Denis Martindale Poems

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?
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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.
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'Who moved my cheese? ' the poor mouse screamed!
He really looked distraught!
For cheese was everything he dreamed,
Worth risking getting caught!
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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...
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The natives saw him when he stood, above the tallest trees,
Then worshipped him, as if they should, and not one to displease.
To him, such men sought not to harm, no weapons firmly raised,
They sang soft songs that kept him calm as if their god they praised.
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If only I was really rich,
My pockets full of cash,
Then I would have a spending itch,
The kind you could call rash...
...