Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Free For the Taking



 
It was one of those Second-cup days; press repeat:) I promise this is the last one for today!

Once more the hour breaks in two
Before the last half slips from view
Only to refill with brand new
Tick-tock free for the taking

Oh, little life-song softly spun
Dropping in moments one by one
Clock-metered measure; tell me hon,
What is it we are making?

Silver-swift spangled semi-sphere
Lilting of laughter, touch of tear
A penny for your thoughts, my dear
What is it we are molding?

Ah. moment-melded melodies
And golden-gilded agonies
Hon, we are making memories
For thought’s tender-sweet holding

© Janet Martin

Of Hearts and Having and Holding...





Hearts are not meant
To be shuttered and barred
Though having and holding and loving
Is hard

Tis better to love
Suffering romance
Than to die unscathed without taking
Love’s chance

Hearts are not hollows
But harbors of hope
The more that we love, oh the more
We can cope

…and love’s letting go
Is the bittersweet smile
Of having and holding a heart
For a while

© Janet Martin

This morning 'my baby' got up early to make her hair pretty for school; so unlike the old Victoria, but she will turn 13 in a little over a month! This realization sent a fresh jolt of 'holding on' through me, yet we all know love cannot hold what must be let go...

Poet


Vast and varied, ink-persuasion
Vexed by nothing but a thought
Intangible rush of passion
Spilling bravely into jot

Artist not of tinted pigment
Where a thousand word-scapes waft
Pen and parchment the lone canvas
To portray oceans of thought

Hurricane held in a levee
Moaning, groaning intercourse
Not of common causes, fleshly
But of soul and spirit force

Fusion of desire and duty
Trembles, tracing every line
Until we can feel the Beauty
That at last word can define

 Breathless capsheaf; awe and hunger
Apex of coveted release
Pinnacle of pen and paper
As the poet finds his peace

© Janet Martin

and I realized, whether house-wife or cowboy, theologian or wanderer, poets share a common hunger to paint passion in word.


The By and By



 

It’s so hard on these freezing mornings to uncurl from that cozy cover-cocoon

…but, this is not some futile quest
That we traverse from sod to sky
And moments are not mercy’s jest
Painting morning, noon and midnight

The Hope for whom we strive is not
A phantom Thing lost when we die
And what we suffer here is but
A brief prelude to By and By

The By and By; ah, this is where
Faith will unveil what Time conceals
Of promises told in His Word
As reckoning God’s Truth reveals

So we press forward, morn to morn
Knowing death is not our reward
Though unbelievers often scorn
This Awesome Thing told in His Word

Life is a highway, not to death
But to an ageless By and By
And moments are Time’s little breath
Leading to where we never die

© Janet Martin

For some inexplicable reason I woke with this parable being one of my first thoughts …

The Rich Man and Lazarus Luke 16:19-31

 “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day.  At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores  and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table. Even the dogs came and licked his sores.
“The time came when the beggar died and the angels carried him to Abraham’s side. The rich man also died and was buried.  In Hades, where he was in torment, he looked up and saw Abraham far away, with Lazarus by his side.  So he called to him, ‘Father Abraham, have pity on me and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, because I am in agony in this fire.’
 “But Abraham replied, ‘Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, while Lazarus received bad things, but now he is comforted here and you are in agony.  And besides all this, between us and you a great chasm has been set in place, so that those who want to go from here to you cannot, nor can anyone cross over from there to us.’
 “He answered, ‘Then I beg you, father, send Lazarus to my family,  for I have five brothers. Let him warn them, so that they will not also come to this place of torment.’
 “Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the Prophets; let them listen to them.’
 “‘No, father Abraham,’ he said, ‘but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.’
 “He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’”


Tuesday, January 28, 2014

When Looking Back





When you have swept the highways clean
And melted from garden and pond
When you have chased the silver sheen
Out to the sky-line and beyond

And oh, when you have tickled bare
The northern half of hinterland
Perhaps then we will soft revere
How beautiful you were, and grand

When you have vented your last gale
And gathered up your bully-breeze
And when this powder-painted vale
Gleams, only in our memories

And oh, when you gentle your greed
Growling at every crease and crack
Perhaps at last we will concede
You weren’t so bad, when looking back

© Janet Martin

For Troy...and every other girl and boy





God thought and He thought
Then, when He was through
He wove from His fingers
A most beautiful you

Your nose and your eyes
Your shape and your skin
Will never be made
Quite like this again

And oh, how He loves you
Not by what you do
But simply because
You are perfectly you

© Janet Martin

Inspired by a very precious boy whose name is Troy.

There is nothing quite as painful for a parent
As hurting for their child.

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