This Side of Heaven or Summer Morn

This side of Heaven summer morning is its closest kin

Soft as the sigh of angels slips the light through night’s starred skin

And gentle as the touch of God’s hand stirs the sleepy breeze

Waking nature’s fair-feathered band in meadowland and trees

And on the girth of earth an anthem rises from the dew

The bloom unfolds its praises to the Maker of its hue

The brook gurgles in gladness at the mercy of new day

Farmers inhale the fragrance of heaven in fresh-mown hay

The gard’ner sings as worship from heart full of wonder brims

Heaven’s foothills spill miracles in rainbow-coloured hymns

Where milky-silky mist-scarf veils the valley like a bride

And we feel honoured to be guests of summer’s morning-tide

The happiness of hope is brighter on a summer morn

The heart a little lighter between earth and heaven torn

For surely this is holy ground and surely angels tread

In almost-Eden’s paradise (for we still toil for bread)

Ripple of teal and silver wheels across the glossy field

Where we stand on the brink of ink-wells ilk not yet revealed

Save for the tender splendor where pink tremors on the east

Expand until the land is like a panoramic feast

The wild grass waves its banner over graves of yester-year

Hollows, heavy with slumber yawn as shadows disappear

Where the plush hush before the rush of toil draws us to kneel

Where summer morning is as close to God as man can steal

© Janet Martin

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
    his mercies never come to an end;  
they are new every morning;
 great is your faithfulness.
Lam.3:22-23

Dear Summer....

While it rained the sun set...
SO beautiful!
Summer seems to be equal blends of euphoria and sweet sadness/longing!
It's moving along SO fast!

Soon the lyricists of autumn will be tuning your farewell

Weaving from your wake of echoes that which only wind can spell

Soon the cricket will be quiet leaving in its sea of sound

Tatters of a russet riot spilling wildly to the ground

Soon the airy arms of August will fill with bronze bric-a-brac

Tearing something from our Bearing that we never can get back

Soon we’ll look back on your shimmer; summer, soulful, bitter-sweet

As we worm back into sweaters and tug socks back onto feet

Knowing how, as even now we sense time’s ten-turbulent tug

There is taking in the giving no matter how hard we hug

© Janet Martin

To Think That Poetry Runs Dry...

To think that poetry runs dry

Were to lose awestruck ‘wonder-why’

Were to lose sight of sky-sea-sod

Were to lose faith in faithful God

Were to succumb to fear and dread

Were to forget to pray instead

Were to be deaf and dumb and blind

And be no longer sound of mind

Were to despair in discontent

Exchanging laughter for lament

Exchanging love for bitter feud

Forgetting God’s mercy renewed

Forgetting to give thanks and sing

For we owe all and own nothing

To think that poetry runs dry

Would be to hate Beauty’s reply

To find no joy in bloom-strummed fence

Or in cherubic innocence

Or boyish mischief’s guilty look

Or worlds away inside a book

Or find only a doleful gloom

When beholding a mop and broom

Not feeling blissful as a dream

When windows sparkle and floors gleam

When supper waits in garden-plots

Then finds its way to pans and pots

When feeling glad to be alive

Is like a God-to-man high-five

To think that poetry runs dry

Would be to just lie down and die

And not put flowers in a jar

To marvel at each detailed star

No chuckle for the curious pup

No meadow for the buttercup

No back-front porch comradery

No coffee-break or cuppa-tea

No to-do lists or curly-tops

Or tree limbs threaded with rain-drops

Or grins that steal your very breath

Only the sins that hasten death

And there would be no you-and-me

If poetry would cease to be

© Janet Martin

Ode to Summer's Flower-days...

Now from earth’s hearth of dust and ash Hope’s phoenix spreads its wings

Where berth of Trust becomes a sash of bright and blooming things

It tucks to Past’s eternal ken a tune among its bricks

And clucks like Mother Nature’s hen over Her brood of chicks

And rouses from a crumb of seed, an orchestra of praise

And sutures wounds of want and need with summer’s flower-days

Now ink can quench its thirst for pink from fount of flower-bell

And Wanderlust can pause, immersed in mauve and golden swell

As days that long we longed for ripple like a stippled sweep

Of silver sun-kissed corn-leaf seas July-high and knee-deep

And Hunger is an ocean where the shoreline is the sky

That swallows up emotion like a twinkle in Time’s eye

Now work becomes a pleasant task on canvases of bloom

Where Eden, though we didn’t ask, is mirrored in each plume

And we no longer mourn as much for The Sweet By and By

Because now touch and such is easier to satisfy

Where everywhere we look we see a glimpse of Better Place

As bare toes wiggle in the dirt that bursts with summer-grace

Now, just a word of caution; for this forge of flower-cheer

Is soon blurred like the action of the hand that wipes the tear

So, lest the Best of Days (July) slip by midst much to-do

Let’s chase the butterfly and stop to smell the roses too

And do Such Beauty justice with a second and third look

Where soon this loom of dust is drained to pages in a book

© Janet Martin

A Giant Leap in the Right Direction

Today, if we would be the way God wishes us to be

Let’s try to be a little kinder to our fellowman

Where fundamental need is kindred whether we agree

On how or what should be done when; let’s do the best we can

To do to others as we would that they would do to us

And not fuss, fret or fume because of difference in style

But simply love each other with the kindness of Jesus

Instead of criticism let’s encourage more, and smile

Let’s be content instead of lament and jealousy-cursed

Instead of rude impatience let’s be more gracious and meek

Instead of me-me-me let’s put the need of others first

And oh, let’s think a little more before we simply speak

© Janet Martin