Monday, December 5, 2016

Wonder-world



"no more mud!" she announced 

Nature’s decorator
Tiptoed through the night
Leaving in each window-frame
Wonder-worlds of white

Without noisy fanfare
Nature’s nymph unfurled
Beneath wordless lisp and wisp
A white wonder-world

Now, where yester-morning
Earth was threadbare, brown
Every nook and crook is cloaked
In a snowy gown

Sing a song of seasons
Autumn flame grows dim
Nature tips from heaven
Winter’s wonder-hymn

© Janet Martin


The Wherewithal of Poetry





Sometimes your candour fills her thought
Yet will not let her longing free
Nor satisfy with twist and jot
The wherewithal of poetry

Your fluent undertow runs rife
With epic possibility
To paint the picture-scapes of life
And love in tongue of poetry

The poet craves the ink of you
To set to page pieces of heart
 To wage the wars of gold and blue
And capture want in works of art

But sometimes you evade her call
Without regard or sympathy
Ah word, the utter wherewithal
And paint-palette of poetry

© Janet Martin

Sunday, December 4, 2016

How Little We Know





How little we know
How much God loves
He hears the prayer
That has no sound
His goodness
And mercy approves
Unfailing grace that
Knows no bound


How little we know
How much God sees
The good, the bad,
The ugly, oh,
Still, He abides
 In spite of these
He never will
Forsake us, no

How little we know
How much God knows
The heart of man
Is wicked, yes
But God, so rich
In mercy shows
With each new dawn
His faithfulness 

How little we know
How much God cares 
There is no need 
Too great or small
How little we know
How much our prayers
Are heeded by
The Lord of all


© Janet Martin

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Of Fond-framed Forevers





Sometimes far-gone times and places
Faded faces, dim and gray
Return to tune thought's embraces
Almost like it was yesterday

Fond, with tender touch we travel
Back to friendships blurred by years
As moments betwixt unravel
Breadth of Bygone disappears

Then the air is filled with laughter
Faces missed, soft-kissed with tears
Where we wear life’s ever-after
Claimed and framed with mist of years

© Janet Martin

Neighbours for a few years... friends forever!



Of Dried Ink Scrawls and Dust



 I'm a greeting-card 'keeper'. I think I get it from my mom.
She called the other day and shared a chuckle from a card I drew for her YEARS ago!

These cards come from a box of my Grandmother's cards.
She left us long ago, as did Uncle Klaus, but echoes linger...
(funny where looking through cards for a Sunday-school craft can take us:)


When we reach that portal
Where, what is left of us
Are echoes, still mortal
Of dried ink-scrawls and dust

When we’ve left behind us
Grind of laughter and tears
And slip to the silence
Of death and yester-years

What piece of our heart, love
Will remain as the proof
That once we were part of
Time’s multitudes of earth

And what, when we gather
Where all living things must
Will morrow’s world harbor
Of dried ink-scrawls and dust

© Janet Martin

In this generation of click-read-and-delete, 
what will remain of 'us'?
..what will they read? 
It reminds us to leave tangible 'whispers' doesn't it?

Got to hang out with one of my favorite 'little guys' last night:)