Keats Poems

I no longer know Beauty

I
forget—
like how leaves forget their tree
once autumn called them free.
Moments slip and leave
an unsettling void
for dreams to flourish.
Uninvited, wearing
the mask of memory.

A fiction sung in earnest,
stitched in gray hours—
where dreams blend into truth.
A hushed whisper:
“Beauty is truth,”—but
I wouldn’t know 
if the echoes I call "mine"
ever rang—

I am built
of broken facts,
soft edits,
and pills that patch up
what

Heir on Fire

Heir on Fire
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to be Shelley’s heir,
Just fourteen years old, and consumed by desire.
Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair?

I went to work—pale, laden with care:
why wouldn’t the words do as I aspired,
when I wanted to Keats’s heir? 

My verse seemed neither here nor there.
How the hell did Sappho tune her lyre?
And

ABOUT A LETTER

ABOUT A LETTER 

I was cleaning and re-arranging my
Precious book-shelves,
A lot came down, a lot went back after dusting
Off, much of such
Dust, but one blue heavy book caught my attention,
I am not of those who often delves,
But this one tickled my fancy, maybe a connection,
I noticed something, I should have before, that was so
Visible, between

Keats, the entertainer

My uncle’s name is Keats.
He eats all kinds of sweets.
This habit, his caring wife hates
Saying that his sugar levels it dilates.
		
One day one of his friends visits his house,		
Hands over a box of sweets to his spouse.
To have one from it he tries,
This, his wife strongly denies.
Secretly he looks for them like a mouse.

He opens

Keats Was Right

Poet’s see beyond the cosmos
that’s why they’re revered
Poet’s leave the final time zone
past and future cleared
Poet’s bow to one volition
high above the clouds
Poet’s live in love’s reflection
— beauty to enshroud

(Dreamsleep: February, 2024) 

Critics Beware

Critics Beware!

Poets are vulnerable no less than anyone,
when fallen victim to outrageous critics.
As Shelley wrote,  critics' darts struck Keats,
who blindly,  cruelly, mocked 'Endymion.'

Lethal no less the heady potion  fame.
Some drowned, took poison, died paupers or insane. 

Yet poet-baiters must themselves take warning,
wrote Heine in his 'Winter Fairy Tale.'
Eternal lines, if barbed, outdo

Shelley and Keats

At eighty-seven well past my prime
Can you believe it no long can rhyme
Even Shelly and Keats
Have hung up their cleats
Each had hoped for a life more sublime

Ode To Keats

Oh, standing by thy greenish grave ! 
I ponder for thousands of times
I write and write and then tear out 
Hundreds of notes hundreds of rhymes

Thousands of nightingales I heard
But for thy nightingale I pine
No Ruth haunted my cotton fields 
No casement in castles forlorn 

My wistful  eyes gazed  thy love
They found thy

The Forgotten Flower Sings

Oh lady, do you remember me?
The flower you left in the book of poetry.
I lay forgotten for so long,
My petals dried, my colors gone.

But then, a miracle occurred,
I melted warm in the odes of Keats.
His soul now resides within my own,
And I breathe his poetic pain.

Once I whispered to the Sun
But now I sing, of

Emagi Keats Ode To a Greek Urn

a
                  h        a
                p        g
    

Fake Admirers of John Keats

Fake admirers of John Keats are spotted,
To check out if their luck goes as plotted,
Accepted the challenge,
They were so brave,
But they turned out to be kindergarten kids, so naive, 

How come a person claims to be Keats' admirer? 
If he hasn't faced the pain and is not a survivor,
Whoever hasn't read John Keats' letters,
Should be tied

Fizzles In the Night

drop enough words 
on the universe
you might crack 
something open
you might 
find your way–
–I don't know
when
a boulder
hits the atmosphere 
it becomes a fizzle
a morning glory 
radiant splendor 
shut tight 
before your 
morning cup
maybe enough
weight falls through
to touch 
your heart 
and there it sits
its precious metal 
undetected 
for years, decades, centuries
how many words
have fallen 
nowhere 
how

Clerihew Keats

John Keats qualified as a surgeon apothecary
before concocting his poetry
He also wrote ballads & odes
but sonnets were his  favourite mode

Light Verse and Nonsense Verse Iv

LIGHT VERSE AND NONSENSE VERSE IV

Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch

Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!


Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!


How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by

For Keats

I
As I gaze upon thou face of sheer beauty 
I begin reminiscing about the times with thee  
The times at which hour vigor shone upon us like the oriental sun 
The times at which hour worries wast but a grain of sand 
The times at which hour unadulterated happiness wast present 
This feeling of

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