Sir Poet
Buckingham Palace awaited him
And the car arrived in plenty of time.
He was gently helped out of the car
Then used walking sticks to make his way...
Doors were already opened so less trouble
And on he walked to meet Her Majesty.
When his name was called, he approached her
And, though in agony, he knelt before her.
Not one trace of pain, not even a wince,
Just the completion of the ceremony.
He was now to be called Sir until life's end,
For all that it mattered to the milkman
Or the postman or the neighbours next door...
He had a few poems printed in the paper
With a frail old man style photo underneath.
A few feedback replies and then nothing else.
So he published one last anthology and waited.
He knew that his life would soon be over...
A life dedicated to the longterm serving of others,
Thousands upon thousands of strangers,
Part-time fans, with a few friendly souls, too.
In time, he was to reach millions then billions.
Children were later taught his literary style,
His joy of life, his twists and turns, his puns...
And every day for the next hundred years,
Someone, somewhere enjoyed his wisdom,
His humour, his drama, his hymns, his poems.
Then one day, a fellow wrote about him,
Saying that Mankind was blessed through him,
That somehow he spoke to the common man,
That there was a prophet in their midst...
A blessing, an outpouring, an inspiration...
And though the poet was now in Heaven,
The Lord let him know that he was loved,
That his words had stood the test of time...
That his loneliness and poverty were not in vain...
That's when the poet wept, wept with gratitude...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Related quotes
To Be An Anthology Poet
To be an anthology poet whose work
Children hate to read in school
And re-discover in later life as meaningful and beautiful-
To be an anthology poet
And have generations know one’s poems
As part of the eternal canon-
To be an anthology poet
One of the few names
That has survived
When thousands of one’s contemporaries’ have not-
To be an anthology poet
To have written a few of the great and the memorable poems-
To be an anthology poet
To be what I am not
And most likely never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Portrait Of A Poet
The poet looked at what he wrote,
The rhythm and the rhyme
And of each error he took note,
Correcting each in time...
His diligence was his best friend,
It helped him to relay
The English most could comprehend
So that they wouldn't stray...
The poet counted syllables,
Eight, six, eight, six each verse,
For these obeyed his rhyming rules
And helped him to rehearse...
You see, he spoke the lines out loud,
As if the Lord to hear,
As if to make his Father proud,
With diction crystal clear...
The poet shed a tear at last,
Because his work was done,
For every test the poem passed...
The battle had been won!
The publishers were well impressed!
In fact, he won first prize!
With diligence, he'd done his best...
That's always good advice!
He taught his children how to write!
So they'd get published, too...
With pearls of wisdom and insight,
So credit where it's due...
His poems were in magazines
And books both near and far,
Yet skills like his weren't in his genes,
He simply raised the bar...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Potty Poet
Upon the computer keyboard,
With QWERTY squashed about,
The poet slept and soon he snored,
Four-thirty... tired out...
And there he dreamt he was awake
And typing poems still,
As if he didn't need a break
Or tiny sleeping pill...
But God was keen to calm him down,
Excited as he was
And gently eased away each frown
For he was loved because
The poet had a heart of gold,
Although his eyes were red,
Yet didn't do what he'd been told
And simply go to bed...
God sighed at such a silly man,
His whole life left to live,
As if God didn't have a plan,
More poems still to give...
Impatience is a tragic mask
That blinds the weary soul,
Such that the poet didn't ask
The Lord to take control...
So pace yourselves, don't be like him,
Take one day at a time...
Don't be obsessed, filled to the brim
With poetry and rhyme...
Sleep brings a boost, a needed lift,
As if to grease the wheels,
Sleep is a precious holy gift,
A sacred rest that heals...
Let eyes stay closed, let dreams unfold,
Let lessons still be learned,
Let fantasy at last take hold
Till daylight has returned...
The potty poet gave his all,
He'll sleep ten hours or more...
Regardless, poets, great or small,
That's what our beds are for...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Power Of The Poet
When the power of the poet
Comes from the Lord above,
The whole of Mankind will know it
And know it well enough...
For now, he sits and simply stares,
With phrases in his mind,
But suddenly he says his prayers,
God's secrets to unwind...
Then God looks down and nods His head,
With scrolls held in His hand
That tell the world why Jesus bled
And what the Lord has planned...
The poet humbly waits, receives
And then begins to write,
Sometimes he smiles, sometimes he grieves
As he shares each insight...
For now, a prophet has been born!
His eyes are open wide!
As if to greet a brand new dawn
That fills his soul with pride...
The Lord has blessed him secretly,
With prophecies galore
And his heart is thrilled completely,
Yes, to its very core...
He trembles as he writes each truth,
Describing what must come,
Condemning men with harsh reproof,
So conscience makes them dumb...
So men can't speak or find excuse,
So they seek mercy fast...
So that the Gentiles and the Jews
Find God before life's past...
The power of the poet grows,
As prophecies unfold
And match the beauty of the rose
Through revelations told...
The world will change because he prayed
And God the future shared...
The poet hoped the ones that strayed
Would find that God still cared...
That's why he wept in Jesus Name,
For future mercies when
So many sinners were to blame,
No greater time than then...
The poet's words were stored in books,
Across the centuries...
They're found in Bibles where each looks
Who seeks the Lord to please...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 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...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Mad For Poetry
When your brain becomes befuddled,
You don't do all that's right,
Like computers when they're muddled,
Going slow and none too bright.
Like some lovely information
That's there yet can't be traced,
Then the constant consternation,
Still there or now erased?
The mind plays tricks before collapse,
Solutions ready-made,
Like brand new answers filling gaps
Because the truths have strayed...
It's then I turn to poetry,
For hope inside some verse,
As if the poets penned for me
Some sentiments to nurse...
So I'll sit down and go online
For thoughtful thoughts to read
That God has somehow helped design
So that I, too, take heed...
Some funny rhyme will lift my heart,
I'll giggle for a while
And God grants me a brand new start,
As if to make me smile...
Sometimes I'll write a poem, too!
Perhaps a dream to share,
Or some insight, some point of view,
Some words that form a prayer...
My publisher will then decide,
To publish or to ditch,
So far, this fact I'd rather hide,
I don't think I'll get rich...
But poetry has helped me out,
It's like a part-time friend
Reminding me what life's about
And secrets God can send...
Another poet shares his life,
His moments good and bad
And how he's conquered all his strife,
Been healed and now he's glad...
The world's so full of pilgrim souls,
One life to live on Earth,
One life that only God controls,
That's planned before our birth...
The good, the bad, the in-between,
The humdrum days as well...
And from the poems that I've seen,
What stories God could tell!
Denis Martindale, copyright, January 2012.
The poem's based on learning that here in the UK
there's the Community Channel on Sky Digital 539,
which is currently sharing a show that's called
Mad For Poetry. People telling us how they've
been affected by some writer's poetry...
If the writer's been blessed and the reader's been
blessed, that's what I call The Double Blessing.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Tom Zart's = Life Before Death
LIFE BEFORE DEATH
The Lord can close doors no man can open
And open doors no man can close.
It's up to us to prove our Heavenly worth
By our lifetime example of the path we chose.
Every night before sleep I say thank you to Heaven
For the past day I was allowed to love you and serve.
If I awake I say thank you once more
For God has blessed me far beyond what I deserve.
Tom's 480 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!
Tom's 480 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!
More Poems Still To Do
It happened as I climbed the stairs, time frozen, in a spell,
So suddenly, no time for prayers, twixt Heaven, Earth and Hell.
Amid these great realities, stood my immortal soul,
Yet there I sensed a heartfelt peace, though I had no control.
I heard the voice of Jesus Christ, who told me who He was,
That for my sins, life sacrificed, as He bled on the Cross...
He bid me follow, I obeyed, then Heaven was revealed,
With Earth and Hell to fade and fade, as they were both concealed.
The entrance to God's wondrous place was slowly opened wide,
To bring a smile upon my face as I then walked inside.
I trembled as the Lord appeared and worshipped on my knees,
To stand again as Jesus neared... Behold, the Prince of Peace!
Yet why was I alone this way, was this my interview?
What were the words that I should say, except for 'I love You! '?
And so it was, I simply sighed... He smiled as we walked on,
Upto my home God's Son supplied, then quickly, He was gone!
A loneliness then filled my heart, my spirit drained as dead,
As if my world was torn apart, with nothing in its stead.
Without the Lord, what was it worth? No angel died for me.
Is this the fate that I deserve, for all eternity?
As I explored God's Paradise, with beauty left and right,
Its precious glory filled my eyes and yet gave no insight.
But then a pilgrim called my name, he ran and shook my hand!
As if I had my share of fame within this holy land...
'I've read your poems, friend, well done! ' I nodded in reply,
Then asked if he had seen God's Son, who never said, 'Goodbye! '
'Yes, that's to make you love Him more! To miss Him for a while!
Then once alone, to go, explore... It's not meant as a trial...'
Then other pilgrims gathered round, sweet words now reciting...
Quoting some hymns and poems found from my Christian writing.
I felt I was an honoured guest from all the things I learned.
When I was moved and truly blessed, it's then the Lord returned!
Lord Jesus told me I must leave! More poems still to do!
I gasped as I could barely breathe, amazed, with just one clue.
Then suddenly, I stood again, upon the stairs... on Earth...
A mortal, just as other men... yet with a sense of worth...
Denis Martindale, copyright, March 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...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Young Guns
Two lions lingered, both at rest,
As if they had all day...
All deadly thoughts had been suppressed,
For hunting and for prey...
This was their time, the sun was kind,
A gentle breeze drew near
And so, together, they reclined,
Without one trace of fear...
A slow abiding trust had formed
That blessed each lion's heart...
And friendship grew and then it warmed,
A strong bond to impart...
They knew each other through and through,
Each mood, each train of thought,
Each planning what the two could do,
If prey was to be caught...
This bond would stand the test of time,
No matter, day or night,
This miracle they called sublime
And sensed that it was right...
So they survived the lean, mean years,
Endured them, come what may...
To gain respect from all their peers...
Together, all the way...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2010.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Young Guns'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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A Regal Pose
One lioness stood out a mile
And thus in stature grows,
As though she had a sense of style,
Possessed a regal pose...
Had she observed some ancient rules
To win such fervent stares?
Did she have eyes like limpid pools
To catch some in her snares?
One lioness transcended all
And others knew their place,
She held the lions in her thrall
Through dignity and grace...
Her hunting skills unbeaten here,
She shifted moods to suit
And chief of all, she knew no fear,
Not foolish, just astute...
One lioness still in her prime,
A prize if courted well,
A noble queen, if given time,
Yet who there could foretell?
A regal pose if seen by Man
Could target her one day,
To steal from her that noble plan
To live her life her way...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'A Regal Pose'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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White Lord
The pure white lion chose his spot,
Content that it would do
And there he didn't move a lot,
He just enjoyed the view.
To him, this was another day,
No worries on his mind
And so he let time pass away,
Slow breathing to unwind.
The years had taught him how to live
And if to walk or run
The time to take, the time to give,
The battles to be won.
Of course, by now, the heat was strong,
So why not have a rest?
No point in running all day long,
For who would be impressed?
The white lord in the sky above
Was just like him below,
When that old sun had shone enough,
It gave the moon a go.
Let lion cubs run left and right!
Let lion cubs climb trees!
For now, it was his prime delight
To nestle on his knees.
Denis Martindale, copyright, June 2011.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'White Lord'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Son And Heir
A cute-faced cheetah cub rests there,
Oblivious and frail,
He's now a precious son and heir,
A firstborn fragile male...
Just skin and bones and not much more,
Yet as each year goes by,
He'll run so fast upon each paw
You'll think that he can fly!
He'll pick his moments just like those
That race across this land
And sometimes rest as if to pose,
As if to make a stand...
As if to say, he's learnt enough,
He needs no teacher now,
For he's been taught by hate and love
And all the fates allow...
So watch out, world! He bides his time,
One day, he'll rule supreme,
One day, the tallest trees he'll climb,
Though now that's just a dream...
This son and heir will do his best
And not just to survive,
He'll do it just because he's blessed,
To prosper and to thrive...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Son And Heir'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Lord And Lady
The lion and his lioness
Surveyed their great domain,
For such was theirs by great prowess,
Come sunshine or come rain...
As long as they fought as a team,
Their conquests seemed assured,
It was as if they lived their dream,
This lady and her lord...
Togetherness can change each life,
With trust the golden key,
Surpassing joy, surviving strife,
Surprising you and me...
Without this trust no teamwork wins,
It's crucial day-by-day,
It's how each hour on Earth begins,
If wisdom's meant to stay...
The lord and lady know their place,
Like royalty they rule,
They walk with dignity and grace,
They can be kind or cruel...
They raise their young so life goes on,
Replacing them in time...
But while they're here, until they're gone,
They simply look sublime...
Denis Martindale, copyright, April 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Lord And Lady'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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George Crabbe Wrote Of
George Crabbe wrote of hardship and poverty and woe
In the England he lived in a long time ago
But perhaps his poems might be more popular today
Had he looked at life in a less truthful way.
George Crabbe wrote of children in dire poverty
The poor sad victims of Human cruelty
And the poems full of pathos and the poems full of truth
Of a poet who was blessed with the great gift of ruth.
He wrote of human cruelty to their own kind
A God in the soul of such a person you'll find
He did not write of mythological figures or monarch or squire
He wrote for the poor his type I do admire.
Of the poverty around him he was all too aware
But poets like George Crabbe they have always been rare
Though if you feel a bit down and a good laugh you do need
His poems lacking in Humor are not for you to read.
Of the poor souls of England George Crabbe did write
His poems not hard to understand or to read or recite
And though as a person and poet he was great
Such poets the masses never do celebrate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Good God, I'm Soaking Wet!
The day arrived and I felt glad,
I was to be baptised...
To follow through on all I had,
Transformed by Jesus Christ!
With Bible verses in my mind
And also in my heart,
I left the house my fate to find,
'My God, how great Thou art...'
As the Baptist Church was waiting,
I travelled on my way,
With no trace of hesitating
Or reason to delay...
When I arrived, I was on time
As I walked down the aisle,
The flowers simply looked sublime
And people made me smile...
And once prepared, I waded in,
And stood there soaking wet,
To end one life... new life begin...
Immersed from toe to head!
When raised up to the air again,
New oxygen to breathe,
I stood tall with all my brethren...
My word, what a relief!
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...
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Missing Poem
When life was done, my soul left Earth,
Thus I was Heaven bound,
Perhaps to prove my works had worth
Based on the faith I found...
So I flew high above the sky,
Past sun, moon, stars and more
And only when I'd left them by,
Could I see Heaven's door...
As I approached, it opened wide,
I landed gently down...
On holy ground I stood inside,
An angel held my crown...
I put it on, he held my hand
And led me to and fro,
Across this precious wondrous land
God only could bestow...
Within the Palace of the King
The angel bid me walk,
Then he flew off, more saints to bring,
While Christ and I would talk...
The Saviour smiled, explaining all,
My good works known full well,
As were the times He saw me fall,
Sad times I went through Hell...
My book of poems then appeared,
He said, 'One's missing, friend...'
And while the Saviour stroked His beard,
I failed to comprehend...
An angel with a scroll came close,
The poem to recite
And I recalled the lines of prose
Which I refused to write...
'You were a prophet till that day!
But suddenly you spurned
The Gospel Truth that showed the way
So others could have learned! '
The Lord let out a weary sigh...
'A thousand souls were lost!
Without that poem each would die,
Unsaved to pay the cost! '
'Then send me back! I'll make amends!
I'll share it everywhere!
Translate it for God's foreign friends,
Close to the Sinner's Prayer!
I'll sell the house, the car, the yacht,
I'll preach for all I'm worth!
I'll give it everything I've got!
Please send me back to Earth! '
Christ shook my hand, bid me depart,
A second chance to save,
Then laid His hand upon my heart
And told me to be brave...
A second later, life began
And with it, clemency...
And since then I've revealed God's plan,
Christ's love and Calvary!
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 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...
Near Death Experiences are shared on
various shows such as Testimony Time.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Master
The lion stands his ground again,
Reflecting on his fate,
Remembering his youth and when
Nobody thought him great...
He proved them wrong, defiantly,
Determined, come what may,
As if it all were meant to be,
His destiny, his way...
Contenders sought to take him on,
To test his strength and guile,
His legend, thus, was built upon
His power, speed and style...
He made them wince, he made them groan,
He made them turn and run,
Until as King, he took the throne,
His battles truly done...
Behold the lion, standing there...
Take note with true regard,
He may look noble, debonair,
But sentiment discard...
If you've got doubts, stop wondering...
He'll make you understand...
For he's the Master, Lord and King,
The Ruler of this land...
Denis Martindale, copyright, August 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'The Master'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Oor Rabbie's The Man For A' That
The Twenty Fifth of January 1759,
A talent was born who'll forever shine,
Though his life would be full of twists and turns,
There'd be no better writer than our own Robert Burns.
Rabbie Burns our national bard,
If you gave him an inch he'd take a yard,
His love of women caused a few stares,
As he carried on his illicit affairs.
He'd have loved to have been a man of leisure,
Surrounded by women that was his pleasure,
Contrary to what some people may think,
He was never that fond of the demon drink.
For the whole of his life he was forever in vogue,
A Jack the lad a loveable rogue
But one thing you can never take away,
Is the words he wrote will forever hold sway.
'‘Scots Wha Hae'' is a poignant verse,
When read, in it's content you will soon immerse,
That is the gift of a brilliant writer,
They can make you feel you are that fighter.
With his God given talent for poems and songs,
In our memories forever is where he belongs,
He tragically died just aged thiry seven,
The Lord must have needed his talents in heaven.
The day of his funeral was not quite forlorn,
On that very day his son Maxwell was born,
As Rabbie would've said, before I go,
Trust one of my children to steal the show.
His poems and songs forever sublime,
Have proven they can stand the test of time,
Over two hundred years after his death,
His words are as popular as Shakespeares Macbeth.
The titles he wrote like''Auld Lang Syne''
Mean his popularity will never decline,
His writings will live forever more,
The poems and songs will keep him to the fore.
If Rabbie Burns were alive today,
I think I know just what he would say,
The women are gorgeous the worlds deranged,
From my time till now nothing much has changed.
So as you sit and enjoy your haggis dinner,
Think of the poet not the sinner,
So all please stand and doff your hat,
‘' Oor Rabbie's The man For A' That ‘'
Shakespeare's Peerless Legacy
It's Shakespeare's peerless legacy
That stands the test of time,
With tales of awesome majesty,
Triumphant and sublime,
With heroes and with heroines
And villains by the score,
Such that the magic soon begins
With poetry galore...
So many words that shaped his plays,
So grandiose in style,
With twists and turns as each relays
Each character's profile,
With swordplay, too, and deadly dreams
And schemes both fair and fowl,
Behold how callous evil streams
Beneath each darkened cowl...
To think, he sat and wrote and wrote
On parchments old and new,
Expressing lots and plots to gloat
The evil that men do,
Or tragic tales, sweethearts alive
With love that cannot die,
Or heroes hurt, will they survive
Or will they make us cry?
Behold the peerless legacy
Of sonnets, plays and prose,
With such a place in history
His legend overflows,
Such that the world owes much to him,
The globe knows this full well,
For he had talents to the brim
With wondrous tales to tell...
Reflect upon this, poets now,
No matter, young or old,
To strive for glory here, somehow,
Takes more than skills or gold,
Regardless of your rhymes and such,
Your themes and dreams to catch,
Will you ever really do as much,
His legacy to match?
Fear not, each has a place on Earth,
A destiny to bear,
Such that the Lord knows each has worth,
If fellowshipped in prayer...
Adopted children of the Lord,
I challenge you this day...
Write rhymes Lord Jesus can reward,
Before you pass away...
---
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forest Tracker
White tigers track the forest floor,
Like this one did one day,
Steadfast and with his tightened jaw,
He went along his way...
Sometimes to pause and listen well,
Then one step at a time,
To catch a glimpse, some sign to tell,
To perpetrate his crime...
The villain of the piece was he,
Of that there was no doubt,
Though just a stroll it seemed to be,
Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!
I wouldn't snap a twig or two,
If I were walking near,
In fact, I think I'd be like you,
Just paralysed with fear!
I'd watch that tiger walking past,
While I stood still unseen...
If he saw me, then I'd run fast,
'Cos tigers can get mean!
For now, he's like some cuddly cat,
Ol' Blue Eyes, all alone...
And yet, please don't be fooled by that,
You see, he's fully grown!
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Forest Tracker'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Maiden Called Maryann
I saw her in a midnight dream,
She read the words I wrote...
She thought my poem quite supreme
And of it soon took note...
She mulled it over in her mind,
Reflecting for a while,
As if to her it was refined,
In rhythm and in style.
A seed was planted in her heart,
A hope to share my verse,
Responding to the poet's art
Before the idea blurs...
For words have powers all their own,
As every prophet knows,
Some warm the heart, some chill the bone,
Some blossom like the rose...
The dream foretold her destiny,
The weeks, the months and years...
The city of adversity
Was home to many tears...
Yet when our tears are wiped away,
God grants us smiles anew...
If we read poems every day,
They help to see us through...
Denis Martindale, copyright, April 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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