My Next Poem
My day began, so up I got, with no plans what to do.
All tidied up, a brewed a pot, with cereal to chew...
I walked to the conservatory, sat down with pen in hand,
With paper for new poetry, some basic and some grand...
The afternoon was going well, ten poems almost done,
Yes, everything was going swell, warmed by the Summer sun...
And then he came to interrupt, my poem from its flow...
My word, that guy was quite abrupt, I thought, he'll have to go...
He was another poem, friends, they visit me that way...
And their impatience never ends, until they're done O.K.
I told him straight, to get in line! He scratched his head at this.
I told him that I must decline, as writing's hit-and-miss...
'I've got five others there outside and each must wait his turn! '
That's when the poem cried and cried, as if respect to earn...
I told him straight, 'It won't work, mate, I've seen it all before! '
He joined the queue and waited late and thought it such a bore!
But when he'd read my poem through, he wept with tears of joy!
He told me straight, 'May God bless you! It helps each girl and boy!
It teaches young and old alike! It's wonderful, my friend...'
I said, 'Goodnight, now take a hike...' Then went to bed...
THE END...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Really Impatient Poem
Some poems are impatient things!
Yes, they pace up and down!
And while they're waiting in the wings
They're prone to wear a frown...
One poem woke me up one night
And dragged me out of bed!
I trembled on the floor with fright,
Enraged and seeing red...
The poem stood there, pen in hand,
With paper I could use,
Determined I should understand
That I must not refuse...
'I've waited long enough! ' he said,
'Get started straight away! '
I started crawling back to bed,
But he forced me to stay!
He held my feet and wouldn't quit!
'O.K.! ' I told him straight,
He spoke the title bit by bit...
I said, 'That's great... just great! '
He babbled on and line by line,
I wrote it word for word,
Of course I know it wasn't mine,
For that would be absurd...
'Thank God, it's done! ' the poem smiled,
'At last it's time to rest...'
He dropped my feet, no longer wild,
As if he had been blessed...
'One day the world will read this verse!
My thoughts in every home! '
Forgive me if I'm feeling terse,
He was one nutty poem!
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Pals
When I woke up, I looked outside and what a sight I saw
There was no place for them to hide near to my neighbour's door.
The Poem Pals were back again! With poems in their hands
That God has sent out to all men and women in His lands...
When they saw me, they waved hello! I waved back and made tea.
I asked them in to get to know what was the mystery...
They told me straight, 'He's busy now, his T.V.'s on the blink!
And so us guys he won't allow, he's hardly time to think...'
So off I went and they went, too, 'Good luck! ' they said and smiled.
The problem sorted, he said, 'Phew! ' and calmed down, now quite mild.
I told him of the Poem Pals, 'They visit me as well,
They're full of wonders, full of tales, what stories they could tell! '
'You see them, too? ' He was amazed! 'Oh, yes, they're all my friends! '
'Thank God for that! ' he quickly praised, with no need for pretence!
They stood in line, the first one in, his poem now to share,
So that my neighbour could begin to make the world aware...
The poem penned, we watched him leave with smiles upon his face!
Another poem to receive from God above by grace.
The second guy came with his verse, as proud as proud could be,
With extra time he could rehearse, reciting perfectly...
The third guy ran inside at last, determined to be heard,
I'd never seen him run so fast, now he could read each word!
The fourth guy walked in, bid good day explaining what to write
And then when done, he walked away, his face a pure delight!
The fifth guy was hilarious, his poem made us laugh!
Not one of us stayed serious as he walked down the path.
The sixth guy walked in bold as brass, saluted us in turn,
As if he thought we were first class, with nothing left to learn...
The last guy heaved a long, long sigh... for sad his poem was.
It told why Jesus had to die upon the cruel cross...
His poem was the best of all, of that there was no doubt.
It shared the Gospel by Saint Paul, who loved the Lord throughout.
So finally, we said goodbye, the Poem Pals all gone...
My neighbour's spirit soaring high, because God's light had shone.
The Poem Pals would call again, so poets could be blessed,
In time, to be Fishers of Men, who seek to do their best...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
This is a follow-up poem to The Impatient Poem:
tinyurl-dot-com/the-impatient-poem
poem by Denis Martindale
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Do Not Read! ! !
Don't read this poem!
Turn back while you have the chance
Or you will regret it
This poem is a poem of darkness
This poem is a devourer of souls
It will destroy you
Consume you
Absorb you into its black depths
I tried to warn you
I told you not to read it
Why are you still reading?
If I had named it 'READ THIS POEM! ! ! '
Would you have even bothered?
This poem is pulling you in
It has your feet
It's eating you
It's shattering your soul
It's never going to let you go
It's murdering you
This poem is a murderer
It is a criminal, it is evil
It is unnameable, unbreakable, imperfect
This poem has you
It's too late for you now
There's no escape for you now
Too bad
This poem has you
This poem's devoured you
Yummm, good
This poem is satisfied now
You should have listened to me
But you didn't
And now the poem's taken you
You're dead.
The Art Of Conversation
Through the art of conversation
Lord Jesus spread the word
And He thus caused consternation
In everyone who heard!
He told them straight much of the time
Or else in parables,
Which told of stories so sublime
That they blessed many souls...
Through the art of conversation
Lord Jesus spread God's love
And He thus brought celebration
And praise to God above...
So many sinners Christ could save
From lives that led to Hell,
With simple words how God forgave
And healed the sick as well...
Through the art of conversation
We can talk face-to-face,
Yet avoiding condemnation
By preaching of God's grace...
Lord Jesus helps us every day
With revelations, too...
Because of Jesus each can pray
And tell God, 'I LOVE YOU! '
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
The poem was emailed to Revelation TV
and it was read out by Lesley Conder on
the R-Mornings show,19th of July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Impatient Poem
A poem with an attitude
Turned up at half-past-three,
It woke me up and said, 'Hey, dude,
It's time for poetry! '
I wrote nine poems yesterday,
Those guys give me no rest...
I slithered out of bed O.K.
And stayed there, unimpressed...
Now almost dozing, lay there still,
How long, I know not when,
Then crawled across the carpet till
I found paper and pen...
The poem prodded, like they do,
Impatient like they are,
All ready with its point of view
To broadcast near and far...
So there I was, with one eye closed,
The first line on the page,
My body slumped and strangely posed
At this most awkward stage...
The first verse came, eight, six, eight, six,
The syllables in form,
While I lay there, as cold as bricks,
Fatigued, no longer warm...
But onward, ever onward, I,
Began the second verse,
To finish this before I die,
If things should get much worse...
The third verse started very well,
I smiled at what it meant
And even giggled for a spell,
Like it was Heaven-sent...
The final verse, at last, at last,
The poem shook my hand,
'Well done, my friend, that was a blast!
I knew you'd understand! '
With that, the poem paused in prayer,
'I couldn't ask for more! '
'That's great! ' I said, eyes closed, right there,
Then slept upon the floor!
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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A Ode Poem To You
My mother gave me an ode poem, oh how I love that poem
The scene of her perfume on it, the picture of me in her arms
This letter I keep with me all the time, I love it so much I sleep with it under my pillow
To her nice hand writing, to the black ink she wrote in, she wrote until her ink went low
My poem is great, my poem is wonderful, to the white paper she wrote on it’s beautiful
To the green words of the title, my poem she gave me is the best
I love how she gave the lip stick print on the top of my poem, sad to say she's at rest
I will always love the poem she gave to me before she passed
To the words in the poem she gave me will always endure
Word by word my lovely poem is speaking to me gratefully
This ode poem was from my mom and for only me sincerely
I love my poem, oh how wonderful it can be
Its so wonderful do you want to read,
Take a look, take a look and you will see
poem by Twilight Simmons
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by Aisha Patterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by David Carter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How the poem is treated by you
My instruction is very simple
Take the poem and read it
Casually in your room, do not
Force yourself to understand it
Just read it and tell me what
You feel,
Be kind to the poem
Like inviting it for tea
With just the two of you
As you sip
Let the poem drift like
A cloud and let it take
Its shape
Be compassionate to the poem
Let is cry for itself
If it settles for tears
And all you can do is
Just wipe its face
With your handkerchief
But you are cruel and so
Indifferent, you slap the
Poem with your right hand
And tell it straight
That you do not like it
That way it has successfully
Puzzled you
Then you leave the poem in
The rest room
It feels that it is a tissue
Paper fit for something
So ordinary waiting for
What others usually do
Wipe their anus after
A poo.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Something Wonderful And Beautiful
:
:
A poem about the wildlife artist, Stephen Gayford
The artist stood with brush in hand
And prayed God would be kind
Enough to help him understand
The secrets he could find...
Then he began to paint away,
Each layer gently laid,
All expertise, all skills in play,
So he could pass the grade...
To pass the grade and then excel,
Until no more to do
And only then, bid it farewell,
When it was sold to you...
You thought it something wonderful
And beautiful to buy,
Majestic and adorable
And pleasing to the eye...
The artist smiled with heartfelt joy
While holding back his tears,
His expertise you could employ,
Financing all his years...
Success began with you, my friend,
We each owe you a debt,
Because you helped to start a trend
That no-one could forget...
From that day on, the artist stood
With paintings left and right,
To be the best, not just the good,
To reach the highest height...
Perfecting here, perfecting there,
Enhancing light and shade,
So paintings looked beyond compare
Thanks to the prayers he prayed...
Denis Martindale, copyright, March 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent website
gayfordgallery-dot-com where we can visit and
enjoy wonderful artwork meant for one and all.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Is...
A poem is a set of thoughts some writer may express,
Such that with these as his cohorts, who knows if he will bless?
Yet if he does, then shake his hand and pat him on the back!
If not, then banish from this land, or else give him the sack!
A poem is a set insight some writer may relay,
That helps to pass some stormy night or some cold rainy day...
If not, a night without a storm, a day with sunshine filled,
It matters not if hot, cold, warm, as long as we are thrilled...
A poem is a set of themes some writer thinks as wise,
Enough to share with us his dreams with reams before our eyes...
As if to serve some higher will, or merely help his tribe,
Ten years may pass, yet he writes still, as if some royal scribe...
A poem is a precious gift, some writer's masterpiece,
Through which the reader has to sift, its nuggets to release...
Or else it's just some words that rhyme, or unrhymed phrases penned,
In either case, was it sublime, as if a brand new friend?
A poem is a talent shared, fresh-written or in books
And thus with others is compared as each new reader looks...
Anthologies are all the rage! That's where my poems are!
You see, in time, I reached the stage when I became a star!
So read my poems here and there! Reflect on old and new,
If you like them, then say a prayer, because I've prayed for you...
That you may find my treasure trove, my love-filled legacy,
My talent meant to bless us both... for all eternity...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
The poem was written in regard to a TV series
on Sky Digital's Disney Junior and Disney Junior+
entitled A Poem Is... It was described in this way:
A series of classic poetry shorts read by iconic
British celebrities combined with powerful
animation moments from Disney's magical legacy...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Revolution
My poem is a
Revolution for the poem.
My poem is to accept.
My poem is to socialised.
My poem is straight
And accept all.
My poem is flexible
And in the mind
of the people.
My poem is to enjoy.
My poem is a sacred code
You are but to aboard.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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This is a poem....
This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.
poem by Tammie LilAimo
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The Journey Home
The elephant was on her way,
Her calf was close nearby,
You should've seen their bodies sway,
Both marching, heads held high!
'Keep up with me! Left, right! Left, right! '
The calf was telling Mum,
The two of them were quite a sight,
Since so far had they come...
For many miles, the calf endured,
Without a thought to stop,
But Mum, of course, was quite assured,
His legs would flip and flop...
His trunk would droop and trail the ground,
His pace no longer fast,
With barely strength to make a sound,
As even more miles past...
And sure enough, she heard those words,
That parents often get...
The journey home, it's for the birds!
'Hey, Mum, are we there yet! ? '
'A few miles more! ' she told him straight...
He moaned and groaned, of course...
It's just right then, though life was great,
He'd rather be a horse!
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'The Journey Home'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0127 A Poem About Gertrude Stein
a poem slept
the poem slept
nobody knew it slept
it did not know itself that it slept
it slept like a baby
and that was refreshing
it refreshed itself before it was born
as babies do
it did not then know itself that it slept
but when it woke up it knew that it had slept
while it slept this poem had a dream
it was a good dream
it did not know that it was a dream
it dreamed itself awake
but when it woke up it remembered
that it had had a dream
it remembered that it was a dream
when it was awake
when it woke up
it remembered itself
and dressed appropriately
and told itself to friends and strangers
it told itself the same way to friends and strangers
that was its duty because it was
it did not mind whether they were friends or strangers
because it was a poem
I know
I know this
I know this because
I know this because there is a because
I know this because the poem told me
I know this because the poem told me it had a name
A poem about Gertrude Stein
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been
THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Creativity Continued
The first line of the poetry came visiting one day
And hit me with alacrity and wouldn't go away.
It stayed with me the whole day long, repeating in my mind
And finally, I'm not that strong, I let the verse unwind.
I made some coffee, then returned and read the poem through,
Regretting what I once had spurned and thought of what to do.
How could I make this poem great, transform it, make it shine?
What precious thoughts could I create? I needed help divine.
I bowed my head and simply prayed, for love to lead me well,
Forgiveness for each time I strayed, delayed what I should tell.
The prophet as the psalmist knows the duties I forgot,
The poet must receive his prose, strike while the iron's hot.
Revitalised, with hope renewed, by faith, I wrote once more,
The second verse improved my mood and thrilled me to the core.
Then suddenly, I thought of her, my dream girl long ago
And of true love that once could stir this heart to overflow.
But life goes on, we parted friends, I miss her now and then,
That's how it is when true love ends, but that was way back when.
The third verse shared the love we had, the sweethearts' tenderness,
The magic moments we were glad and thought God chose to bless.
Now all that's left are memories, the fragments of romance,
The peace of mind as tears decrease, no more a second chance.
The poem done and sent by mail, accepted in due course
And published so it told the tale: Two lovers and their flaws.
My broken heart has never healed, through cracks the poems rise,
Like wheat within a farmer's field, they try to touch God's skies,
They blossom in the readers' hearts, they nestle in their minds
And then, not one of them departs, for such as these are signs.
The years bring wisdom, come what may and creativity,
If we but only seize the day, to be what we must be.
For some, romance leads to respect, then children by and by.
In time, they, too, will pause, reflect, create and ask God, 'Why? '
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Story Of A Search For A Poem
A man went in search of a Poem
He searched everywhere he walked
He searched inside himself
He searched inside the poems of others
He searched and searched -
And what came to him were fragments of many poems
And he thought perhaps that they themselves were the poem
But they refused to be satisfied with themselves-
So he searched for a way to put them together-
But in searching came upon more fragments
With each new fragment totally re-ordering those that had gone before-
So he thought ‘I went looking for one poem but found many
Perhaps there are only many poems’
And he began to write them down
And felt at times that he had found many poems
But always too he knew he had not found the one-
So he searched and searched again
And could not find the Poem-
He is still searching
And does not know where the poem is
Sometimes he thinks it is hidden in the many already written
But he does not have the eye to discern it the heart to feel it-
He now is surrounded by poems-
They are everywhere-
But he still cannot find the One Poem which is the Poem for him
The Poem which is his Poem and his Poem alone-
He says he is still searching and will search to the end of his days
But he is old now and soon may be too weak to search
And so the Poem he seeks the one he has longed for all his life
May never be found
Though he goes on searching still.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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