Denis Martindale Poems

Who ought to be called a poet? A writer who can rhyme?
Who picks out best words to show it? Whose words are quite sublime?
Or just the child with limericks? The old man all alone?
Or wordsmiths with their bags of tricks? Or bards thought as well-known?
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The arctic wastelands numb the bones
And wolves aren't yet immune,
Upon the winds you'll hear their groans
And moans that won't end soon...
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As I began to say a prayer, I saw God's curtains part,
Then came the vision, oh, so rare, at first it broke my heart...
I saw two angels fly above, one holy, peaceful, glad,
The other wicked, hateful, rough, tormentor of the sad...
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Distinctive markings on his coat
Disguise the snow wolf well,
As if the snow had kissed his throat
So that we couldn't tell...
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The tiger rested in the sun
Without a single care...
Without the need to hunt or run,
This sense of peace was rare.
...

The lonesome tiger waded through
The forest stream one day.
I'd watched him, though he had no clue,
With equal stealth to stay.
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Beneath the perfect warm sunshine,
Beneath the perfect sky...
The lion and his Valentine
Both shared the perfect sigh...
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'Who moved my cheese? ' the poor mouse screamed!
He really looked distraught!
For cheese was everything he dreamed,
Worth risking getting caught!
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Poets of the past, present and future,
Write on for all you're worth,
For each may serve as a teacher
To great and small on Earth.
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Yes, I stood there in ma wellies, beneath the mistletoe,
Like the guys with swollen bellies that girls don't want to know.
And not one girl gave me a kiss, a present or a cake,
So every party just like this was such a big mistake.
...