Stage of Almost His'try

I wrote this earlier today when Little Girl was scheduled for morning nap, 

(because she arrives before sun-up) but she definitely didn't get that memo. 

Nap #2 was a no-go as well and poof, so much for another day!

This one sorta tumbled out 'cuz it was one of those mornings that begged to be skied or walked across

 but Duty handed me a more domestic Beauty, so we admired the Gift from windowed frames.

Precious page of almost hist'ry sets a stage beneath our touch

Breaks through bars of almost heaven to delight the likes of us

Strews the glitter of potential through the dimming of the stars

And invites us to be thankful in spite of life’s slights and scars

Precious poise of noise and nuance tries sighs of caged wanderlust

Hunger kicks beneath the ribs while duty ties hands to its Must

Urging us, from four-wall corrals to be tenderly surprised

By a beauty-full decanter if we open up our eyes

Windows frame the Wow of seasons slipping ‘cross the countryside

Granting us ten-thousand reasons to be humbly satisfied

For this page of almost His’try is a very short-lived place

Always sealing with each sundown that which no one can erase

Worship bows in adoration to the Giver of our days

Breath-taking evaluation stuns complaint with rev’rent praise

As dawn's Door swings gently open to time’s most imminent Yet

Prompting us to tread with awe where almost Hist’ry’s stage is set

© Janet Martin

Part of the Purpose of Poetry

To touch that much-loved clime once more

Where soon morn's boon is borne away

To taunt us from a mist-kissed shore

Soft-sketched with scenes of yesterday

To trace the place beyond our reach

To feel its tender spiel once more

To wander down a silver beach

Washed with whisper-capped waves of yore

To pause because, caught on the air

We sense a flare of purple-gold

And petal snow soft-scattered where

Earth wears a garden white and cold

To smile a while because we learn

To realize the size of This

Is soon the Thing that fills the Urn

With ashes of what today is

To choose to make the most of now

And thank the poet with a pen

Because ink rhyme-and-verse somehow

Allows us to return again

© Janet Martin

Voice of Choice

 I started this poem early yesterday morning before being distracted by sunrise skies...

 before being moved by this message...

before Sunday dinner at my parents...

before not getting home til after dark

before beginning another week as soon as our feet hit home-turf last night

...and somehow it became a poem about choices 

because SO much has happened recently to

impress on me the long-term impact of choices!
 

This race of hopes and dreams we chase and replace year by year  

Is like game of guesses always veiled in Now and Here

Where mankind, always caught between what was and waits to be

Must choose to trust in God or wallow in fear’s misery

Choice is an awesome twinkle in the eye of centuries

Its impact, none can fathom as its slips from touch with ease

To endure the dynamics of a far and forward path

Where many feet will follow in its concrete aftermath

So subtle in its bearing, Choice sets out a vast buffet

And voices if the heart could talk the words that it would say

And like a spark can start a fire, Choice, cruel or kind

Can set a course in motion that never once crossed the mind

Time’s steadfast pace of change, while oft it rearranges plans

Can never thwart the channels that the mercy of God spans

Then, take heart, fellow-traveler, for the unknown road we face

Runs through and to the outstretched hands of everlasting grace

…so we may choose to trust or wallow in fear’s misery

And we may choose gods doomed to dust or Love’s Authority

And we may choose to lose our life in answer to God’s call

Or choose to turn our backs on Him and through this lose it all

© Janet Martin

Home-Sweet-Home

Oh, the things we do for house and home,
because a house is the box that holds family and friends
and all the nice winter book and tea memories (if one can stay awake)

Flood update; no concrete evidence as to 'why' but we have the best guys on the job

and they figured out what to do to keep it from ever happening again, hopefully!

and because of this 'event' something to enjoy this winter...
planning a complete over-haul of the west and south-side flower-gardens!

Home;

Its scenes enchant the heart and mind

To cheer our creature care

It fuels Duty’s daily grind

With humble, thankful prayer

It nurtures diligence and dreams

A haven, kind and warm

When life is harsh and cold it beams

Its Beacon through the storm

Far more than a four wall embrace

Enfolds its precious clan

Where progress will never replace

This kind solace for man

A modest box of brick-wood-stone

It frames life’s dearest joys

As we work fingers to the bone

For darling girls and boys

And mother plants a bloom or two

To smile upon the sill

And fills a bowl with supper stew

To ward off hunger’s chill

And finds within its scenes the lines

To living’s sweetest poem

Where family, not house defines

The happiness of home

(…and though its thrills oft come with bills

That keeps the cash-cow thin

Nothing else in the world fulfills

Like Home-sweet-home’s glad grin)

© Janet Martin

When we were traveling this fall I remarked to Jim as we were having the continental breakfast in the motel how everyone in the room has one thing in common; we are all away from home.
Home is always that sweet-solace-goal no matter where we are
and how much we love what we are doing!
The thought that home waits at the other end when we are done is what makes it so worthwhile.
A nice metaphor for Heaven, isn't it, as we travel through life.
Home is waiting when we are done!

This is one of my favourite hymns

Treasure Hunt-Wealth Guaranteed

When our way is littered with the wealth of ‘having had’

And the wind turns bitter where the sun glittered, warm-gold

Then we look around us for new reasons to be glad

Hunting for the treasure that only the heart can hold

Life is like a teacher and a preacher and a thief

We are always not too old to master something new

Nobody outgrows the reaches of gladness or grief

As we dig for treasure where time’s dust and trust runs through

Happiness is not a goal, but takes us by surprise

Right in the middle of a little kerfuffle with ‘no’

It gobsmacks us on the back or startles hungry sighs

With treasures we trampled on until steps had to slow

Nothing is for nothing if we first choose hope and love

Opportunity is often dressed in common guise

We are all prospectors standing on a teeming trove

Where we will find treasure if we open up our eyes

© Janet Martin