The Unpaid Poet Poem by Denis Martindale

The unpaid poet pottered on,
Perusing pleasant dreams,
Perchance, when inspiration shone,
Perceiving precious themes...
Though poems brought no Earthly good,
Unpaid from year-to-year,
He plodded on, did what he should,
To make the Bible clear...

He prized the promise of a crown
His Saviour had foretold,
To one day melt away each frown
Now he was growing old...
Devoid of any trace of love
Romance was meant to bring,
He asked if grace had proved enough
In service of his King...

Unpaid he was, unpaid he stayed,
For no reward got he,
Except the joy that he displayed
When sharing poetry...
For no-one bought his works of art,
No prizes did he win,
But he wrote poems from the heart
And thus would not give in...

He stayed awake with evening near,
Not gently drawn to sleep,
For of all things that brought him cheer,
At night, the costs were cheap...
A skinflint to the bitter end,
Until the day he died,
But on that day, he met his friend,
With Christ's arms opened wide...

The Lord revealed lost souls were saved,
His works were not in vain,
Believing souls baptised and bathed,
With brand new lives to gain...
The poet smiled, received his crown,
His robe of righteousness,
Thus nevermore to wear a frown,
With Christ, his soul to bless...