What is a kiss if not pure bliss?
Can it be spent or saved, as a coin
dropped in a slot machine, fruit
spinning dials deciding fortunes
outcome from emotion purloined?
Can a kiss be a kiss if not missed?
Where are the dreams of passion
lost in wine soaked hours spent rubbing
the lamp, waiting, hoping genie’s
magic will quell doubtful ration?
Isn’t a kiss the door to a garden
of roses, leading up to a house
with no blinds? Where is the porch
and the light switch to guide me?
Where is the mill of my arousal?
I come here to find a restful break from a night of a misbehaving computer. I find these lovely words to greet me. I especially like these questions at the end.
“Isn’t a kiss the door to a garden of roses, leading up to a house with no blinds? Where is the porch and the light switch to guide me?”
Don’t we all long for a house with no blinds and a porch light to guide us? Aren’t we glad at least to have each other as we stumble through the dark?
This poem is really lovely! Refreshing in an angst-filled blogosphere…
Keep ’em coming!
BA~~68
I hid the angast well in this poem, but it’s there.
Liz-Yes, we have that, indeed.
Kisses, dreams, lights, searching
You spun a whirl of lovely words and aching questions. Your word choices and metaphors shine in that “garnet” way I adore.
I hope somone special fulfills this pounding yearning.
Thank you GEL. This poem also wonders, a bit obscurly, whether kisses are the only coins of intimacy, if kisses are the only door to passion.
Good poem but .. somehow too technical. I wonder: Can a kiss really be defined?