Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Hard To Hold...
How momentary is all this, I think,
as the apple-blossoms scatter like petal-snow,
...as leaves lose their 'first-gold, hard to hold'...
How momentary this,
The bliss of bud unfurled
In sun and sorrow-kiss
To time’s four-season world
How momentary all
Earth’s sprawling mezzanine
Where creature-grief is small
In light of Hope’s Unseen
How momentary light
And dark of night exchange
Their hierarchy, where sight
And Belief are estranged
How momentary time
The pantomime of clocks
Leads to the nearing chime
Of That which
death unlocks
© Janet Martin
Treasures in Jars of Clay
…Therefore we do not lose heart, but though our outer man is
decaying, yet our inner man is being renewed day by day. For momentary, light
affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all
comparison, while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things
which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things
which are not seen are eternal.
2 Cor.4:16-18
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
…"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
Monday, May 25, 2015
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?
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