopy of roof-tops

of pasture and sea

sprawled in a patch-work quilt

far, far beneath me

It’s so quiet here….

Mo-o-o-o-m!

Where’s my hat?

Jolt!

Bump!

Reality!

Janet Martin

Get-away

It’s a little like reading poetry,

this presumptuous feeling

as I drift surreally

on the arms of the autumn wind

with nothing to restrain my mind

relying fully

on a few gaudy synthetic bubbles

and poetry

to carry me over

a world of dwarfed troubles,

a canopy of roof-tops

of pasture and sea

sprawled in a patch-work quilt

far, far beneath me

It’s so quiet here….

Mo-o-o-o-m!

Where’ my hat?

Jolt!

Bump!

Reality!

Janet Martin