Saturday, August 17, 2013

Everlasting Blue





Some questions I am loathe asking
Do you miss me like I miss you?
When we are far too far apart
Is your heart also billow-blue?
Or is it just another day
Of green and gold with bits of gray?

August is filled with cricket song
And you were gone with spring’s last snow
Future comes swiftly but the past
Reclines beyond time’s moment-flow
Where missing you is like a chant
Of blue where twilight shadows slant

The mind can hold a world of thought
Never released in written word
Strange how wind-song can break the lock
Where fondest farewell tears are stored
I trace the void of missing you
In everlasting shades of blue

© Janet Martin

There's something about cricket-song that evokes the blue in me... perhaps because it's the prelude to summer's end.

Of Heart-tugs and Harvest




 ( I always miss this after we return home, back to the rigorous and relentless rush of duty)

As morning unfolds from sky-rivers of gold
And dawn wears a garment of glistening dew
As yesterday sleeps in past’s infinite deeps
We cradle those heart-tugs of ‘missing-you’

And as the day breaks over valleys and lakes
Chasing night-shadows from earth’s avenue
As morning-song drips from hope’s refurbished lips
We sense seasoned heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

The hour of noon is upon us too soon
Laughter and loving and loss ramble through
The rooms of the heart painting life's ether art
A harvest in heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

Dusk spreads its robe over Time’s little globe
We gather, small beneath daylight’s adieu
And all we can keep as we labor and sleep
Are those precious heart-tugs of ‘missing you’

© Janet Martin

Most serious conversations happen at the most unexpected moments. Such was the case as I drove my son to a friend's house early this morning. He said he thinks we are living in Time's most wicked days so these must be the 'last days'...surely they must be, I replied, yet none of us knows how long these' last days' will tarry...and love for this boy, almost man wrenched my heart, as I prayed there and then that he may grow up strong in the Lord.





The Poet and her Pen



 A comfy chair, coffee, lake and a pen in hand; who could ask for anything more?

When she is gone from you
Or you too far from her
She bears its quiet blue
Without your written word
But still she craves your touch
For she cannot exist
Without the fearless recklessness
Of being almost kissed

You force no obligation
And she with tempered ease
Runs searching fingers over curves
Of want and memories
No chancellor condemns her
No jury sits in wait
Beneath the tune of shimmered noon
Sleeping on silver lake

She slips from dogged hours
And rigid rules of Time
As thought treads bracken-bowers
And sea-song’s rushing rhyme
She does not still the passion
Perplexing Duty's ream
Nor stems its tide; somewhere inside
She dares to dance and dream

When she is gone from you
Your absence keens the deep
Of farewell rending echoed deaths
Where formless poems sleep
Ah pen,what worlds you veil
She craves your humble due
For she is only half a girl
When she is gone from you

© Janet Martin

My family laughed long and loud when they saw my 'farewell' posted a week ago; 9and that farewell is there because when busyness compels me to withdraw I will, for a little;) But the truth is... I see and breathe a little more freely with a pen in my hand;  whether this is a curse or a blessing I cannot say.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Of Holding and Its Molding





We are born for holding,
Holding children as they grow
Holding families or flowers
But in it I’ve come to know
Sweet love’s holding is the molding
For its flip-side…letting go

We are born for holding
Holding moments, memories
But within the touching pleasure
Of love’s present melodies
Comes the flip-side of its measure
Letting go’s sweet agonies

We are born for holding,
Holding those who are brought low
By life’s keen, relentless flowing
Of loving and letting go
We are born for having, holding
And the hurt of letting go

© Janet Martin


Thursday, August 15, 2013

Of Poetry and God




 Pictures of Poetry by John Clare and James Whitcomb Riley


We need a little poetry
The gold on gray, the waking breeze
On life’s highway before the day
Distracts with its formalities

We need to drink the song that spills
From nature’s unsuspecting choir
Or else the hush of blue and blush
Dies like a heart without desire

To fully live is more than pulse
To breathe is death if cares eclipse
The written rhyme and paradigm
Of season-song from heaven’s lips

We need to read God’s tender thought
He loves us so and gave to men
A ceaseless page from age to age
Of poetry from nature’s pen

© Janet Martin

I’m listening to the crickets; come August they never quit! Just like God’s poetry; it spills and fills the vales and rills. When I read centuries-old poetry I am struck by the fact that God’s poetry inspired then just as it still does.

Poetry, before it can be taught or read must be realized.



Of Threads and Things...





They weave through green-leaf spire
Where burnished breezes strum
And aching hearts inquire
Of moments, whence they come
Or where they hurry-scurry
As cricket-song ignites
Awareness of an hour
Infringing azure heights
Stealing blooms from the garden
Snuffing sunflower’s smile
Spilling cadence of autumn
To Augusts’ sanguine guile

I’ve seen its mystic candor
Turn boy into a man
Or watched as ribbons scatter
Where once a wee girl ran
And yet, it seems we’re touching
Those threads weaving their art
We feel a tender tugging
On ribbons ‘round the heart
Firsts pass and who can tether
The span twixt first and last?
As moments thread together
Future, present, then past

Slipping through phantom fingers
Love’s laughter and its tears
Echo where footfalls linger
In the aftermath of years
And all that we can hope for
As seasons ebb and flow
Is strength to hold our loved ones
And strength to let them go
For in the dusty dripping
Of August ilk, sun-spun
We sense the silent slipping
Of a summer almost done

© Janet Martin

 This morning it was 10 degrees C. and very cool all day.I wore a coat to pick beans. THAT is a first! The mind is wrenched from summer to autumn!..but it sounds like summer will return in a few days:)

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

A New Day Dawns





A new day dawns
Imprint upon
The diary
Of summer’s page
We love and learn
Its no return
Preserved within
Past’s ageless age

The plaintive plea
Of memory
Consoles and torments
Wave on wave
Sweet is the hour
‘Neath summer’s bower
Before the winter
And the grave

The flower’s mirth
Returns to earth
Such is the way
Of grass and men
We till its soil
Of troubled toil
Before we join
Its ranks again

Tempest and calm
Flow from the Palm
Of Providence
Darlings of grace
A new day dawns
Urging us on
In one day nearer
To God’s face

© Janet Martin

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Nothing But...



 We girls were walking when hubby and son, returning from a round of golf, picked us up; moments previous to the pic below, as we walked and talked I told them that I was esp. cherishing this vacation for some reason but that if hearts were visible they would see little pieces of mine scattered all over the place. They thought this was hilarious but I know there are a few pieces there in the bed of the pick-up as hubby roared over bumps and we screamed... much to the guy's delight;)


I would wear you in my hair
Like Queen Ann’s Lace on Augusts’ dress
But you, for all your lovely flair
Are nothing… but thought’s tenderness






I would paint you like a prayer
Of ruby silk on dusk’s soft hem
But you, for all that once you were
Are nothing…but thought’s gilded gem

I would flaunt you on fair walls
Portrait of living’s priceless art
But you gleam in the tear that falls
Painting your pictures in my heart



I would hold you like fine gold
Of sun-sparkle on sunset sea
But you, for all your worth untold
Are nothing…but a memory



© Janet Martin