Denis Martindale Poems

My love's not like a red, red rose because a rose can die...
My love lives on, past death it goes and grows not asking why...
It has no need to ask at all the reason it exists...
It simply answers my heart's call, content that it persists.
...

To think that I had lost my way and let my heart grow cold,
Such that I rarely said, 'Hooray! ' nor thought of being bold!
My life was like an empty cup with cobwebs on the side!
My soul in need of topping up... No shepherd as a guide...
...

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?
...

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...
...

Distinctive markings on his coat
Disguise the snow wolf well,
As if the snow had kissed his throat
So that we couldn't tell...
...

Beneath the perfect warm sunshine,
Beneath the perfect sky...
The lion and his Valentine
Both shared the perfect sigh...
...

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.
...

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...
...

If only I was really rich,
My pockets full of cash,
Then I would have a spending itch,
The kind you could call rash...
...