Sage's Promise... Two-for-two Tues.

Every year PAD'S two-for-two Tues. includes this prompt: 
write a love poem. write an anti-love poem

Maybe in time her heart will not lurch

At the mention of you

Where the color blue

And thought of you merge

Maybe, in time she will find

Who she was before your ‘love’

Fell, lifeless as the glove

A straggler left behind

Maybe in time, Time's ripple effect

Will ripple beyond her reach

...the waves that wash across the beach

Not charged with echoes they resurrect

And, maybe, maybe after a while

Time will, as sage's promise, 'heal’

And then maybe she will feel

The laughter that wears her smile

© Janet Martin

To Every Trail of Dust

Resolve evolves and blooms perhaps and then dissolves in years

Time chimes and mimes its predecessors; then it disappears

Yet never does; what was is simply what is, ere we find

Like mighty, thund’ring stead it leaves a trail of dust behind

Hunger carves holes in souls and burns like fire in the breast

The Urn of No Return a levee heavy with clock-jest

We kick off boots at night then tie them tight again at dawn

Not knowing what will fill the still-life trail of dust we spawn

We pray the Lord our way to keep then leap hope-deep ahead

On avenues where Old and New alloy in joy and dread

Love-lust, fear-trust, may-must, the war-horses that riders stride

Stirring a trail of dust upon time’s swift-receding tide

‘Alas, alas’, would be the climax of each indrawn breath

The hour-glass a noose through which we pass but once to Death

But for God’s grace to human race, and love that bestows worth

To every trail of dust we weave then leave upon the earth

© Janet Martin

In Poetry

from Living With Poetry by Howard Lewis Trueman

Most intimate of friendships, thine

Where thought and ink soft intertwine

To rouse and wrest from pageantry

Of word thy Best in poetry

What impulse doth thy music stir

As sinew, bone and body blur

...a strange familiarity

Held heart to heart in poetry

Your murmur melts into my lips

I crave your bloodless fingertips

For who but thee can touch me where

Acquiescence is akin to prayer

And who knew syllables could woo

With nothing but whispers ink-blue

Pressed once-upon-a-page by thee

Who too was wooed by poetry

Thus you, articulate, and I

Hungry for more than bread and pie

Enmesh, not flesh, but soul as we

Meet, mind to mind in poetry

© Janet Martin

I Am An Artist and Home Is My Canvas...

That day when you spilled coffee-artwork, I scolded, then folded your blue, sorrow-eyes to my kiss

 ‘I am an artist and home is my canvas’

says Anne  at White Lace Cottage

Are you looking for fresh spring or otherwise, colors for your canvas?

Check out her new line of paints here.

This canvas wears lessons of life; summer-winter

Morning-noon-night, fear-delight, hold-let go

Of laughter and loving and learning together

Capturing colors of home-sweet-sweet-home

Time’s touch-savor-treasure tints mute moment-measure

Honey, the money-jar is dry again

But we’re painting pictures that hang on Forever

Highlights of sunbeam and low-lights of rain

 

That day when you spilled coffee-artwork, I scolded

Then folded your blue, sorrow-eyes to my kiss

…forgiven innocence creating new colors

Merchants can never sell murals like this

Home; paint-chipped, life-scarred and hard soft-lipped farewells

Forces fresh tincture, tear-silver, heart-blue

Onto a bold brush flushed with humble betrayals

Of tick and tock and what we thought we knew

A Trial-and-error portrait from  life’s messes

Masterpieces no critic would approve

But, ‘I am an artist and home is my canvas’

I wouldn’t trade it for anything, love

© Janet Martin

What will we paint today?

Tomorrow's Fields...

It is always planting season...

and harvest.

PAD invites us to write a 'things-not-as-it-appears' poem

It is hard to prepare for

What we cannot see

Tomorrow is always

A Mystery

No one can tell us

What its furrow shields

Yet, Today we are planting

Tomorrow’s Fields 

Tomorrow's Fields

With its myst'ry will bear

The offspring of

What we planted there

© Janet Martin