The Poem

 Don't you love, love how happing upon an unexpected Poem
can make everything else better?!

Sometimes, while I wait for Victoria at her Saturday morning piano lesson, 

I read poetry and find poems(both literally and metaphorically:) I otherwise might not...

(click on image to enlarge for easier reading)

The Poem’s stage is tucked, age-old

In turn of pages in a book

It stars, not in script, loud and bold

But stirs in bracken by the brook

Or wind as it washes through leaves

Or frosted ilk on fronds forlorn

A poem runs through brittle sheaves

Or twist of ink or mist of morn

The Poem seeks no accolade

No crowd to cheer, no loud applause

Enough to touch the promenade

Of sighs and skies with o-o-h-s and a-a-a-h-s

It satisfies without a sound

Its stage a mere wordage or three

And never by a showcase bound

Is the aplomb of poetry

The Poem needs no pedestal

No grandstand to be seen or heard

Enough to love through madrigal  

Enough to leave its lover stirred

Sequestered far from front-row noise

Or ribald popularity

Glad, glad, The Poem sings soul-joys

In quiet anonymity

© Janet Martin

To Mr. Frost...

Are you lonely as you wander

Artist without brush or jars

Detailing in gilt-spun grandeur

Leaf and sheaf and heath, with stars

From frayed pockets you untether

Dye of diamonds, dreams and dew

Fleet as fairy-feet you feather

Autumn’s auburn avenue

No most lowly form forgotten

Genteel now, each vagabond

Kiss o’ mist and moon-dust mornin’

Dazzles sprig and twig and frond

Wisp ‘o wishes turns to wonder

Where your piquant plunder falls

Through a waking world you thunder

Silver makes no sound at all

© Janet Martin

The Unveiling...

Uninhibited, the day

Through the dark night finds its way

Pale its blush of rose expands

Tints the curve of common lands

Breathes to life earth’s color-scale

Folds with gold, night’s charcoal veil

Melts the stars from gilded clime

Melds another morn to Time

Peals with purple-misted toll

That which no man can control

© Janet Martin

Good Morning:)

 

Weep Not For Summer, Love

Weep not for that which is no more

Nor for what cannot be

Darling, the leaf that summer wore

Was born to leave the tree

Weep not for flower-garden spent

Or hours blush and blue

Darling, the way that summer went

We all are going too

Weep not for dreams in lands bereft

Or moment-deft demise

Darling, dance on what yet is left

…a ballroom beneath skies

Weep not, my love, for scattered gold

Or green weaned of its sheen

Darling, the way to growing old

Is built on what has been

© Janet Martin