Room for Me?

Darling, will you always

Make room for me there?

If I should come knocking

Will you pull out a chair?

And if the long night

Is too silent and still

Could I squeeze in against you

And rest there until

The dew on the garden

Or the gold sunlight seeps

Through half-open shutters

Where we lie asleep?

Or should the spark die

On the cold midnight hearth

Will the spark in your eyes

Twinkle softly with mirth?

Will you push aside gladly

Those things that you touch

To make room for somebody

You love so much?

Oh darling, I think

I should die of despair

If I knocked on your heart

And you no longer cared…

© Janet Martin

Sky-lover...

I long to reach out to touch you

Or at least, hear the beat of your heart

I do not know why I love you

We are heaven and earth apart

But you taunt me from low-flung lintels

A vast ever-changing sweep

And sometimes I wish I were able

To fly through your smile with a leap

You hover above me at present

Tucking this day to the past

A deepened blue, somnolent essence

Garnished with a star-studded cast

I remain your quiet admirer

You remain grandly unaware

As I fling unspoken desire

Into your infinite stare

© Janet Martin

It IS...

It does not make distinction

Between prestige

Or skin-color

Or age.

It is free but with great price

Sacrifice

No one can be fulfilled without it

Yet it is worthless when kept.

We cannot hold it in tightly clenched fists

And dictators cannot put one finger on it

to control its power.

It does not recognize distance

It cannot be withheld

For if it is withheld

It is not what its boast proclaims

It speaks, but often in silence

It shouts in breath-prayers

It heals wounds inflicted by it

It humbles both the giver and the receiver

It quiets the wanting when given away

It comforts when shared

It is not a thing, yet it is everything

It is love.

© Janet Martin

School Girl

Two left feet and

four eyes

inspired master-pieces

from the architects

of cruelty.

As jeers swarmed
in the September sun

she glimpsed it's tears

caressing

golden maples

June was only

nine months away

and words could not steal

Heaven unfolding

before her eyes

© Janet Martin

Drinking in the Dawn and Mercy...

The pale day establishes itself

in a pastel ribbon on the eastern skyline

as sparse February landscapes scrawl

wooden lace etchings against the folding night.

Wakening breezes moan at a window garnished

with fresh hand-prints of yesterday’s eager toddler.

Black coffee smiles in my mouth.

Lingering against the cool glass,
I greet the coral sun

coaxing itself above the earth's charcoal edge

in golden-fingered shafts twixt the church steeple

and the ragged, pine tree-tops.

The frozen teasel salutes her ascent.

An icicle begins to weep beneath her kiss.

Hope tantalizes dawn's nostrils and

from my knees, I drink in

Strength. 

He tugs me to my feet

my empty cup running over

as God smiles

mercy across the earth.

Janet~

my first attempt at Margo's assignment.

But For The Ticking Clock

But for the ticking clock

…the cloud-filtered moon

But for whispered comfort

In midnight’s rare tune

But for the murmur

Of you in my thought

The pining of moments

Instilled on my cot

But for the tempo

Of longing and love

The rising and falling

Of winds from above

But for the dreaming

And hope that it spawns

Knowing the darkest dark

Pales in the dawn

But for a pillow

And one lone starlight

It would be a cold

And a silent night…

© J~

Virgin Moon

She walks in exile on the sky

or roams twixt lofty billows

etched in metallic-gilded dye

the earth, an argent pillow

She fuses daylight to the dark

Until the latch of twilight

Clicks; as the first resilient spark

Hinges the eve to midnight

And all the ruins of broad day

Which boldly scar life’s meadow

And all the dubious shades of gray

Tinting the lengthened shadow

Dissolve within the mystic spell

Their petulant rebellion

She weaves no staccato farewell

As stars in countless million

Bedazzle her infinite halls

No lovers dart can lure her

For none can climb the ethereal wall

To tarry in her parlor

And none can kiss her cheek so fair

Then kindly beg her pardon

Her silver tresses sweep the air

Her teardrops bathe the garden

© Janet Martin

The moon...she looks cold and lonely tonight...J~

Written for the The Sunday Whirl.
http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

  

Ode to the Willow-tree

On the lawn a feathered network

Sprawls beneath summer-blue skies

Where I danced away my childhood

'gainst the backdrop of its sighs

Beneath the dissonant vibration

Of locust minuet

A montage begins playing

A sweet, somnolent duet

And from the throats of a phantasmal throng

I hear the notes of the willow-tree song

Earth, a dark spectral lies sleeping

Polished by low-lights of the  moon

But why is the silence weeping

A lonesome, yet comforting tune

Out of the mist on the field at my side

And out of the years left behind

A low sweeping melody rolls like a tide

Over the shore in my mind

As I hear fingers of golden-green limbs

Strumming the languor of willow-tree hymns

It echoes the hush of a summer-soft rain

Washing the darkness with tears

Or taming the gleam of July’s dusty lane

Trickling across hastening years

A song of my childhood to haunt the midnight

When everyone lies fast asleep

A swaying of passion and genteel delight

As I hear the old willow weep

Lyrics of enchantment and melancholy

In the pining lament of the old willow-tree

© Janet Martin

When I grew up we had two gigantic willow trees in our yard…

Sometimes late at night I hear a vivid echo of their song…a low-sighing tremor

fingering the air.