Thursday, November 23, 2017

Oh, Mon Amour

 There were trembling lips by mommy and her little girl this morning when they parted...
A bitty cup 'o tea comforts many an ache...

Ah love...

You kiss the mouth with smiles
You mist the eye with tears
You fill the ear with whispers, dear
The heart with yester-years

You compose melodies
As hello and farewell
Arrange with ease fond memories
Where once fleet footsteps fell

You help us to hold on
You teach us to let go
Ah, love you make well worth the ache
That you alone bestow

You kiss the mouth with smiles
You frost the brow with years
You fill the heart with sacred art
 And brush the cheek with tears

© Janet Martin

Of Felled Fronds...

Though it lingers soon the fingers
from a hand we cannot still
Steals the such-and-such we touch
like lilies felled upon yon hill
And the Face once flushed with pleasure
at the treasure it beheld
Learns the elemental measure
of moments that mutely meld
Weaving in their wake meek wonder
for a strange and younger cast
Stirring sentimental hunger
in the heart for seasons past
Yet the very ache that turns our heads
compels us to commit never overlook the threads
soon woven into it

© Janet Martin

Hugs and special prayers today for those holding
dark threads...
They will, Lord willing, become bright again!

This poem By Corrie Ten Boom
is a tender reminder of the big picture

The Tapestry

My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow;
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Happy Day Before Thanksgiving Day...

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) Day;” replace the blank with a word or phrase; make the new phrase the title of your poem

Tis November-twenty-something and all through the store
Dash shoppers with carts filled with goodies galore
The stuffing, the taters, bread, cheese, munchies, booze
A new tablecloth, gaudy balls, spike-heeled shoes

Quick glances at cell-phones then frantic ‘oh mys’
Clean the house-decorate-make-and-bake-pumpkin-pies
Make sure we all have clean shirts-skirts-pants etcetera
‘Make a memory’ by doing at least one thing together-yeah!

Hurry home, unload stuff, hang up laundry to dry
Flip out at little Tommy who has no idea why
Blast into the bedroom, chuck junk in a corner
Zip into the closet for the vacuum cleaner

Down the stairs, up the stairs, phone rings…she can’t…
On second thought, she better; it might be important
What, What?!  You forgot to order the turkey?!
Well kids, looks like dinner will be good old beef-jerky

Nope. Back-track to Walmart for a frozen bird
Crowds crowd every aisle, dazed yet undeterred
Looking for things lists have not seen before
A big orange whopple-glop to hang on the door

A glitzy itsy-bitsy filled with ‘stale crunch’ to eat
A centerpiece too big to fit in the back seat
And branches from a sort of pine-treeish-looking thing
Tortured with fake holly berries and red and green string

It’s nudge-push-shove , yes, I blush now just to tell it
People clinging to crushed ads of You-Want-It-We-Sell-It
Only to hear at the end of their wild-goose trek
…sorry, we’re sold out until next year; rain-check?

Now the weary get wearier, the greedy, greedier
While the spenders get spendier and the needy, needier
And tempers are quickened and nerves put on edge
Mother trips on the carpet, Dad backs into the hedge

And out on the streets voices are raised in anger
Because someone caught texting caused a fender-bender
And now everybody is worked up and riled
They pocket their phones ‘yes, it coulda been a child

Meanwhile, mentally reaffirming while they’re still alive
That today was the last day they would text and drive
…then its back to the house but straight out the back door
Better stay clear of this yearly kitchen uproar

I, baffled beyond logical explanation
Decided to find out just ‘what in 'tarnation’
In a world of quick-stops, on line shops, self-check-outs
What is all this frenzied, hyper-rush about?

 ...and you could have heard a pin drop when this Canadian asked it
Jaws fell, so did apples from a dropped apple basket
Why, have you not heard, someone turned to say
You better hurry for tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day

© Janet Martin

written entirely for humor-value...well, almost.

I'm Canadian so the only rush we have here are those falling prey to Red and Black Friday-sale decoys dangling on every cyber-street corner;-))
and every store window.

Happy Day Before Thanksgiving Day, dear American Friends

Profound Pleasure (thank-you, Ancient Poets)

Rats!!! Why is it like this?! 
On not-planned to write-much days poems keep pummeling my brain...
Title inspired by those two words on this back cover...
I'm supposed to be cleaning, NOT reading;-)
but when words like 'profound pleasure' pop out one must surely explore...
actually, this book is no stranger to me:)
 It's one of my go-to's when I'm hungry for good poetry!

...the way you whisper through me, we of centuries apart
Where tick of clock mutes quick of pen beneath thought's breathless touch
Ah, I am no philosopher of life or love and such
 But panoramic-printed page can steal one's very heart

The way that you articulate the new in age-old script
Convinces me life's best things never change while most things do
How could you know, lifetimes ago, the throes poet's pass through
Unless these thing are not susceptible to Bygone's crypt

...and how could you, lifetimes ago, surmise a poem's span
Of words stirred in the dark of night that dared to face the day
Then bared to worlds you'd never meet on streets far, far away
Ah, this rouses profoundest pleasure in modern-day man meet on common ground thy verses centuries-immersed
The power of the printed word exceeding wildest dreams
Because Hope snared through half-shut eyes from visionary streams
A few small drops of ink to quench a far-off poet's thirst 

Janet Martin

Cleaning Day

PAD Challenge day 22: For today’s prompt, take the phrase “(blank) Day;” replace the blank with a word or phrase; make the new phrase the title of your poem; and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “Happy Day,” “Sunny Day,” “Thanksgiving Day,” and “Happy Birthday.”

Tis wise to take the time sometimes to clean out nooks and crooks
To chase the drowsing bunnies from do-dads and brick-a-brac
To leaf through closets, cupboards like the pages of old books
And wrest with cloth-broom-mop stayed dust from crevice-corner-crack

Tis wise sometimes to take the time to swallow our pride 
And tackle 'drawers' oh horrors, we keep hid from outside folk
Its strange, what human nature can ignore, excuse and hide
Until some unsuspecting 'oops, oh my!' gives it a poke

Then shake and scrub, rub-a-dub-dub, sweep out the 'shame on me'
To keep a house in order requires old-fashioned grit
But hard work will return the 'rooms' to what they ought to be
The sparkle worth the effort that it took to polish it

Janet Martin


As tender as the hour when dusk fills the wooded hill
And friendly as the flower on a winter window sill
Bigger than a belfry of books and smaller than a sigh
Ah poem, you are like a laughing brook, a butterfly

…a girl of half-past three or baby wee, you steal the heart
And ease upon the mind’s eye sentimental works of art
Like seasons swept to simper in the solace of the soul
Poem, you vex, you tease and please with syllabic cajole

You scoff at time, you touch but not with finger-tips, soft pink
Passion in every form smolders in storms of static ink
And in life’s racket cold and hurried you draw us aside
Poem, the darling of the pen, you fill meek men with pride

The way you move through they who pause to glory in your springs
Makes monarchs of everyday ‘us’; turns beggars into kings
A soulmate to the drifter, ageless lover, how you touch
Poem, a kindred spirit in a world that talks too much

A mentor when desire torments eyes with pomp and show
You teach the mouth to murmur, feet to stop, or at least slow
Modest, first glance can never guess by your plain dress of ink
How poem, humble poem is pen’s Masterpiece, I think

© Janet Martin