Evaluation Test

Who I am is not proven

By words, sweet and tender

But its truth is spoken

By what I surrender

Who I am is not stated

By wealth or by price

But its truth is meted

By what I sacrifice

Who I am is not shared

By prideful boast

But its truth is declared

By what I serve most

The clock does not tally

Achievements and such

It unfurls a Ballet

Of taste, treasure, touch

Who I am is not hidden

The hour will prove

As choice becomes action

Whom I most love

© Janet Martin

What is Spring?

Spring

is that thing

which smiles away

the garden’s filled

with snow

And where the

ground is

winter-bound

the year’s

first flowers

grow

© Janet Martin

Tangible Optimism

These wishes

Winter-weary

Work with one eye on the storm

And the other on a window

Splashed with sun-gold

Grinning charm

These hours

Swept with snowflakes

Cannot freeze Time’s moment-fling

And I know

From past experience

They always lead to spring

© Janet Martin

I’m working at some spring-cleaning early just in case we get an early spring! This is my tangible optimism!

However, cleaning windows? entirely out of question!

Far-fetched and Free

     

For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he:Prov.23:7

image source; public form

You came to me, far-fetched and free

And I did not restrain you

But chose instead, inside my head

To grandly entertain you

…and what began as nothing but

A thought unforced, unbidden

Provoked my will often until

It was no longer hidden

And what began as far-fetched thought

Free and un-reprehended

Became the very thing I did

Because I entertained it

© Janet Martin

Good or bad, thought is the precursor to attitude and action…

Our Keeper

 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?  Matt. 6:26

Ah, ye that first formed everything

Of sky and land and sea

And breathed Time to existence

Where nothing used to be

Ah ye who transcends ‘being’

I AM; beneath, above

Within and out and nothing ever

Greater than Thy love

Ah ye, who knows all reason

Beyond our vision-scope

And offers to our longing

Thy everlasting hope

Ah ye, Father of mercy

Hear these meek words I pray

And fill us with love’s perfect peace

Within Thy care today

© Janet Martin

All you guys down south, bracing for The Big Snow Storm, my thoughts and prayers are with you... J~

In the Fading of the Light

Seems to me there is an hour

After day, before the night

When the world is softly cradled

In the fading of the light

Here blue-gray dons pastel pathos

And the hurried-ness of feet

Pauses ‘neath lone star pavilion

On a periwinkle street

Now the cruel care of living

Takes a tender second-place

For farewell is fondly waving

To a day of heaven-grace

And its skylight gently closes

To the deeper tones of night

Nearer to tomorrow’s roses

In the fading of the light

Here within the hush of ages

Past and present intertwine

As we sense the turn of pages

Where regret and hope align

As redemption soothes our error

We, bearers of human plight

Sense a Hand, immortal, tender

In the fading of the light

Soon the night will snuff its splendor

Ere the morrow comes to pass

As we suffer all things human

Trickling through Time’s ether glass

But, before the dark’s returning

After we have borne the fight

Of another day of learning

Comes the fading of the light

...Someday, when we reach the shoreline

Twixt Time and eternity

As we sense death’s darkness falling

Over this mortality

Then we’ll hear a kind voice calling

Drawing us from endless night

To an everlasting morning

In the fading of the light

© Janet Martin

Winter Picnic-Table

For now

The birds may feed

Upon some drifting seed

That lodges there

Where ice and snow

And cold winds blow

Instead of sunbeams fair

For now

No bare or flip-flop feet

Will pause to rest a bit

No peanut-butter

And jam sandwiches

Enjoyed slow

As we sit

To languish in the high noon sun

Or sample summer-fare

Of garden-goodness

Freshly-picked

In sassafrass-sweet air

And for now we do not gather

At the supper-hour of day

To exchange love-laughing stories

Where the dappled shadows splay

Or to listen to the jortle

Of the robin and the lark

Sharing watermelon moments

Letting light slip into dark

No,

For now

We let warm memories

And echoes soft re-play

Over winter’s picnic table

Spring is not

Too

Far

Away

© Janet Martin

Cold anyone?
A little warm-up:)

Of Nature's Banjoists and Balladeers

This morning the minstrels deliver snow-song...again:)

Open up our eyes, Oh Maestro, open up our sluggish ear

For the piping song of nature spills into the atmosphere

‘Twould be a sin of grossest greed to blind and deafly pass

Without acknowledgement or heed, the reed that tunes the grass

The choristers of clover-mead and snow-swept solitude

The minstrels clad in sultan-thread attuning winter’s wood

The wild-bloom choir, the vesper fire, the hazy noon refrain

Of locust drone or wild-wind moan or silver-throated rain

How rare the aria  that wafts on midnight’s ether realm

The cockcrow canticle on soft and purple-misted helm

From barren branch to leaf-lace lilt; majestic madrigal

‘ere nature dons the dappled kilt of summer-song and fall

Where is the violin that vexes poplar tress and pine?

The timbrel and the tambourine attuning fair and fine

Her midnight, morning, noon alloy with stunning melody

Filling the air with giddy joy where else sorrow would be?

Oh Maestro of ten thousand, thousand orchestral designs

Dare I to breathe obliviously love’s beauty-blended lines?

Dare I to tread in blind, deaf greed this scope of snow and sand

Without acknowledgement or heed, the reed in Heaven’s Hand?

© Janet Martin

This poem was inspired by the poem below...

I have felt the 'rush' he speaks of. Have you?

Jayne Jaudon Ferrer delivers a daily highlight (aka poem) to my in-box faithfully!

This morning was one of those poems that immediately had to be re-read!

…and I thought oh yes, I know that wild and wondrous feeling…

‘F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo, 
Like dat one upon de wall.’

A Banjo Song by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, dere's lots o' keer an' trouble  In dis world to swaller down;  An' ol' Sorrer's purty lively  In her way o' gittin' roun'.  Yet dere 's times when I furgit 'em,--  Aches an' pains an' troubles all,--  An' it 's when I tek at ebenin'  My ol' banjo f'om de wall.  'Bout de time dat night is fallin'  An' my daily wu'k is done,  An' above de shady hilltops  I kin see de settin' sun;  When de quiet, restful shadders  Is beginnin' jes' to fall,--  Den I take de little banjo  F'om its place upon de wall.  Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me  In de fadin' o' de light,  Ez I strike de strings to try 'em  Ef dey all is tuned er-right.  An' it seems we 're so nigh heaben  We kin hyeah de angels sing  When de music o' dat banjo  Sets my cabin all er-ring.  An' my wife an' all de othahs,--  Male an' female, small an' big,--  Even up to gray-haired granny,  Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;  'Twell I change de style o' music,  Change de movement an' de time,  An' de ringin' little banjo  Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.  An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,  An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise  Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water  Dat was flowin' to my eyes;  An' I feel dat I could sorter  Knock de socks clean off o' sin  Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny  Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.  Den we all th'ow in our voices  Fu' to he'p de chune out too,  Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry  Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.  An' our th'oahts let out de music,  Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,  'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin  Echo wif de melody.  Oh, de music o' de banjo,  Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,  Is de greates' joy an' solace  Dat a weary slave kin know!  So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',  Dough de chune be po' an' rough,  It 's a pleasure; an' de pleasures  O' dis life is few enough.  Now, de blessed little angels  Up in heaben, we are told,  Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime  'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.  Now I think heaben 'd be mo' homelike  Ef we 'd hyeah some music fall  F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,  Like dat one upon de wall. This poem is in the public domain. Purchase a framed print of this poem. Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) was from Ohio. He wrote his first poem at the age of six, was editor of his high school newspaper, and published his first book at twenty. His writing attracted attention from the very beginning, and Paul became well-known in both America and around the world. Like James Whitcomb Riley, who was a fan of his young contemporary's work, Paul wrote many of his poems in dialect. Besides a dozen books of poetry, Paul wrote four short story collections, five novels, a play, and the first  Broadway musical ever written and performed by African-Americans. A tremendously successful poet whose work was being published in all the major literary publications of his day, Paul's life was cut tragically short by tuberculosis.