Of Borrower's Lot...

It seems like there's always something to trouble us, 
said Hubby yesterday in an afternoon phone call to discuss some of our most pressing cares...
after the sun had spilled its spun gold through morning's minute hold...

Yes, it seems there always something to trouble us
because
 "Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble.

He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: 

he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not."

Job 14:1-2 

But, the Giver of all is Bigger...

 

We are on borrowed time

None of inherent right

The Glochenspeil of season-chime

Gifts morning, noon and night

This wisp of wonder-world

Where pleasure melds with pain

Is like a breath-banner unfurled

Then curled back up again

A monumental blip

Regardless of the years

A cradle-to-hearse fellowship

Of lent laughter and tears

…and Love that will not fail

While hellos and goodbyes

Lead to that one final exhale

That severs earthy ties

And stills the pendulum

That spills Borrower’s laud

And tolls the elemental sum

Of Soul’s return to God

© Janet Martin

What A Love/Life!

 

 

 

 

Love God, love others; it ain't rocket science. 

Wise words from my friend Patrick! #TOOLS

this from my nephew

(Works at CMF Youth Worker)  this morning!

Yes. amen, but Oh! what a love.

(Part of what made me smile when I read this is because this verse...

  Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.

John 13:34 

...was impressed on my heart before my feet touched down to begin another day of

...oh, what a LOVE!)

Those hard-fought smiles and second miles

And turn the other cheek

The ‘bite your tongue’ lest words are flung

We wish we could un-speak

Those longer prayers for wrongs and cares

Which make us stronger when

We look to He from bended knee

To lift us up again

Those secret tears and sacred fears

For souls still lost, Without

Where grace is free until we see

He who removes all doubt

The give-and-give each day we live

Without counting the price

This altar of Authentic/agape Love

A ceaseless sacrifice

This Hope we seek for flesh is weak

We often make mistakes

But Jesus cares; Love hears our prayers

And heals the heart that breaks

Those promises that cheer and bless

While on and up we trod

They keep our eyes fixed on Love's prize

Held in the hands of God

© Janet Martin

The Colour of Laughter

Are you longing for silver to brighten your gray day?
It's the smallest among us that can turn our blah to hurrah!

During a bit of before-nap boredom I dumped a box of stuffies on the floor.
She shrieked, giggled, tumbled and rolled while I laughed!

And sometimes

If only for

The lifespan of a bubble

We forget words like

Worry, heartbroken, trouble

While we laugh, like

Joy’s silver ribbons unfurled

As if we didn’t have

A care in the world

© Janet Martin

Of Autumn Leaves...

The bud becomes the green of it

The green, a sheen of trees

But always at the end of it

…Autumn leaves

The heart becomes the hub of hope

Hope hungers, yet believes

It sees beyond the stricken slope

Where Autumn leaves

Oh, how we sing for joy of it

The color-world it weaves

Before the winnowing of it

In Autumn leaves

Futile to cling to strings that fray

Mouth smiles though spirit grieves

And thrills; the Painter spills His tray

Of Autumn leaves

Morning is a girl, slight of years

Time’s tide rushes, recedes

Where dusk is like a widow’s tears

Where Autumn bleeds

While we, like children press our faces

To frames filled with sheaves

And watch the wind-wand as it chases

Rain through leaves

As we hug hurt, stirred by the dirt

Where bud never retrieves

The tatters of a fallen shirt

Of Autumn leaves

© Janet Martin

October's Orchestra

Autumn ardor kindles

The color that dwindles

Where Ownership swindles

The song from the stem

Matrix of pure Beauty

Graces nature’s Duty

Musky-spicy- fruity

Brooding diadem

Scarlet-copper-yellow

Maraca and cello

Mingle, raw and mellow

In awe’s symphony

Silk-soft and frost-brittle

Piccolo and fiddle

Tug, twirl, tease and twiddle

Shaped notes from the tree

Power of persuasion

Trumps determination

Where all of creation

Is subject to He

Who conducts the choir

Of shallow and spire

A majestic gyre

Of sky, sod and sea

He strums firth with shower

Thrums bud into flower

Earth’s drum wakes the bower

And leaf-pianist

Four-season precision

The bough is a vision

Of birth to fruition  

To postlude of mist

© Janet Martin