When my soul gets bubbled inside gloominess , there's only one potent voice that blasts the bubble ; my inner voice who calls me out , ' Spriha , don't listen to anyone except me. '

On my way into  
the chamber of the rose
I saw there was no rose
a thorn is on the door!

Slash it cut it bin it off
I did these all
only to grow many more!

I took a chance
without drawing close
with a pinch of salt
I played a creative stroke.

Ah did I rub the Aladdin’s lamp
now it seems to talk?
Fostering an array of whispers
we tend to build a bubble.
Only to realise I am
still outside at the door!
Mediating with the thorn
yet to art over to the rose.

we are all anonymous now
not even a face in the crowd
defined by the mask we wear
rather than the one we hide behind
eyes open to the world
staying alert to danger
our breath filtered just in case
we’re the enemy everyone’s looking for
our smiles are silenced
our glares turned to frowns
friends become strangers
we are all clowns
family and allies
our new kind of tribe
supporting our bubble
that’s both strong and fragile
this is the aftermath fallout
where beauty and ugliness
stand side by side
walking in unison
stride for stride

In my dream bubble,
all the glee is filterable.
No words said.
The blues with the reds,
on a wide spread.
As the clock strikes my happy hour,
there is a prey of my power.
I stand strong over the killed,
with a thirst unfulfilled.
When I said glee could be sieved,
it was misery I picked.

Dream is a bubble,
easily burst from a light touch.
At time, I forget I am a guest in my dream,
A host and a guest;
In control yet not,
bizarre yet naught,
unexpected yet forgot.
Life too, is a dream,
a very long dream indeed.

The sun does not set
When euphoria rises
In our little world

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

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