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Mfonobong Ituen May 2020
Let me not into shame
For in you I ****** out my love
Do you care to see me cry?
What felony have I committed?
If love is a crime, may I be jail all my life

Just a concern heart I need
As pure as the blue-bliss
A sincere soul to believe
Can I be you JULIET?
Let go pride now for I lost mine at a glance of you
In your cologne I lost my sanity
There lies my purity

My undying love is yearning
I need no learning
All I know is right with you
Just MAKE IT BE
More you can
Before I'm banned

Still at where you left with no words
I think not of another
Friends named me FOOL
For I'm full of you now
I shall wait so long to get back
As so far I won't be sacked

#Funky'sinK✍️
#slImswEEt💃
Love
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, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Porch, 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 ...



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, Little Brown Poetry. Keywords: Muse, Goddess, Erato, Beloved, poetic, inspiration, lyric, poetry, divinity, Orpheus, Sappho



Safe Harbor
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas 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, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Porch, Poetry Life & Times

This poem is a commentary on writing romantic poetry in the 21st century (“a century late to be melancholy”) and the term “safe harbor” is primarily ironic. The shrimp boat, though it seems “festive,” actually represents the unnatural “industry” of modern technical” poetry. By “technical,” I mean poetry that is more of an academic enterprise than an affair of the heart. The “creatures of night” shine with a natural luminescence, like the poet’s dreams and words.



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.



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.

This poem was written shortly after the death of the poet Kevin N. Roberts. 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 this poem 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.

This poem was written 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 this poem 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 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
Angel Friend
He is an Angel Friend.
Old, Wise, and Designed to have a huge heart


A hard working soul that never quits or did such weaken to bend.
Upon his birth..
Designed for brilliance - the bigger, brighter, and more
significant  of life purposes..

A legacy forged
At his birth
An energy made itself A great and bright start
Elderly ages equals wisdom and a fatherly care
Energy in a heart forged from gold - such strength shared and Naturally    grown
Such vines to sprout and bond
Connections created and they never detach
Away from the one's who have shared such energies, in return.
A beautiful artistic creation
Created through heart's truer matches..
Selfless gifts
Formed from the kindred spirits - like the silk worm's
Carefully generated stitches of silk
From their gratefulness and directed sharing of portions of their life's force

These fibers are  woven into  unmeasurable
Dime Worthy estimated or appraised "trinkets"
of breathtaking Tapestry Blankets or  "clothe windows.."
Joined forever as one, from one starting love's warmth to another,
train on "crazy rails in need of redirection.."
Such souls see and hand over irreplaceable rider tickets

Clothe pieces of spirits joined as one - as  tapestries .
Quilted  generations bonded by their loving and sharing connections in Golden Spirited   worth .
Heirlooms handed down between life's generations
New births of fresh spirits
Climbing the ladders of time
as cherished timeless gifts
Given to those whom he cares for
Bonded to even those outside a "family" pool
until the very last breath.
Spending not a dime.
He shall toil until his spirit leaves the Earth
Then such energies stay with those whom he cared for
All timeless and unmeasurable ticks of the clock
or sands of the hourglass
Light shines upon the extension of the cared one's family births

Therefor , he has always been earning a defined role
"The eternal force of caring.."
"The warrior's toll."
In edition to the medals of honor
Golden Wearable awards, given unto him, by the Creator.
Titled  as the "Creator's Golden Heart" and "Love's earned Crown."

As written in the Latin Life's Wisdom Scrolls" as:

per "Creator aurei cordis" et "coronam meruit amor est scriptor
per "Creator aurei cordis" et "coronam meruit amor est scriptor
Dedicated to a wonderful friend and supporter Mace Rubinstein. Your spirit is Immortal. To James Sutrina, a true friend and God-Brother. To all who support me, unbiased and unselfishly. Last, to all who have gone unnoticed and misunderstood in this life, who had the heart as detailed in this poetic illustration.
Foggy memories
A dream or a nightmare?
Pain and stress...misery.
Whack...Whack!!!!
Give me the pills for the pain....
Hell, I'm a little quack!
I strike hard to make the ball a winning shot.
I sweat hard..giving life ..
all of the remaining strength that I've got.
Down the same old halls...every day.
A gallery of my life.
I smile at the visions.
For I've survived ....
I deserved a name plate...below the art
I survived over every hectic way.
(C)2019 Kevin Michael Kappler Life's Gallery
She has leather
Golden locks
And wears plenty of Lace.
The golden heart
Has shown plenty of Grace,
She has earned plenty of days in Shanghai-La
She's even more beautiful at her age
The gypsy sparkles
As she dances
Singing
A "white winging dove"
It sounds like "she has been singing"
Music to my heart
Peace Bells are ringing.
Sparkling from her shine
I've been under her sweet spell for years
My midnight dream is clear
How I wish she was mine.
Dedicated To Stevie Nicks. An angel and sweet legend.
No person ever says, “hello.”

I search for actions

To better my existence

Fake Promises and Infractions

Of crimes plagued upon me

That others voices echoes inside of my head

“laughter “ at this joke

Why? Because he is broke? Or just “Ill?”

Is this a dream? Or a Nightmare?

Am I dead, in this quiet, before the next

Vulture who swoops down on this “seeming dead”

Soul - can’t people see that this is a “human”

in there?

Never taken seriously.

Laughing, aloud, at myself.

I look in the mirror

Like the movie “Pink Floyd the wall”

As steam and shaving foam hit the mirror.

A busted smile remains delirious.

Until my “trial”

Will people ever come any nearer?
Allissa Clifton Feb 2019
PPP
I fall in love with possibilities, probabilities,  and potential
You’re reality and the reasons to love scare me into a sleep
Dreaming of all the possibilities it could go wrong
I fall in love with them too
PPP by Kevin Roland  is a song I love to listen to when everything becomes too overwhelming, it has a certain vibe that makes all the wrong possibilities seem not so enormous. Also I have a really big thing about seeing the potential in people whether good or bad and bacing stuff off of that instead of what is before me.
Holidays are of what one makes of them.
No matter where we spend them or with whom we share
these times with....
It comes from the beats
of a Human Heart
from which flavor of the moments in which we place out there
Cheers to staying true,blue, and real
It takes strength to remain in such a beautiful state
The celebration of the one's who share your life
memories of those who passed on
Even just sending a text to those who think of you...
Such are things to cheer and sing
and cut the first piece of holiday pie with a favorite knife.
Traveling,stationary, or in high-octane work modes - we flow
with the beat of this season's cheerful reminder in heart
of the miracle we have been given of family, souls in memories of those we shared our life with, and the moment we have to be free and at rest
or doing such things
that bring out our best
in this life we have only one try
To remain strong, true,blue, and a force that remains
in flow to the next future and also remains in the written books of history.
I seem to be engulfed in an exciting conversation
Topics of sports, politics, creativity, and relation..
The partner and friend that I am enjoying this "flow with"
Is me,myself, I, and the situation of Seclusion.
Brainstorming my escape.
My partner draws in his ideas that are of worth
He is so smart
While the other conversationalist in this duo
Feels like jumping the gun, going on the flight, and leaving people cold and cruel.
I satisfy my urge to release my steam at my partner as he is only the reflection in my mirror.
He sees me so much more clearer
He never talks back or denies a chat
as we are one in the same
A brain hungry for another to plan, create,express,and debate with.
Exactly where to find the moment and place to find such an entity is quite narrow.
As I'm here, there, and I'm almost everywhere
where the right people seem not to be
So, until then, I love my conversational partner
He stimulates and entertains me.
I never feel alone
As me,myself, and I have a date to be and stay free.
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