Sir Poet Poem by Denis Martindale

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.