No Wasted Days

As long as love

Fills the heart

There will be no empty days

As long smiles

Adorn our mouths

There will be no darkest days

As long as duty

And desire blend

There will be no futile days

As long as you

Remain my friend

There will be no wasted days

Janet~

Pour Me Another...

The poetic notion of over and done

For me, has ceased to exist

The aching essence of love lingers on

Like the afterglow of a kiss

Memory is like vintage wine

We savor its warmth on our lips

Today’s moments are fruit on a vine

Tomorrow its harvest we sip

 I hold the aura of you on my tongue

Its ambiance soothing my thought

Forever old or forever young

To me it matters not

For the poetic notion of over and done

Is for moments, not memories

Pour me another; love lingers on

In moments such as these

The fingers of time run over my skin

Darling, what must will be

Time cannot touch moments sealed within

The vault of memory

J~

In Poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

I find great allure in the translucent strings

On which a tender thought is hung

And thus, a legacy is strung

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

I am content as the robin sings

And the green unfurls on distant slope

And suddenly the world is a beacon of hope

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

I love the pleasure too lowly for kings

As I pause in a meadow of ten-thousand suns

Lifting their exuberance to everyone

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things

The music of heaven unceasingly rings

In a calliope of present then past

As I hold the treasure of a memory fast

In poetry

Because I am a lover of simple things
I thank God daily for the mercy He flings
In nameless moments of intangible verse
...of hope and love as thoughts immerse
In poetry

© Janet Martin

Mother's Day Thoughts...

Oh, that my life would be

A humble, loving legacy

When time and life have slipped from me

…their Mother

What will my children say

On some distant Mother’s Day

As they recall their childhood play

…and Mother?

Will the unyielding sod

Not quell the path I trod

Because they learned of God

…from Mother?

And will my memory

Somehow thread tenderly

Through generations still to be

…of a godly Mother?

Oh, that my life would be

A humble, loving legacy

When time and life have slipped from me

…their Mother

© Janet Martin

Yesterday morning at church an elderly gentleman shared memories of his mother, long gone and suddenly I wondered what my kids memories will be when they are asked to share something about their mother...

They do not know

as I draw them to me

of the tug-of-war beauty

surging in me

and they do not know

that I fight back aching tears

realizing suddenly

how the thief of years

snatches vapor-moments

from longing fingertips

turning wee girls to women

as time ceaselessly slips

from the before to the after

covering the ground

with the joy of love's laughter

and the tender-sweet sound 

when the night is quiet

on the mist-tinted air

...I hear a song hovering

of a rocking chair

As I held wisps of heaven

in the dark, stilly-deep

While rocking and humming

my babies to sleep...

 

Chosen Generation

We are not just ‘playing house’

As we toil and plant earth’s sod

But we are treading moments

On a stairway up to God

We are not just biding time

Twixt rise and set of sun

But we will give account to Him

For every deed we’ve done

We are not flesh shadows

Skimming time’s brief, pallid glance

Nor drifting flukes of nature

Victim’s of circumstance

But we are precious creatures

Born with a living soul

For whom our pure Creator died

So that we may be whole

And we are born with purpose

Not meaningless off-spring

In a field of dandelions

We are children of a King

...born in His wondrous image

Knit together by the touch

Of a tender heavenly Father

Who loves us very much

© Janet Martin

 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. Gen. 1:27

 

But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. 1 Peter 2:9

For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. ^{John 3:16-17}

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