Denis Martindale

My pens have nailed me to the tree; red ink pours from my veins...
Though in the distance, fancy free, lost singers voice refrains...
If I had written songs instead, a hero I would be!
If I had known what lay ahead, would I know Calvary?
Yet here I am, now hoisted high, for all the world to scoff!
I asked, Who? What? Where? When? And Why? I couldn't shake them off!
Thus day-by-day and night-by-night I wrote my poems down...
Perchance that others would delight and somehow soothe each frown...
Alas, my critics sought my death, 'What purpose does he serve? '
It seemed they loathed my every breath, 'He has no place on Earth! '
Thus I was hunted like a fox until my final day -
And then they laid me in a box awaiting Judgement Day!
Prophetic poetry won't be slain! Its spirit will live on!
By God, its power will still remain when all my critics are gone...