http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2011/10/midnight-snack-006.html
The stiffness of your moves, my dear
Compels me to inquire
Have you lost your agility
Or simply the desire?
Janet~
The stiffness of your moves, my dear
Compels me to inquire
Have you lost your agility
Or simply the desire?
Janet~
We cannot
Return
Re-visit
Re-do
Recapture
Replace
Recreate
Renew
Redeem
Refuse
Restore
Re-design
Reject
Repair
Rearrange
Refine
Reconstruct
Reshape
Remove
Re-live
Retrace
Rewrite
Replenish
Retrieve
Reclaim
Reinstate
Revise
Re-cast
One solitary moment
Of our past
We can simply
Remember
Janet Martin
The most valuable gift we ever will hold is the present…
Let us not waste it...
The previous poem turned me to considering the 're-s' in our life...
and most of them connect to the past...remember, recall,recount, recollect, reminisce, review, regret...
Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
Ephesians 5:15-16
You no longer wear the softness of a child
I look at you, not down
But straight into your eye
Yet, I do not resist the urge
To hug you when I can
Your arms are long and awkward…
…the beginnings of a man
You ask questions spurred by deeper thought
Gone is the ceaseless spring of childish gush
The hand of time is nudging you along
Suddenly I sense its hurried push
And when did you begin to blush?
The proof of fading innocence
The bud of adolescence
I cannot see the brink on which you’re poised
But I can hear it in
The timbre of your voice
When began the deepening of its tone
Or the ruddiness beneath your tan?
Will you remain forever just a boy?
Or will you seek wisdom and become a man?
Janet Martin
Next year Matt will be hiking on Thanksgiving with our youth group.
This year's hike for me was bittersweet. Time is in such a hurry!
She is too weary now
To ponder life’s deeper virtues
The ‘what’ and the ‘how’
The ‘should have’ or ‘want to’
So she slips her arm
Around the little girl
And together,
On the edge
Of a silent world
They sit and listen to the moon
Janet~
Tonight I asked Victoria to come and sit on the porch with me
And listen to the moon. (she told me she could hear what he said)…
With languorous sigh we laid beneath its shade
But now its awning spills upon my chair
As sunshine through its naked limb is splayed
Skeletal fingers claw the stringent air
Empty as the vain musings of a fool
The lush verdant umbrella of July
Unravels threads from nature’s giant spool
Releasing summer’s flower to the sky
Miniature acrobats, they dip and swirl
Cradled upon the lips of memory
And I am once again a little girl
Bathed in the withered teardrops of a tree
To weep for bygone joy is no disgrace
Beauty out-lines this tender note of grief
And as I press its sorrow to my face
I feel the touch of God upon a leaf
Janet Martin
For my heart there is no sturdy bulwark
To guard it from the candor of your sigh
Mingling with the essence of the blue dark
Ghostly profusion dripping from the sky
Caught in the throat of midnight’s moody breeze
The elements of love and longing sweep
For naught can thwart the flow of memories
They rise and fall like billows of the deep
As yesterday adapts the muted robe
Of centuries that form the stricken dust
The milkweed flings its silk across the globe
Heedless of where its candid seed is thrust
But we, the author of our private woes
Can never its full secrecy disclose
***
Wrapped in the velvet pleasure of your smile
Is all the goodness of this world I ask
It warms me when another’s lips are vile
And lifts the mundane shadow from my task
Should worry taunt me with its formless fear
Or paint its dread upon my gleaming eye
Its blighted ruse is naught but tarnished cheer
It cannot quell the rushing of your sigh
I touch your lips that brush against my cheek
Miles cannot cool their warmth breathing within
I trace the tender curve of words you speak
And seal their kiss in vaults beneath my skin
For we, the keeper of love’s sweet caress
Choose to conceal its sacred tenderness
***
Life paints upon the canvas of our souls
Its intimate and panoramic art
Where none can know the murmur that consoles
Or runs translucent fingers through our heart
And no one else can see the artists brush
Or feel the splash of shadow, dark and light
What tone consumes the dim October hush
Or mingles with the teardrops of the night
Who leaves the imprint of delight within our sigh?
Or tears the lining from our hidden deep
Who lights the spark of passion in our eye
Or knows what we applaud or why we weep?
But we, the lone spectator of the whole
Can see life's pictures painted on our soul
J~