There are those that sit and read a while,
Yet others choose to write,
Sometimes they weep, sometimes they smile,
Regardless, day or night...
For something drives each poet on,
An inner love of sorts,
A precious light that shone and shone,
Illuminating thoughts...
Then, like a beacon on a hill,
Some message to proclaim,
Defiant as an act of will,
It strikes out all aflame...
As if the world must learn and gain
Imparted truths and more
That spread from brain to brain to brain,
No matter, rich or poor...
Thus children and their parents, too,
Are sharing here and there,
Reflecting on each point of view,
So each one's made aware...
And through such poets, lives are changed,
Transformed by words alone,
Till noble thoughts are rearranged,
Cemented strong as stone...
The benefits for all Mankind
Are there before our eyes,
Like precious gold that was refined,
Esteemed by those called wise...
And fashioned like a helmet worn,
From follies to protect,
From fantasies that poets scorn
And hope that we reject...
So contemplate and meditate
And study now and then
Upon such poets who tempt fate
With paper and a pen...
The pen proves mightier, so they say,
Than sword could ever be...
Yet mightier still are those that pray
Then write for you and me...
Denis Martindale 30 March 2016.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem