En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Day The Last Poet Died

As the Earth was being bombarded,
Meteors crashed down with all of their might
And the dust rose high into the sky
And God's sunshine was hid from Man's sight...

Alone, beneath the dying Earth,
One man was now searching a cavern
And so full of wonder at what he saw
That he began in writing his poem...

Mankind was perishing above
As the last poet was writing his rhymes
Oblivious to the final prayers
At the very end of Man's times...

He smiled as the poem was written,
Corrected a few lines and sighed,
For the cavern was filled with a glowing
That filled his young heart with new pride...

Then the cavern was trembling all over
And the glowing was crushed in an hour
And the beauty and glory had vanished
As all of Man's dreams had turned sour...

The aliens discovered the planet...
The poet the last man alive...
The rescued him, healed him and fed him,
With strong hopes the man would survive...

Translating his poem to their thoughts,
They read all the thoughts in his mind...
Preserving his poems forever
As the legacy that he left behind...

Denis Martindale, copyright, December 2011.

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Most Beautiful Poem Of Them All

When morning came, with sunshine's gleam,
I woke so quickly from the dream,
For in the night, Lord Jesus talked,
As through my life, we slowly walked...

The first pen that I ever held
That wrote the first word that I spelled,
Was in His hand, now highly prized,
As was the inkwell God supplied...

Lord Jesus cherished poetry
With all its wondrous mystery...
As if each verse like His best friend,
The Lord recited some I'd penned...

He spoke of many souls still moved
And of the thousands who approved
Of soothing streams beyond Man's schemes
And gentle themes mid sweethearts' dreams...

I made both young and old take note
With prophecies that I once wrote
That told of future times ahead,
So that God's children weren't misled...

Lord Jesus stopped and we stood still...
'I know the contents of your will...
And so before your final day,
Your final poem is on its way...'

With all these thoughts inside my mind,
Both pen and paper I must find...
That's why I wrote these words that fall...
Most beautiful poem of them all...

The title came, as many do,
A well-phrased sentiment or two
And then outpoured prophetic lines,
Of miracles and sacred signs...

Then revelations came so fast,
Explaining secrets from the past,
When times and seasons met their fate,
Before the saints could celebrate...

Then angels' wings surrounded me
As if they, too, must stare to see,
What mysteries were now revealed
From secret scrolls that God had sealed...

I looked around, while angels smiled,
As if transfixed, as if beguiled,
As if no other wise man shared
The wondrous truths God now declared...

And suddenly, no more, no more...
And all of us were filled with awe,
To think such thoughts were there, right there,
That none on Earth could quite compare...

Then all the angels sang with praise,
Rejoicing in the Lord always!
They slowly flew on high above...
Their faces glowing with God's love...

Then all alone... the vision gone
And just the sunshine's light shined on...
And how I ached to leave this Earth,
To praise the Lord for all I'm worth...

And thus my wish, my fervent prayer,
Began to lift me in the air,
To leave behind my mortal frame,
As I left Earth... in Jesus Name...

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem About The Poem

The poem about the poem
And what is a poem?
And what is a poet?
And will the poem
Save me?
Help you?

And is writing the poem
The best I can do?
Or is it only words and more words?
Is the poem about the poem
For the poet only?
Or for each one reading and speaking and hearing it?

The poem about the poem
On this sunny spring Jerusalem morning
Peace and happiness in me -
The poem about the poem
For now.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The One That Got Away!

I tried! I tried! I tried my best! The words I can't recall...
I know those words were truly blessed, they were incredible!
They came within a midnight dream! I'm here at 1 a.m.
My pleasant mood became extreme, 'I can't remember them! '

The dream began and she passed by, my Muse with words so wise...
At first, her beauty made me sigh, with smiles that filled my eyes!
I tried to write the poem down... I thought I caught each verse...
She spoke so fast I had to frown, things went from bad to worse!

When I woke up, some words remained, just fragments, nothing more,
Just phrases from the poem gained my Muse chose to outpour...
But then a haze dwelt in my mind... A scrabbling for the rest...
But finally I couldn't find the words that made me blessed!

Then anger flooded in my heart! A river full of rage...
Although I tried to make a start, I hadn't filled the page...
I prayed to God! 'Please help me, Lord! Don't let this poem fade! '
But silence fell, I stood ignored, forlorn, bereft, dismayed...

That's when I grabbed the negative and turned it all around!
I gave it all that I could give, new poems to astound!
I wrote all day, I wrote all night, a hundred poem's done!
Forget my Muse! I did all right! Boy, what a marathon!

Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2011.

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poet vs Poem

Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?

Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.

Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.

Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.

poem by Saurav Karki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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God is the creator

God is the creator
poem is a creation
Poet is not God.

I am a lover of poem
Poet is my hero
God is hero's hero.

I just read poem
I just enjoy reading poem
I shall continue to read poem
As long as I enjoy poem.

At times
Poems are being written by me.
The credit goes to God
God direct me to write poem
And I write.

God only can explain the meaning
I am just an instrument
And nothing.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stop Reading My Poem!

Hey, you, stop reading my poem!
It's private, just for me!
It's not been written on a whim,
Like plain old poetry...
It's magical and lyrical
And so much more besides,
In fact, it's like a miracle
In which this poet prides...

Hey, you, these words are mine alone,
Be off with you, I say!
Go on, just leave me on my own,
Please kindly scoot away...
It's true, my poem's quite unique,
But it's still on the go!
The thing's not finished, please don't peek!
You nosey so-n-so...

Are you still here! ? No privacy!
No privacy at all...
I guess that's just not meant to be,
No matter how I stall...
I'm testing out my short, short lines,
Rehearsing rhymes at best,
Still writing stuff for highbrow minds,
So that they're feeling blessed...

I'll upload to the Internet
As soon as my job's done,
Till then, be patient, please don't fret,
That takes away the fun!
Just one more verse, I'm almost through,
Please leave, no need to fear...
Excuse me, I'm talking to you!
Yes, you, 'cos you're still here!

Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written

THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Is it a poem

Is it a poem
You are asking
And I am telling
If it is not poem
What is then.

Do you know
What poem means
The four letter
Poem stands
P- personal
o-optional
e-eternal
m-maternal .

Poem originate
From mother
And it never ends
Poem can be written
As per the will
As ordered
No grammer can
Give direction to poet
Poem is poet's personal
Property and its
Value is universal.

2

poem never dies
No water no fire
No air can destroy poem
No earth no sky
can entrap
Poem is above and beyond
Five elements of world
Poem is eternal.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind

I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND

I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”

The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Will The Poem Written Today/ Read Well Tomorrow?

WILL THE POEM WRITTEN TODAY/ READ WELL TOMORROW?

Will the poem written today
Read well tomorrow?
Will what seems so right now
Last beyond the time of its being said?

Or am I a poet of the present moment only
Who in the saying believes in what is said
And who fails in the long – term reflection?

What will remain of all my ‘presents’
And all those times of writing
And feeling it is true?

Years from now
Long after I will be able to read any poem

Will these lines mean anything
To anyone?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Journey Of A Poet

A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.

Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions

A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind

With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry

Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words

A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.

A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection

A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.

poem by Lawrence Hiung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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A Poet Without A Poem/ Empty and Desperate

A POET WITHOUT A POEM

A poet without a poem
Empty and desperate
Forces a few lines
As way of reviving himself.

The lines lead to other lines
A poem begins to come.

The poet hears his hope as he writes
And then when there is a poem
He just rests happily
Knowing he is alive again.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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Poems What I Wrote

Invited by a local School
To read my poems out,
The children giggled at the fool
And thus caused me to doubt,
But I pressed on, towards the end
Of each one that I did,
I then looked up to find one friend,
Yet not one single kid...

But I pressed on, not giving in,
Concisely as before...
And thinking somehow I would win,
Each snore I could ignore...
I must admit I sighed a bit,
You know what children are...
Yet I continued with true grit,
My last one wasn't far...

So I pressed on and read it proud,
Each word defiantly!
Yes, I stood tall and I spoke loud
With my best poetry...
The silence then was deafening!
In fact, I almost snapped!
Then the children stood up cheering
And clapped and clapped and clapped...

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...

But what if the poet were to go to a School and
had to read his poems out in front of the children?

As they say, 'Good luck with that...'

poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem The Poem And The Poem Again

THE POEM‘ THE POEM AND THE POEM AGAIN’

‘The poem the poem and the poem again’
Isn’t there any life without poetry?
Why is it always ‘The poem the poem the poem’?

Let it be some other dream
Or some other small facet of our endless realities
Why always ‘The poem the poem the poem? ’

The poet who lives and dies for the poem
Is only one kind of poet
And perhaps not even a good one.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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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