Monday, April 24, 2017

Trust's Sacred Prize

Sometimes the things we wish for
Make us wait and wait until
We learn the lesson God intended
…just to trust His will

Sometimes the things we long for
Stirs the heart to realize
The presence of One greater
Who bestows trust’s sacred prize

Sometimes the things we hope for
Are the hardest to release
But God so rich in mercy
If we trust Him, grants us peace

© Janet Martin

House of Faith or The Evidence of the Unseen

PAD Challenge 24: For today’s prompt, write a faith poem.

Belief is a Bastion, stable and sure
Love is the mortar that makes it secure
Hope is the framework of mortality
Faith is the footing that we cannot see

Without Belief, what crux anchors life’s goal?
Without love what merit sustains the soul?
Without hope this frame of folly will fall
Because without faith we have nothing at all

© Janet Martin

 Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Last Look at Innocence

PAD Challenge day 23: For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Last (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

I've learned not to sweat the 'small stuff'
like to-do lists
and wrinkles
for who can sway
the rubric of
 time's elemental twinkles

...and who can thwart the calm cavort
of moment-metered farthing
and who can stay the hand of day?
Not you nor I, my darling

Janet Martin

Dust-swirls... I was contemplating the upright position from my cozy horizontal came the first lines of this poem;-)

Left foot forward then the right;
Thus the day becomes the night
Little sleep when day is done;
Soon night’s deep is full of sun
Little holding close, then oh;
Tender tug of letting go
Little sorrow, joy, peace, strife
Stirs the dust that fosters life
Little swivel on the sod
Is time's little gift from God

© Janet Martin

 Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. 
What is your life? 
You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

James 4:14

Wishing you a wonder-filled worship-day!

Saturday, April 22, 2017

The Tale of the Unhappy Mouse

PAD Challenge 22: For today’s prompt, write a fable poem. 
A fable is a story that conveys a moral, usually told with animal characters.

Once upon a time a mouse
Unhappy where he sat
Thought life would be much easier
If he could be a cat
So he put on a coat of fur
And yowled his best meow
But all that answered him was gr-r-r-r
Woof-woof and bow-wow-wow
Into his little hole he fled
“I wish to be a dog” he said

He wagged his tail and tried to yelp
And beg and shake a paw
The other dogs thought he cried ‘help!’
And yipped and woofed ‘hurrah’
From every corner of the earth
 (Oh, what a sight for eyes)
With sundry speed and breed and girth
Came dogs in every size
Oh no, wee mouse squeaked in despair
I wish I was a great big bear

Then all that I would do is eat
And grow so round and fat
No dog would dare to snare my treat
No sly, old pussy cat
And I, footloose and fancy free
Would loaf in the warm sun
Nothing to fright or worry me
Hey, say?! Was that a gun?
To be a big, black bear I shan’t
I’d like to be an elephant

The children would laugh with delight
To ride way, way up high
No other creature would be quite
As big and broad as I
...but wait; what runs beneath my feet
A mouse! my greatest fear
They are so small, they peek and squeak
And then they disappear
A mouse you can that be?!
 My, but I'm proud to just be me

Who, If Not For Poets?

It’s one a.m.; traffic is muffled on black velvet streets
Where want of slumber and the taunt of poetry competes
As soundless warriors of hunger and hope dredge the deep
To find amongst the masses, poets not yet fast asleep

The night is like an inkwell full of words waiting to be
They rankle in recesses vexed with ‘almost poetry’
Then let the dreamers dream their dreams in lands of sweet repose
No one can tame the Muse’s will as every poet knows

The rose is void of form or beauty until it breaks free
And word is like a storm of duty without poetry
For who, if not for poets, will potential poem find?
And who, if not for poets, can paint pictures on the wind?

Hark, hark, the dark is deeper after one a.m., my dear
The Quiet like a keeper of the poet’s smile and tear
Where words beguile in spite of common senses such as sleep
For who, if not for poets, will snare whispers from the deep?

© Janet Martin