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Martin Griffin Poem
I want to tell of manly men
and speak of brave bold deeds,
when stout men battled clime and foe
while mounted on fine steeds,
fair maidens kept their home and hearth
when they set out to war,
to expand the boundaries of their realm
win booty and spoils galore,
with manners fine and panoplied
in their finest suits of arms,
their baggage trains by squires led,
lade with trophies jewels and charms,
the martial strains they underwent,
the things they had to bear,
acted on their noble souls
and brought them to despair,
as time progressed and men did too
the things that they esteemed,
had some how under gone a change
and weren't what they seemed,
that pain and death, brutality
could never be the measure,
of the greatness of that chivalry
that great men learned to treasure,
traditions have come down to us
once used to make men noble,
when practiced proud and faithfully
make chivalry's realm global,
those inclined to follow them
and emulate their ways
will find a way of living
the remainder of their days.
New York City
Copyright © Martin Griffin | Year Posted 2006
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Martin Griffin Poem
A dolorous mournful miasmic hue,
colors all of my closing days blue,
sweetness of days gone,
that can't be retrieved,
has me missing those souls
whose death left me aggrieved,
life should be lived with the relish of youth,
before old age comes and
confirms cold deaths harsh truth,
mark clear the note that philosophers chime,
get busy with life while you still have the time.
New York City
Copyright © Martin Griffin | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Martin Griffin Poem
Ireland's James Joyce was a wizard with words,
inventing, inverting, morphemes nouns and verbs,
hiding perversion, pornography too,
under a language that only he knew.
Our own times Bob Dylan's a master of rhyme,
who expressed all our hopes, and the angst of our time,
deprecating a war that left innocent dead,
with melodious lyrics that sprang whole from his head.
John Lennon earns mention for the prolific ease
with which he composed songs of love and of peace.
He left us a martyr lying bleeding and dead
on the cold New York street where he was shot in the head
The true value of poets is not easy to measure
the three here extolled have bequeathed us their treasure.
New York City
Copyright © Martin Griffin | Year Posted 2005
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