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Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Safe Harbor
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin N. Roberts

The sea at night seems
an alembic of dreams—
the moans of the gulls,
the foghorns’ bawlings.

A century late
to be melancholy,
I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams
to safe harbor again.

In the twilight she gleams
with a festive light,
done with her trawlings,
ready to sleep . . .

Deep, deep, in delight
glide the creatures of night,
elusive and bright
as the poet’s dreams.

Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Porch and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: Kevin Roberts, Kevin N. Roberts, Kevin Nicholas Roberts, Romantic, Poet, Romanticism, safe, harbor, night, dreams, imagination



These are poems I wrote for my friend Kevin Nicholas Roberts, who in addition to being a talented Romantic poet, was the founder and first editor of Romantics Quarterly.



Ophelia
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin N. Roberts

Ophelia, madness suits you well,
as the ocean sounds in an empty shell,
as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky,
as suns supernova before they die ...

My "Ophelia" was inspired by Kevin's "Ophelia" and, of course, by Shakespeare's Ophelia in "Hamlet."



Goddess
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin N. Roberts

“What will you conceive in me?”—
I asked her. But she
only smiled.

“Naked, I bore your child
when the wolf wind howled,
when the cold moon scowled . . .
naked, and gladly.”

“What will become of me?”—
I asked her, as she
absently stroked my hand.

Centuries later, I understand:
she whispered—“I Am.”

Published by Romantics Quarterly (the first poem in the first issue), Penny Dreadful, Unlikely Stories, Underground Poets, Poetically Speaking, Poetry Life & Times and Little Brown Poetry. Keywords: Muse, Goddess, Erato, Beloved, poetic, inspiration, lyric, poetry, divinity, Orpheus, Sappho



Talent
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

I liked the first passage
of her poem—where it led
(though not nearly enough
to retract what I said.)
Now the book propped up here
flutters, scarcely half read.
    It will keep.
    Before sleep,
let me read yours instead.

There's something of love
in the rhythms of night
—in the throb of streets
where the late workers drone,
in the sounds that attend
each day’s sad, squalid end—
that reminds us: till death
we are never alone.

So we write from the hearts
that will fail us anon,
    words in red
    truly bled
though they cannot reveal
    whence they came,
    who they're for.
And the tap at the door
goes unanswered. We write,
for there is nothing more
    than a verse,
    than a song,
than this chant of the blessed:
    If these words
    be my sins,
let me die unconfessed!
Unconfessed, unrepentant;
I rescind all my vows!
    Write till sleep:
    it’s the leap
only Talent allows.

"Talent" was a poem Kevin liked and requested more than once.



Too Gentle, Angelic
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

Too gentle, angelic for Nature, child,
too pure of heart for Religion’s vice . . .
Oh, charm us again, let us be beguiled!
With your passionate warmth melt men’s hearts of ice.

"Too Gentle, Angelic" was written shortly after Kevin's death. He died on December 10, 2008 and the poem was written on December 23, 2008, just before Christmas.



Beloved
by Michael R. Burch

a prayer-poem for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

O, let me be the Beloved
and let the Longing be Yours;
but if You should “love” without Force,
how then shall I love—stone, unmoved?
But let me be the Beloved,
and let the Longing be Yours.

And as for the Saint, my dear friend,
tonight let his suffering end!,
and let him be your Beloved . . .
no longer be stone: Love unmoved!
But light on him now—Love, descend!
Tonight, let his suffering end.

For how can true Love be unmoved?
If he suffers for love, Love reproved,
I will never be your Beloved,
so love him instead, so behooved!
Yes, let him be your Beloved,
or let You be nothing, so proved.

Must this be our one and sole pact—
keep you ***** forever intact?

I wrote "Beloved" a few months before Kevin’s death.



Nightfall
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

Only the long dolor of dusk delights me now,
     as I await death.
The rain has ruined the unborn corn,
         and the wasting breath
of autumn has cruelly, savagely shorn
               each ear of its radiant health.
As the golden sun dims, so the dying land seems to relinquish its vanishing wealth.

Only a few erratic, trembling stalks still continue to stand,
     half upright,
and even these the winds have continually robbed of their once-plentiful,
          golden birthright.
I think of you and I sigh, forlorn, on edge
               with the rapidly encroaching night.
Ten thousand stillborn lilies lie limp, mixed with roses, unable to ignite.

Whatever became of the magical kernel, golden within
     at the winter solstice?
What of its promised kingdom, Amen!, meant to rise again
          from this balmless poultice,
this strange bottomland where one Scarecrow commands
               dark legions of ravens and mice?
And what of the Giant whose bellows demand our negligible lives, his black vice?

I find one bright grain here aglitter with rain, full of promise and purpose
     and drive.
Through lightning and hail and nightfalls and pale, cold sunless moons
         it will strive
to rise up from its “place” on a network of lace, to the glory
             of being alive.
Why does it bother, I wonder, my brother? O, am I unwise to believe?
                                    But Jack had his beanstalk
                              and you had your poems
                         and the sun seems intent to ascend
               and so I also must climb
          to the end of my time,
     however the story
may unwind
and
end.

I wrote "Nightfall" around a month after Kevin’s death.



Storied Lovers
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin and Janice Roberts

In your quest for the Beloved,
my brother, did you make
a near-fatal mistake?



Did you trust in the Enchantress,
La Belle Dame, as they say,
Sans Merci? Shall I pray
more kindly hands to gather you
to warmer *******, and hold
your Spirit there, enfold
your heart in love’s sweet blessedness?



No need! One Angel’s fond caress
was your sweet haven here.
None ever held more dear,
you harbored with your Anchoress
whenever storms drew near.



Whatever storms drew near,
however great the Flood,
she held you, kind and good,
no imperious savage Empress,
but as earthly Angels should.



In your quest for the Beloved
did the road take some strange fork
where ecstatic feys cavort
that led you to her hermitage
and her hearth, safe from that wood.
(Did La Belle Dame’s dark eyes hood?)



I am thankful for the marriage
two tender spirits shared.
When the raging waters glared
and the deadly bugles blared
like cruel Trumps of Doom, below
how strong death’s undertow!



But true spirits never sink.
Though he swam through hell’s fell stink
and a sea of putrid harms,
he swam back to your arms!

*

Life lived upon the brink
of death, man’s human fate,
can yet such Love create
that the hosts above, spellbound,
fall silent. So confound
the heavens with your Love
and fly, O tender Dove!,
to wherever hearts may rest
once having sweetly blessed
a heart like my dear brother’s
and be both storied lovers.

Amen

I wrote "Storied Lovers" on New Year’s Day, January 1, 2009.



You Were the One Who Talked to Angels
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

You were the one who talked to Angels
while I was the one who berated God,
calling him Tyrant, Infidel, Fool,
Killer, Clown, Brute, Sod, Despot, Clod.

But you were the one who talked to Angels—
who, bathed in celestial light,
stood unarmed, except for your pen
and your journal, ecstatic, to write.

How kind their baptisms, how gentle their voices!
Considering their nature the world rejoices,
and you were their gentle, their chosen one . . .
you, my kind friend, now unkindly gone.

But you were the one who talked to Angels,
in empathy, being their kind,
a child of compassion whose tender heart
burst beneath skin’s ruptured rind.

You sought the Beloved with a questing Heart;
once found, the heav’n-quickened Spirit must fly!
You mastered Man’s strange, fatalistic Art—
to live, to love, to laugh, then die.

But living here, Angel, you found the arms
of a human Angel and, living, you knew
the glories of temporal, mortal love
where one and one eclipses two.

And now she mourns you, as we all do.

But you were the one who talked to Angels,
as William Blake did, in his day,
and, childlike, felt their eclectic grace—
sweet warmth, illuminating clay.

Two kinds of Warmth—a Wife’s, and Theirs.
Two kinds of Love—Human, Divine.
Two kinds of Grace—the Angels’, Hers.
Two Planes within one Heart combine.

And so you brought far heaven near,
and so you elevated earth
and Human Love, to where the Cloud
of Witnesses might see man’s worth.

*

My Christlike brother, who talked to Angels,
where do you soar today, I wonder?
Do you fly on white percussive wings,
far, far beyond earth’s abyssal thunder,
and looking back, regard the earth
and its lightnings and their bellowed hymns
as the sparks and groans of a temporal Forge,
as merely momentary things?

There, looking up, do you see the Host
of those who ascended, of those who see
all things more clearly, having slipped
thin veils of flesh, for Eternity?

And will you, in your Joy, forget
the sufferings of mere serfs below,
or will you remember, cry “Relent!”
to those with the power to bestow
the gifts of spirit upon the many
rather than just the Chosen Few,
who sell bottled grace for a pretty penny
and break the hearts of doves like you?

Or will you be the Advocate
of those who live—the ***; the *****;
the homeless man; the indigent;
the waif who begs at the kirk’s barred door
and dares not enter, for her “sins”
which the rich-robed mannequins deplore
as they circle her and mind the store?

Will mercy, pity, peace conspire
to hold you in their gravity
so that, still Human, you aspire
to change earth’s dark trajectory?

I wrote this poem the day after Kevin died.

Keywords/Tags: poetry, poems, poet, Kevin Roberts, Kevin N. Roberts, Kevin Nicholas Roberts, romantic, Romantics Quarterly
Cynthia Jean Feb 2020
Sail
Go beyond
The safe harbor
...............
Intentionally
Live
Today.

Cynthia Jean
Copyright
February,  2020
Sabila Siddiqui Jul 2019
Fear,
you make my body quake
leave cracks in my esteem
and invite doubts
to harbor and fester as you
send a shiver down my spine
to drown my fire.

Fear,
you soak up all the syllables.
that I was to mutter
so I stumble
and stand there mute
with my stomach heavy with nausea.

Fear,
I take guilt bites
as I am lost in panicky howls.
while you lay out procrastination unevenly
and drink from the reservoir of my energy.

Fear,
you trick my potential
wipe out my credential
leave nothing but
raspy and rough remnants for me
to draw from.

Fear,
you rule the beats of my heart
pulling me out at the first hello.
you grip me,
whisper obscurely
whilst darkness grasps my sense
and wraps my dreams with dark matter.

Fear,
with you my my soul
remains parched like the desert,
and my brain wrecked with nervosity
as the sensation spreads across my body.

But Fear,
I want to be one step ahead
of you this time.
I don’t want my fate to collapse
beneath your decisions.

Fear,
I want to spell courage louder
than your stifling whispers
as I embrace opportunities
regardless of how daunting and risky you paint it to be.
JT Nelson Jun 2019
I visited my harbor
A refuge among the waves
I walked among giants
And touched the cold firm ground
And rocks that formed foundations
Of communities and families
Of a world handed down

I saw the faces of my elders
I felt the hands of my grandmothers
On my shoulders
As I scrubbed the stones clean
The sun shone on my neck
Warming me as I worked.
One last rinse of their headstone

And my task was done
They sparkled and smiled
Back at me
And as the dates in the stones held fast,
My clock continued to advance
And I left knowing I felt better
Their embrace was healing.
My Memorial Day routine and escape when I need to talk to my dad.
Rexhep Morina Sep 2018
eyes clouded,
only in my dreams I can truly see,

see you as you are,
see me,
you see,

my dreams of us
is what we should be,
let the clouds clear
so we can see clearly

open skies,
my eyes
reflect you
as you are,

see you as you are,
see me,
you see,

you are,
without a doubt,
a endless sensation
that resides in me

affection I feel,
love, I harbor,
a part of you in me,
infinity.
After almost a year and a half, I decided to venture back into writing, I almost had forgotten the relief, the feel of finishing a piece of poetry, pouring my self into something and, what creating something was like.

I will most definitely keep on writing, keep on sharing, keep on pouring whats in me. It is a great way of meditating, speaking to the reader, and releasing any bottled feelings.

Enjoy.
Alice Lovey Jul 2018
Even if I waited, as I would,
On the harbor of the sea from which you've drifted,
You are the Captain of your driftwood.
I am a Lighthouse.
Standing on its own, but beckoning a safe return.
Kewayne Wadley Mar 2018
Having to forget you is a misconception.
I understand that things happen and these things we often have no control over.
Consequence.
Watching the boat leave it's pier is one of the most beautiful things.
My honest opinion.
The beginning of new experience.
The sensation of watching the odds disperse wave after wave.
Love happens.
It hurts a bit.
Being gone so long.
Docking other places, under different lights.
Finding that every city has a different sound.
A different smell.
It hurts knowing that you've docked somewhere new.
The same flow of emotion parted by the hull of your coming.
A new home.
A new place to rest your fears.
It takes courage to open up.
Thick ropes tied in knots.
An ever changing world.
More advances made in the world of travel.
How we get from point A to B.
It doesn't mean that I don't miss you.
Leaving my rope on the dock of the harbor.
Free to come and go as you please.
Having to watch my boat sail away.
The chance of knowing you may never return.
The same intimacy we shared given to someone else.
It's the same understanding that hurts tenfold.
Knowing these changes must be made in order to progress.
Going out on the town to find myself back here waiting for your return.
Relating to the tears of the ocean.
A new experience we both separately share.
The nights spent alone in wait.
The pier lined up with different ships and boats.
None of which are never you.
It's impossible not to miss you.
Holding on to your beauty, grace.
Waiting for my ship to return.
Knowing that it will never happen
when north
weird hep
exactly danced
grassy knoll
she'd wake
in bed
there then
flee Bondi
thereafter that
dramatize her
skin tan
with splash
of coconut
thus vacation
only hinder
her stay
here again
A vacation downunder
I am a Harbor
Moss-covered barnacles
govern my legs, and my back
is drenched in fog.

My wooden walkways creak,
and the wind makes me
groan with loneliness;
but life stirs underneath,
in waves.

Ships arrive at the worst hour,
full of regrets and suspicions,
and aches and envies,
and troubles and fears.

I welcome angry sailors,
the worst of all mankind,
to drink at my tavern,
and dangle their feet
off my docks, and
stare at the sea.

They look
east by southeast, north by northwest,
to home, where only
memories
return.

Some men are bustling airports;
they welcome millions a day,
and millions a night,
see them off to other skies
and do it over again.

But I am a jealous Harbor.
I keep my vessels with me forever.
I guard them with an icy peace.
And relish in the slap of the sea.
And bathe in the salt of the wind.
a Norwegian
fjord did
cut their
axel's hairpin
in the
row of
tundra that
Lapland was
their arcane
balloon on
Aegean shore
if Barents
Sea burgeoned
dialect herd
yelp in
Mike Pence
with accord.
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