Of Threads, Thoughts and Things Past

The sky threads the river with silver-blue sheen

The sea threads its glimmer with gold

As spring threads its glory in garments of green

Over earth’s ebony hold

You thread my thought with the hint of a smile

You thread my heart with your sigh

And every so often in my midday mile

You thread a tear in my eye

The bloom threads the stem with petal-fragrance

As leaf-song and flower unfold

Spring threads the air with hope’s effervescence

Where hills become heaven’s threshold

You thread my memory with silver-soft touch

You thread the wish in my sigh

And every so often I miss you so much

You thread that tear in my eye

© Janet Martin

The Words of Men

Sometimes the words of men are not enough

To satisfy the hunger in my soul

So I turn to the pages of His love

And there He makes my wanting spirit whole

The words of men for all their good intent

Never redeems our guilt or justifies

But oh, His grace and mercy Heaven-sent

From God to man in Jesus satisfies

The words of men may veil the heart’s deceit

They soothe but only for a little while

The Word of God will guide our errant feet

And never lead into temptation’s guile

The words of men struggle, reason and grope

God’s word will temper their wanton increase

The Word of God replenishes our hope

And fills the hungry spirit with His peace

© Janet Martin

Oh, Gentle Day...

Oh gentle day, nudging away the veil that drapes nature’s repose

Soft fingertips, murmuring lips whisper to naught night’s sable throes

The earth expands beneath her hands where mercy’s promise intercedes

As grace employs immortal joys and Hope nurtures our mortal needs

The woodland sings where bird-song rings in acclamation to her cues

The haunted dell and darkened fell emerge clothed in gleaming chartreuse

In thinning dark our dreams embark beneath the arabesque incline

Of coral-gold; see it unfold a virgin bloom on mercy’s vine

Within her breath both life and death tremble upon Time’s argent wing

Where angels tread and mortal thread glimmers; a sheer, ephemeral thing

Change wields its mien; from subtle skein her gossamer caress unfurls

How brief the span from boy to man; soon womanhood slips over girls

Where is the limb that lifts the scrim of midnight’s tender, turbid trance?

We touch the spoil of duty’s toil and praise the God of second chance

Rendered respite of middle-night dissolves within the ruby splay

Of gentle dawn nudging far yon the remnant shades of yesterday

© Janet Martin

The Quietude of Day Subdued...

The quietude of day subdued and hastening of footfall stills

The deep and deeper curtain veils the silhouette of tree and hills

The lambent lay of dying day rolls like the breaker on a sea

Of silver mist and dreams half-kissed and midnight’s musky melody

Ah, primeval its madrigal of shushing, rushing, hushing breeze

Soft, vaporous and languorous and drifting through the slumb’ring trees

The silver surge of daylight dirge anoints the ethereal caress

Of empathy and agony and memory’s capricious tress

The citadel where angels dwell demands our meek up-lifted gaze

The azure sweep of noon-tides deep is ebony with star-frothed glaze

And we are small beneath it all and dearly stagger at the thought

That God above beholds in love our offerings of jumbled jot

The mystery of what will be touches the trembling vaunt within

The ether-cast of what is past adorns the walls beneath our skin

The quietude of day subdued arouses love’s ache in the heart

A gentle awe of nature’s law binding and easing us apart

© Janet Martin

When She is Gone

When she is gone then we might wish

That we had tried to love her more

So we should pause and dance a bit

With her across earth’s emerald floor

For she is like a little girl

Eager to see what will be next

And soon she’ll be a silver swirl

In autumn’s keen, auburn pretext

So long we waited for her smile

And her ambrosial filament

We ought to beg her to beguile

And draw us from toil’s trivial tent

For soon she’ll gather up her skirts

And wander to another shore

But now she grins, teases and flirts

So we should try to love her more

The daffodil has flung its gold

To warmer breezes sauntering

And soon the tulip will unfold

Its chalice to earth’s hungering

Spring does not force her melody

This artist of nature’s quadrille

Performs her rainbow rhapsody

Then slips beyond the far blue hill

© Janet Martin

Even as I write this I am hoping to have a few moments to squander and wander in reply to her beckoning…tomorrow.

Then Hold Me Close...

 

Then hold me close and do not ask of me

The words trembling unspoken in my thought

Though fain I try to spell with wanton jot

Its surging void in broken poetry

Then hold me near for I cannot explain

This bitter-sweetest winnowing of love

Far, far and dark the night expands its glove

Until I only feel our mutual pain

Then hold me long and do not let me go

The years that we have weathered are behind

The future is as formless as the wind

And what comes with the light no one can know

Then hold me now within this fragile flight

Of flesh and blood and brief mortality

It is enough to feel you next to me

And touch the trembling silences of night

© Janet Martin

Who, but Our God?

Oh motherly matron of sweet sanguine spring

What bounty of bulb, bud and blossom you bring

While no one is watching you draw from the sod

A rainbow of radiance fashioned by God

Of lupine and lilac, daisy, daffodil

Of tulip, forget-me-not, rampant they spill

Wild flower, hybrid, bashful and bold

Pouring from nature’s voluminous hold

Wonderful wonder, within homely pod

Trembles the providence of gracious God

Plebeian hull filled with fair fruit and flower

Glorious glimpses of God’s supreme power

Who but our God can inspire or design

Such infinite variance of leaf, petal, vine

Who but our God can shape dust’s humble skin

Into love’s handiwork fit for a king

© Janet Martin   

Of Obscure Oceans

 

The melting pot on eastern brink

Brims once again with golden-pink

As we embark another day

On living’s loving, learning way

The imminence of what will be

Gleams on a tide we cannot see

While ebony of slumber’s sky

Dissolves into the by and by

Ethereal river, soundless force

Mighty, rushing, muted discourse

Of moment-sparkles whisper-cast

Surging from future to the past

Where is the fount forging your lot?

Where is the sea of gathered naught?

Oh mystic mien of smile and strife

How subtly you shape a life

© Janet Martin