Having Touched You
by Michael R. Burch

What I have lost
is not less
than what I have gained.
And for each moment passed
like the sun to the west,
another remained

suspended in memory
like a flower
in crystal
so that eternity
is but an hour
and fall

is no longer a season
but a state
of mind.
I have no reason
to wait;
the wind

does not pause
for remembrance
or regret
because
there is only fate and chance.
And so then, forget . . .

Forget that we were very happy
for a day.
That day was my lifetime.
Before that day I was empty
and the sky was grey.
You were the sunshine,

the sunshine that gave me life.
I took root
and I grew.
Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife,
and yet I can bear it,
having touched you.

Odd, the things that inspire us! I wrote this poem after watching "The Boy in the Bubble": a made-for-TV movie, circa 1976, starring John Travolta. So I would have been around 18 at the time. Keywords/Tags: bubble, boy, Travolta, disease, illness, death, love, touch, danger, courage

I need to be touched and held.
As a human, I need that like
I need oxygen, food and poetry.
It's not ******; it has nothing to
do with a relationship, it just has
to be someone I've known for
a long time and we care about
each other.
I don't want to be accosted or
held by a stranger.
I boxed for a few years, and it
wouldn't bode well for that individual.
This world is brutal, we are dealing
with a pandemic.
Life can be cruel beyond belief.
I need to be touched and held.
I need to feel a heartbeat next to mine.
This life is so fleeting, one minute I'm
five years old burying my goldfish in
the backyard, crying because I don't
understand death and the next
minute 48 years have passed by.
I've buried my Mom, Dad, two
brothers, and over 20 of my
close friends.

When I'm holding someone,
and someone is holding me,
I feel alive and I'm pretty
sure they do too.
As a poet, my senses are
on high alert:
touch, taste, smell etc...
I need to taste the salt from
a gentle kiss on her forehead.
I need to feel the smoothness of
her cheek on my shoulder as we
watch a movie or talk about
distant memories.
I need to feel her smooth feet when
I rub them after she's had a
tumultuous day at work.
This ******* Coronavirus has
got everyone so afraid of
contact and I get it.
But if I die as a direct result of
touching or being touched by
someone that I love...
I can think of much worse
ways to go.

I still remember our first date
we talked for hours, it was great

I still remember your cute smile
now I haven’t seen it for a while

I still remember your silly jokes
they made me wrinkle my nose

I still remember our first kiss
those soft lips I already miss

I still remember your hands in mine
and how you kissed me down my spine

I still remember the way you called me baby
your eyes looking at me like I am your lady

- gio, 31.03.2020

To stay away from the bodies of other beings
To keep a safe distance
To deny the pleasure of touch,

As much to make it seem a new concept
We’ve been distancing long before the panic spread

To stay away from feeling other’s feelings
To keep a safe distance
To deny the vulnerability of connection,

Give credit where it’s due
To distance is the best we do.

Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Gaza

There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?

Keywords/Tags: Gaza, mothers, touch, tenderness, dove, shelter, wing, coos, sings, babies, fledglings, love, god

At Once
by Michael R. Burch

Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.

Though she would dare
pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.

Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable bear.
I did not love her at once.

And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence ...
and yet—there was more!
I awoke from long darkness,

and yet—she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.

Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly and Grassroots Poetry. Keywords/Tags: Epistle, love, antique, prayer, pain, shadows, lair, touch, heal, healing, share, sharing, companionship