As For Man...

 (Song in Ojibway language with lyrics. Scroll down for words in English.)

“We are not here to celebrate life or death, said the minister at Vera’s funeral yesterday, but we are here to consider the seriousness of both.”

Here, where we love to laugh and learn

And contemplate time’s no return

Here, where the morning tide refills

What twilight drains to misted hills

Here, in the pulsing Must of Now

Before we lay our gauntlets down

We tread a sacred thoroughfare

That leads, for one and all to There

Here, in this hold-let-go affair

Of growing old beneath death’s stare

Here, where the flowers bloom then bleed

Upon the tomb that seals our need

Here, all who come to pass must climb

Beyond this little grass of time

For we are bound with common care

Toward that all-immortal There

There, where a roll-call will be read

There, where Truth crowns both hope and dread

There, where the place that we call Here

Will in a twinkle disappear

Thus, we are wise to contemplate

The awesome Prize that fools debate

And we would do well to prepare

Here, for forever’s over There

 

© Janet Martin

 As for man, his days are like grass; As a flower of the field, so he flourishes. When the wind has passed over it, it is no more, And its place acknowledges it no longer.…Ps. 103:15-16

Vera asked that we sing this song at the funeral service ...

O think of the home over there,
By the side of the river of light,
Where the saints, all immortal and fair,
Are robed in their garments of light.
Over there, over there,
O think of the home over there,
Over there, over there,
O think of the home over there.

O think of the friends over there,
Who before us the journey have trod,
Of the songs that they breathe on the air,
In their home in the palace of God.
Over there, over there,
O think of the friends over there,
Over there, over there,
O think of the friends over there.

My Savior is now over there,
There my kindred and friends are at rest,
Then away from my sorrow and care,
Let me fly to the land of the blest.
Over there, over there,
My Savior is now over there,
Over there, over there,
My Savior is now over there.

I’ll soon be at home over there,
For the end of my journey I see;
Many dear to my heart, over there,
Are watching and waiting for me.
Over there, over there,
I’ll soon be at home over there,
Over there, over there,
I’ll soon be at home over there.

Words: De­Witt C. Hunt­ing­ton, cir­ca 1873.

Music: Tul­li­us C. O’Kane 

Jesus is Coming
…"I, Jesus, have sent My angel to testify to you these things for the churches. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star." The Spirit and the bride say, "Come." And let the one who hears say, "Come." And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who wishes take the water of life without cost. Rev.22:16-17

Dear Little Day

 We are sincerely hoping this day is holding rain. We have had only a few drops since the seeds went into the ground!

Dear little day, just beginning

What do you hold in your hands?

Will it be flowers or sorrow

Spilling their tears on time’s sands?

Dear little day barely breathing

Artist of bustle and rush

What are the colors bequeathing

Memories poised on your brush

Dear little day never witnessed

Or handled or held before

What are the pictures you’ll scatter

At dusk, on living room’s floor

Dear little day, soft you offer

‘never-again’ charges to keep

For when you slip from Time’s favor

You will not wake from your sleep

© Janet Martin

A Poem in the Making

Sometimes, to set words in order

…to arrange them in the thought

That aches to break free from head-quarters

I cannot

Sometimes thought is like a shadow

Something that we cannot grasp

An elusive sort of vexing shaped by present,

Future, past

Sometimes words seem to evade me

In the quest to spell thought’s howls

They rebel against the ink of consonants

And vowels

Sometimes, to corral a message

In the borders of a poem

Is like capturing wild horses with the brandishing

Of broom

Sometimes, words attempt but will not

Sit quite still enough to stay

Where a poem in the making

Slips away

© Janet Martin 

Do you find that sometimes the thought on the tip of formation refuses, choosing to remain a sense rather than a sentence?

Where Apple Trees Are Blooming...

The cannons cease and the darkness falls,

And those fluttering things are men. Edgar A. Guest

Phoenix Rising invites us to use another poets words to inspire our own. 

 

The orchard is a palace where the apple trees are blooming
Nature fulfills promises that only spring can keep
Cold autumnal deathbeds after winter's icy grooming
Spawns a metamorphosis where fields of flowers sleep

I stroll the early morning where the lilacs are adorning
Twigs that seemed but lifeless sprigs before awakening
Our oohs and aahs and the applause of tongue-tied beggar-barons
Contentment's luxury is free and not a purchased Thing

...And I can't help but think of those who fled with almost nothing
Save the clothes upon their backs and children in their arms
Never mind that skies are kind and apple trees are blooming
Evil has no season;bent on ugliness that harms

Here among the song of birds and freedom bought with bodies
Hope is juxtaposed like spring, with suffering and death 
And mingled with the virgin hues of greens and blues, gold, purple
Runs the blood of fallen comrades yielding their last breath

The cannons cease and the darkness falls and those fluttering things are men
And boys and girls that will not see another spring again

Janet~

Lest We Forget...

Easy Service

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye

Or a legless form I see,

I breathe my thanks to my God on High

For His watchful care o'er me.

And I say to myself, as the cripple goes

Half stumbling on his way:

I may brag and boast, but that brother knows

Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den

Puffing one of my many pipes

That I've served with all of my fellow men

The glorious Stars and Stripes.

Then I see a troop in the faded blue

And a few in the dusty gray,

And I have to laugh at the deeds I do

For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire,

The sport of the blazing sun,

Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire

As the tides of battle run,

And I fancy I hear their piteous calls

For merciful death, and then

The cannons cease and the darkness falls,

And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death,

Yet the Reaper spurns their cries,

And it seems his jest to leave them breath

For their pitiful pleas and sighs.

And I am here in my cosy room

In touch with the joys of life,

I am miles away from the fields of doom

And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid,

Nor suffered real pangs of thirst,

I have marched with life in its best parade

And never have seen its worst.

In the flowers of ease I have ever basked,

And I think as the Flag I see

How much of service from some it's asked,

How little of toil from me.

Edgar Albert Guest :

Daylight Slips Where Air Eclipses Time's Ellipses...

Daylight slips where air eclipses Time’s ellipses ethereal

Sky-lines etched like charcoal sketches stretch blue shadows long until

Darkness covers loners, lovers; morrow hovers soft, aloft

Where the charter of an hour never barters with the clock

Midnight’s morrow with its sorrow none can borrow of its ilk

Dew and dust anoints the Must that God appoints to us; Time’s silk

Like an ocean in slow-motion washes over twilight’s world

Daylight slips, darkness eclipses the ellipses dawn unfurled

Morning offers merchants, scoffers, beggars, coffers fresh, unfilled

In the quiet echoes riot where the dark of night has stilled

Tussles with the hustle-bustle rubric of Time’s gossamer

Daylight slips where the eclipse of past, present and future blur

© Janet Martin