Monday, February 20, 2017

Thank-you God, For Families

It is Family Day in Ontario...
 We are looking forward to spending it with our family's newest member,
Brantley James Curry (grandson born on Jan. 4)

We thank-you God, for families
They turn a house into a home
And make a life of memories
With people we can call our own

We thank-you God, for families
And pray we never fail to find
The gift in what soon slips with ease
To art-galleries of the mind

We thank-you God, for families
The fuss and mess whereby we learn
To give and help, say thank-you, please
And remember to wait our turn

We thank-you God, for families
And hope that we never forget
To cherish mercies such as these;
Life’s silver cords not broken yet

© Janet Martin


We enjoyed our annual February get-away to Toronto,
remarking, as always, the quickness with which this week-end returns each year.
Generally we battle biting, cold gales but this year we joined strolling throngs along the waterfront,
drinking in the gold and blue delight of a February thaw...

It is quite natural, they say
The way we find our way somehow
From far and foreign yesterday
Into a new yet older Now

The turbulence of tick and tock
Walks through us without much ado
Deriving from offspring of Clock
A new, yet older me and you

For as we learn to acclimate
Life’s 'wait-and-see' with 'my-time-flies'
We realize and ruminate
With new, yet ever older eyes

On common ground of Now and Here
We peer into time’s changing face
The balance beam of year-to-year
A new, yet ever older grace

© Janet Martin

We stopped for a mid-afternoon coffee break at Bob's Coffee Bar
(first week-end open!)where our daughter Melissa works.


 Southern Ontario is enjoying a blip of unseasonal high temps! hooray.

Dark mutes its sigh; the sky adheres
To time’s unstoppered hue, soft blue
As thought pursues its muse of fears
And faith and bit of dreaming too

The air is kissed with grace of God
And we would be remiss to miss
His mercy where the curse of sod
And sweat of thought is more than This

…for This is but the thoroughfare
To where we all will realize
The worth of birth and death; its care
A stairway to more than starred skies

…as thought, for all its sundry ways
Of balancing both good and ill
Cannot do more than trust and gaze
Into the face of days until…

The belfry that tolls where the height
Of sight stops short the might of man
Will fold time’s scroll of day and night
Back to the Whole where we began

© Janet Martin

 Finally, brothers and sisters, 
whatever is true, 
whatever is noble, whatever is right, 
whatever is pure,
 whatever is lovely, 
whatever is admirable—
if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—
think about such things.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Must Be...

Must be these moments dipped in frost
That makes me ponder wonders lost
To love’s inevitable cost

Or maybe it’s the fellowship
Of day-to-days that deftly slip
Like petals, inaudible drip

…from touch into that place of years
Where, in fond fashion reappears
An echo-land in salty spheres

So that the pen cannot ascribe
With ink the yen that aches inside
Of Time and its betokened tide

© Janet Martin

"That's a Nice Hibiscus..."

'Oh, help' said the young, beautiful, willowy woman
inside the door of my laundry room, as she came to pick up her little preschooler.
 'I must be getting old! I just said 'that's a nice hibiscus' as if I knew anything about flowers, 
or cared, 
but I am starting to notice flowers, like my mother!'

Of Stumps, Seasons and Souls

Time’s seasoned heart its rampant art extends
A canvas over grave and cradle-blends
Earth takes on form of hill and dale and bow’r
As morn, from bud-like dorm breaks into flow’r
And frees from terminals beyond our sight
Fresh entity of first and final flight
Night fades into new day, then day dissolves
And so the flow of age to age evolves

Ah, see the stump, the lowly stump bereft
Of barefoot boy and warbler’s wordless clef
The wind that wandered through its leafy loft
Finds haunts not yet by moment-meter doffed
Gravestone to nature’s noble balladeer
Its epitaph declares, ‘a tree stood here’
Ere it fell prey to Day’s dominant barge
That strips morn’s maiden voyage of her charge

The rich man’s roulette wheel distracts from death
The beggar begs for life with every breath
New motherhood in wonder of first child
Drinks joy as pure as in Yore, long exiled
The laborer and lover‘s kindred goal
Of home-sweet-home is nectar to the soul
The morning, like a war-cry from the east
Bids some to sharpen tools and some to feast

Tell me, my friend; this common end we brave
…are any here too mighty for its grave?
Have any birthed a master-plan to trick
Five-season’s worth from earth’s four-season wick
Or in the mid of summer’s swelt’ring pall
Can any will the cooling rain to fall?
Or haste the day where we lay boast and trust
To settle on a tray of dust to dust

Awake, awake, dawn’s clarion-call rings clear
To meet nearby Unknown with faith or fear
How slick the quick that pours from morning’s jar
We blink; dusk’s pink sky pinned with Evening Star
Where we are oft surprised by olden wont
And taken quite aback by ancient font
As day fades into night and night to day
While footfalls to Forever wend their way

© Janet Martin