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Best Poems Written by Mike Roberts

Below are the all-time best Mike Roberts poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Heartily I Say

Heartily I say, rejoice 
and be happy.
For among you stands
A pious man, 
A holy man,
A chosen man
Who has seen.
Miracles and wonders
Who has seen the heavens.
Open up and the lords.
spirits come
Pouring down
in thunderous
clouds of lightening
striking the congregation
with the power of the holy spirit

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Nicodemus the Pharisee

I came to you by night, O Rabbi
Seeking truth and light from your words
You spoke of heavenly things, O Rabbi
But I could not grasp their meaning

You said I must be born again, O Rabbi
Of water and of the Spirit
You said you were the Son of Man, O Rabbi
Who came to save the world from sin

I saw you stand before the council, O Rabbi
Accused of crimes you did not do
You kept your silence and your dignity, O Rabbi
While they mocked and spat on you

I heard you say before the governor, O Rabbi
That your kingdom is not of this world
You wore a crown of thorns and a purple robe, O Rabbi
While they hailed you as a king in scorn

I watched you carry your cross, O Rabbi
To the place of the skull, Golgotha
You hung there in agony and love, O Rabbi
Forgiving those who killed you

I came to you by night, O Rabbi
Bringing spices and aloes for your tomb
You were wrapped in linen and laid to rest, O Rabbi
But I knew this was not the end

You rose again on the third day, O Rabbi
Defeating death and darkness
You showed me your wounds and your glory, O Rabbi
And I believed in you as Lord and Christ

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

A Mountain Climbing

A Mountain climbing I will go
over the foot paths
Over the cobble stones
Up and up I go step by step
higher and higher I climb
Over the boulders and over the rocks 
Onwards and upwards
to the tip pity top I go.

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Devil's Door

A Hundred-year-old rosewood door
Was found today in an old liquor store.
Buried Beneath the basement floor 
so, the story goes 
For a century she laid dead 
shot up with bullet holes and blood stains 
According to an old newspaper clipping, 
It was hung before the civil war and opened as a liquor store against the law without a judge or jury  
It opened its door that Sunday afternoon 
Creating such an uproar a hundred women or more stormed the liquor store and tore down that devil's door singing never more will you open your door.

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Mary Smith, a Famous Knocker-Upper

Mary Smith, a famous knocker-upper
in London's East End,
Shot dried peas with her pea shooter.
At workers windows
to wake them up
to get to work on time
Every morning
Mary walks up and down
the east end with her pea shooter
Shooting dried peas at the shattered windows
waking everybody up to that familiar tune
of tap tap tapping dried peas
on my window.

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Swooning To the Bassoon

At 3 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon
In the month of June Mr. Cartoon 
was heard singing along attune 
At the neighborhood saloon 
swooning to a swinging bassoon
harmonizing along with the platoon 
from Camp Lejeune 
all day and all night they crooned 
first under the sun and then the moon.

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Pins and Needles

pins and needles sewn across the bed in threads of yellow-brown and rosy, red stitched across my sheets and embroidered to my bed and pillow eye to eye with pins and needles a prickly pair pinned to my bed and pillow

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

In the Cool of the Morning

In the cool of the early morning
when the sun just begins to rise
Mystical layers suddenly appear.
Of soft, serene gray colored dew
with speckles of blue
Flowing gently like a sparkling river
Of colorful crystals
that twinkles against the lush green
and dark undertones of tall blades
of overgrown grasses
dripping drops of splashing dew
that supernaturally, magically turns
into soft serene gray colored crystals
with a speckle of blue.

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Cold To the Touch

When the paramedics Arrived 
and entered the house
On Christmas eve night 
they saw a poor old man 
with long wavy gray hair 
Wearing a black and red 
checkered shirt and corduroy pants 
With a gold chain attached to the loop
of his belt securing his wallet to his back pocket.
He was Slumped over sitting on his chair
his glasses fell to the floor 
He was clutching a bible in his hands 
We tried everything humanly possible 
to revive the old man 
but we were unable to find any vital signs 
he was cold to the touch
not even a breath or a heartbeat 
could be heard, on that holy night. 
we wrapped him up in sheets 
and transported him to the morgue 
where we laid him to rest 
with his bible on his chest.

Details | Mike Roberts Poem

Memory of His Mother

He was a 92-year-old man in a retirement home.
Just lying-in bed waiting for the end
staring out the window watching the sunrise
He suddenly sat up and said that rising sun.
Reminds me of my mother, I remember.
She was always baking bread.
And had a big bright yellow bowl on the table
The color of the sun it was always filled with dough 
warming to rise.
I can still smell that wonderful bread baking.
In that old wood stove, 
it filled our home he said, 
and raised our spirits.
Everyone was anticipating 
the cutting of the bread.
A ritual my mother goes through  
whenever she made bread
 probably to entertain us.
And then the old man said no more 
And fell asleep, remembering his mother 
and all that bread a life well spent.