Glorious and Free

Some week-end frames of 'God's country...'

God's country; is what my daddy called it

As rolling hills in a country-drive slideshow

Moved across the screen

Of the station-wagon window

…this panorama of meadow-rich green

Creased by woodlands and marshes

The meandering stream

Rolling to the big blue sea

This is surely what God’s country must be

And the farmer’s eyes roved the blazing west

Imbuing his soul with renewed hope and zest

For surely the one who painted our rural plot of sky

In a whispered masterpiece

Would provide the needs for he and I

His mercy would not cease

Ah, in this we found peace

So, the farmer whistled with a spring in his step

And the corn fields rustled beneath twilight’s fingertips

…and the little girl stood proud beneath red and white

And sang ‘Oh Canada’ with all her might because Daddy was right

‘Oh Canada' included the little thumbprint of Southern Ontario

Where apple orchards bend and bronze wheat fields glow

And where the Great Lakes, in turquoise gems

Gleam, a grand and glorious diadem

Crowning God’s country;

This 'true north strong and free, of timber and loam

Will forever be my home sweet home

© Janet Martin

 Poetic Bloomings asks us to share a piece of where we call home!

A Mother's Thoughts

Dear God you’ve seen fit

To grace me with the good

and beautiful gift

Of motherhood

Let me never squander

Love’s whispers of gold

But cherish with wonder

This treasure I hold

…in a name more lovely (and daunting)

than any other

As children look to me

And call me

Mother 

Janet~

Mother's Hands ...A re-post

Not because of gold or silver
Not because of jeweled bands
Not because they’re soft and perfect
Do I love my mother’s hands
But because these hands once held me
Tenderly close to her breast
And because these hands would point me
To the path she knew was best

Mother’s hands so gladly labored
Mother’s hands so seldom still
Never seeking her own favor
Giving always her free will
But the thing of greatest beauty
As she tended to each care
Was her source of strength for duty
Mother’s hands were hands of prayer

Mother’s hands would clap to praise me
For a good deed I had done
Mother’s hands were there to save me
When my deeds had hurt someone
And my mother’s hands would teach me
What is right and what is good
Mother’s hands would always reach me
When no other hand e’er could

Mother’s hands so full of power
When her load was hard to bear
Even in life’s darkest hour
Mother’s hands would fold in prayer
Oh, no matter where I travel
Or how great the sights or grand
There is none to make me marvel
Like my mother’s praying hands

Praying hands can reach her children
When they’ve gone so far away
Mother knows that God will reach them
As she folds her hands to pray
Gracious Father, up in Heaven
Bless each mother everywhere
In each country, tribe or nation
Bless the hands, the hands of prayer

Janet~

Whispers of Grace

Golden dawn lures me

From cover-warm sleep

Night’s fabric diffuses

As soft moments creep

Over the skyline

They hover to pass

Brief transient shadows

On sun-dappled grass

Shake off wooly slumber

A new day a-waits

Pouring in splendor

Through morn’s lofty gates

As restlessly moments

Slip over our skin

Drops in an ocean

Of what might have been…

…should we fail to seize them

Inhale from each gem

The nectar of mercy

In hope’s diadem

Trickling gently in moments

To an ethereal sea

Whispers of grace

And opportunity

© Janet Martin

Friday Thoughts~

Love is a Three-letter word

Y-O-U~

Love is also a six-letter word

M-O-T-H-E-R

 ~Spring Portraits~

Oh, let me never pine nor plead

For my neighbor’s garden fair

And let me never seek with greed

Life’s blessings that were meant to share

But as each day to history folds

Oh, let me labor thankfully

Lest I should miss the field of gold

That God has placed in front of me

Of petal-pink promises

Unfolding their hope

Of green and gold palaces

Gracing earth’s slope

Of winter forgotten

On emerald floors

And cloud-ships of cotton

Bound for gossamer shores

Of zephyr-lips tender

And azure diadem

Matriarch of splendor

And her name is Spring

She shakes out the girth

Of her floral-sweet gowns

And covers the earth

In for-get-me-not crowns

She tosses her tresses

And every limb

Dons pretty pink dresses

Or lacy green trim

Fleet-footed belle

Of laughter and grace

She restores a smile

To every face

Janet~

The little guys I babysit and I went on a spring stroll...here are some pictures in full spring color!

Portrait of a Mother

She leaves her youth upon the grass
Where all her happy children pass
She dons a robe of profound merit
God will show her how to wear it
Its filament is firm yet mild
Woven by fingers of a child
Marked by the tears of joy and strife 

And quickened years that form her life
Graciously she bows her head
To wear this cloak of meeker thread

While stages fill and man applauds
The march of fame and lesser gods
She has known the best there is
In childish hugs and good-night kiss
And she has seen love's fairest prize

Gleaming in her children’s eyes
No wild applause or acclamation
For the hand which holds a nation
Silently she bows her head
And trusts God for His faithful lead

Her children rise and call her blessed

To recognize earth's utter-best
As humbly she her will resigns
To Hands which brush her face with lines
While Vanity would stop and gaze
With pity on her love-lined face
She would do it all again
To know she has not loved in vain
For Vanity with all its charms
Can never fill a mother’s arms

No great award, no Hall of Fame
To reward this humble name
Yet there can never be another
Name, as honorable as Mother
So while the buxom hours pass
To shed their petals on the grass
She will thank God for the hours
Where she tended sweeter flowers
In a garden like no other
Reserved for one which we call Mother

Janet Martin

Because of Him

 

 

Because of the grace and the love He has shown

Because of His word that will not pass away

We have a foundation of rare, precious Stone

A blueprint for living as we build day by day

Because of His absolute forgiveness of sin

We are set free from the burden of guilt

No condemnation remains deep within

Redemption impartial flows in His life-blood spilt

Because of His infinite mercy and care

Hope will sustain us in spite of travail

We have a Father who does not despair

His way is perfect; His love will not fail

© Janet Martin

Let no man deceive himself.

If any man among you seems to be wise in this world

let him become a fool that he may be wise.

for the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.

For it is written: He takes the wise in their own craftiness. 1 Cor. 3:18-19

Coveted Illusion

While others sleep

The poet seeks

New forms to spill

Her unnamed thought

For poetry

Stirs quietly

In air

Tattooed without a jot

It's just a feeling

Without shape

And an ache

Without just cause

But to poise

In contemplation

In the midnight hour because

Time offers no outstretched palm

Where the poet can devour

Long un-tallied realms of calm and

Stolen moments from an hour

So while wiser souls lay sleeping

Poets toil in tender bliss

For that coveted illusion

In a poem’s perfect kiss

© Janet Martin