I'd dreamt of Moshe's fall
In the arid land of Kadesh
And I wondered; how sweet
were those waters of Meribah?

Then, I woke up from sleeping
and was greeted by a nightmare

Rising under an Ethiopian cloud
The Grandiose Renaissance
To tame the mighty blue Nile
To free the wild hearts of men

How I pray tensions fall
In the fertile lands of Africa
as I ponder; how sweet
are these waters of Meribah?

The two of them staggered in
and flopped onto the worn sofa.
Neither spoke.
Neither tried.
They were just grateful for another day.
An earned break
A pause poised at their tipping point.

Chaos rose with a broken smile,
raising a slow arm,
'See you tomorrow'.

But Order was already asleep.

Winds blow trees back and forth
Thunder booms, rain pelts my face
Call it harsh but I love it
Call it dark but I live for this
Nature demonstrates exactly how my soul is feeling  
I’m a spring storm, longing for a sunny summer

Past simply expensed
Present perfectly clenched
Future presently tensed....

Active voices....making passive noise

Bubble
by Michael R. Burch

                Love—
          fragile,    elusive—
     ­ if held         too closely
    cannot              withstand
  the inter                    ruption
of its                              bright,
  unmalleable           ­   tension
    and breaks, disintegrates,
       at the              touch of
           an undiscerning
                   hand.

Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea. I believe this is my only "shape" or "shaped" poem. Keywords/Tags: Love, fragile, delicate, bubble, tension, held, breaks, pops, disintegrates, explodes, implodes, hand, touch, harsh, ungentle

The air lays still and lifeless giving no leaf a need to care,
No sound of passing traffic or kids laughter in the air.
Everywhere seems silent as if the world has lost its voice,
Even birds seem silent, bereft of song as if without a choice.

So eerie and pervasive is the silence right there outside my door,
Shouting aloud in its hush change to all things that went before.
Long periods of empty air, devoid of usual sounds I once ignored.
Leaving silence etched in mind where fear has seared and scored.

Who owns grief?
The one who cries the loudest?
The one who acts the most disturbed?
     Or *******-ish?
     Or eerily withdrawn and quiet?
The one who had The Best Relationship with the dead?
     The most unresolved?
The one who feels the most guilt?
     Who feels out of place at the funeral?
     Who resents the world?
     Who is named in the will?

How many people can have a share?
Who is allowed a say on the Board of Grief?
     Are children underage?

How powerful are the grieving?
Enough to command a neighbor’s chicken soup?
     Casserole?
     Cake?
     Family heirloom?
     House?
     Family entire?
     Telephone call?

Fingers yearning, burning for touch

Cool skin warming under the heat of desiring eyes

Melded from memories of midnight places

And timeless glances

Welded eyes want to give all the clues to every secret longing, yet nothing away.

An inch spanning eternity a fragile bridge formed by the heat of breath swirling invitations of divine pleasures and intricate patterns for desires filled with aching, yet wanton abandon refrains

The rare heady warmth and enveloping depth of hearts intertwining in some mystic soul ritual, as if it had been too long and naught but for the savouring of such tension like the surface of clear glassy water before shattered by the shock wave of a projectile, just before chaos and expulsion ensue,

tip to tip shared breath, aching for the finite change of the slightest touch, not a hair arched forward, not a finger tip dared move, frozen in the complete confession of a love found unforced, not chosen, nor designed by day dreams. It just was as it had always been inextricably theirs yet not for this moment, this plane, or this existence, but love, never plays by the the rules