The imagery of “lips spit fire, yet taste like Chardonnay” is such a vivid paradox, and the way you connect her kiss to both a visual “kaleidoscope of colors” and the sound of “psithurism” is beautiful. It makes the experience truly multi-sensory. Beautifully penned.

Hi Ms Valuptas, I would not want your royal “whispering” (unholy or otherwise), sitting in a jail cell. How else would I receive such beautiful comments?

For most of the poetry I write, I add music. I think it adds to the feel and meaning of the poem. Sade’s song “Kiss of Life” was a really good fit for this poem. And yes, I am “foxy”… er… I mean… damn, did I say that out loud? Actually, more “wolfy” than “foxy”. But you know, wolfs can be sly too. ;0)

Anyway, sorry about the couch. THANK YOU for the comment, the visit, and for making my poem feel special!

Now that is a thought. No distractions other than living your life. Very, very simple life

What I write! And done on the toilet! Lol
This is quite the masterpiece. I enjoyed all the back and forth. Like reading a tennis match.
Caveman vs the 21st century.
Well done!

Loved the ending!

I am somewhat jealous; my toilet poetry is usually flushed because of the brown streaks. You write of the ying and yang of individualism, the brown streaks versus what once was. We humans have lost touch with our origins. We once made cave art, danced and howled at the moon; where it was women who ruled the campfires. And in some ways, we were more intelligent than we are today. We could talk to animals and create myths about the formations in stars. We will never get back to this, but I do think we can create a society where we once again talk to animals and reach for the stars.

Your poem is thought-provoking and appreciated. Thanks for the share.
-Curt/redzone

Aww. The way you feel about her as a sacred and heavenly is beautiful

Your beautiful and tender ode to la luna is much needed and appreciated by these weary eyes. To sit out late at night beneath her pallid light while the world goes on oblivious, is true poetic medicine. I praise your use of, welkin, something mystical about that word. Gorgeous write, my friend.

Clay