There's something about a poem
That makes the poet thrive,
That's seen by those who know him
As soon as thoughts arrive.
It's like he starts to work again
With brand new ways to phrase,
Perhaps with paper and his pen
A miracle takes place.
Or else he struggles for a rhyme,
Just one word that fits well,
One word that makes his verse sublime,
Some fairy tale to tell.
Or truth unfiltered, unrestrained,
To grant some peace or thrill,
And with momentum thereby gained,
Perhaps he serves God's will.
A prophecy released, set free,
To roam across the globe,
Imparting strength so men might see,
That while there's life, there's hope.
Or could words be confessions of
Emotions high and low,
Declaring beauty once God's love
Transcends all Man could know?
Or just the insights that arise
When revelation nears
And breaks down barriers and lies
When God's love casts out fears?
Or just a joke to make men laugh,
A winsome whim, no more?
Or just a parting epitaph
For strangers to explore?
For now, he's in the Writing Zone,
Where rhythms cast their spell,
Their legend's legacy to own,
Long after his farewell.
Denis Martindale, for the 6th of February 2025.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem