Across the world, across the globe,
by Denis Martindale
A million poems stir,
To grant us wonder, joy and hope,
Through thoughts, that just occur...
Yet from such poets, giants grow,
From thoughts to dreams and themes,
Then fairy tales and epics flow,
To oceans borne of streams...
A treasure trove of ancient verse
Still beckons from the past,
So even now we can immerse
Ourselves in tales that last...
Yet poets of today still write,
Of God and Man and such,
Commending everything proved right
Or noble or loved much...
A poem that the multitude
Esteems as truly great,
Contains the themes that stay and brood
And these we celebrate...
Each has some favoured verse within
That once read hasn't gone,
Perhaps that causes us to grin,
Or helps us carry on...
For we love poems that reflect
The challenges we face,
Or urge us on to show respect,
Or plead the Saviour's grace...
Or make us really, really think,
Of what life's all about...
Not merely to read lines and blink,
Move on, no pause to doubt...
When I sit down to write anew,
I pray, God grants me time,
To share something again with you,
That you could call sublime...
Not just some limerick to pen,
But something truly grand,
That God would want to share with men
In every single land...
And if that poem's done by now,
With no more yet to come,
Then I can leave this world, somehow,
Contented, not like some...
To think, that I, could be so blessed,
That God would help me, too,
That's even better than the rest,
Who whispered, 'I love you...'
I guess some writers feel the same,
When they're close to the end,
If they, like me, could truly claim
That God has been their friend...
Perhaps to write alone at home,
No visitor at all,
Except for God who made each poem
A winsome miracle...
Denis Martindale 14th of April 2016.