Poems About Poets Iii

Poems about Poets Long Division by Michael R. Burch for Laura Riding Jackson All things become one Through death’s long division And perfect precision. Nod to the Master by Michael R. Burch If every witty thing that’s said were true, Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You! Goddess by Michael R. Burch for Kevin 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.” In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our husks into some raging ocean and laugh as they shatter, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze: blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. escape! by michael r. burch for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . . suddenly pop out the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . . minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee! in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE. The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind breeder?" But almost no one took note. The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate’s bleak white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost ... now all irretrievably lost. Lean Harvests by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover: i hear him berate the fate of his mate; he claims God is no body’s lover. Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, muse, write, writing, inspiration