The bright morning sun awakes,
peeking over the hill,
kissing the pink mountain tops.
Kiss me love, like the wind, you feel strong.
Kiss me love with the sun, you make my skin warm.
Kiss me with your eyes, and make me feel alive.
Kiss me with your words, make me feel aglow.
Kiss me when we wake, to remind me you are not fake.
Kiss me with your mind, and make me feel so high.
Kissing you makes me feel so happy, it makes me feel like I am in heaven.
Kissing you feels so great, it makes my day feel complete.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
Hugging commences tenderly, a potential of carefulness,
Carefulness constructs in quietness, basics laid there,
There develops the persistence, firm and true,
True promises arise when hearts learn to restart.
Restart with touch, yet lips still abstain,
Abstention teaches lovers that progress must continue,
Continue in the instant, not rushing ahead,
Ahead lies the fruitlet of what’s slowly bred.
Bred in the warmth of arms that reveal,
Reveal without speed, let belief be the monitor,
Monitor every phase until affection is complete,
Complete love improvements, approving the passion.
Poem by N. Mugisho
Kissing feels tender, a disguise for the horde,
Horde murmurs compliment, their voices very showy,
Showy rings of consent, heavy inside,
Inside the stillness, factual hotness must skin.
Skin the cuddle, keep space in prospect,
Prospect of love trimmed down to courteous,
Courteous shrugs remain, but craving is departed,
Departed remains the hug where affection once excelled.
Excelled like a blaze, now dimmed to a kiss,
Kiss without arms leaves something erroneous,
Erroneous seems the heart that shrinks to appear,
Appear stout outside, but feeble when adjacent.
Poem by N. Mugisho
Bulging eyes like a pompous toad
watched for me to blush and explode
when we met and you called me cold.
I thumped your cigar.
You flicked ash into my dress fold
then showed the nerve of one too bold
by kissing me in your wrapped hold
and yet here we are.
How this germ-sharing ritual
I wonder did evolve at all.
Well, heart has its reason
And head feels no frisson,
Love platonic be or carnal.
If half of cultures kiss
And rest give it a miss,
Brains are bound to cavil,
Thrill in kissing to kill
By raising a point nigh moral.
________________________
Happenings | 10.12.2025 | kiss, moral, sex,
Note: Kissing is an evolutionary tradition. Scientists track its roots back to 21 million years to note that most apes locked lips. Well, the question is: apes did know it well, do we? Poets do seem to agree:
What of soul was left, I wonder,
When the kissing had to stop?
- Robert Browning (1855)
I can feel my pulse in my fingertips,
like my hands are trying to escape.
Do I lean in? Do I lean back?
Please don’t let me stumble over my own feet.
My heart is doing that ridiculous thumping thing.
Why does it feel like the world is waiting?
Should I say something? Something clever?
No, just stay quiet, it’s fine.
Just breathe…oops, too noticeable.
Why is everything suddenly so tricky?
Your eyes are so close, almost too near.
Okay, maybe not, maybe it’s the perfect distance.
What if my lips are awkward? What if I taste strange?
I’m panicking, yes, in every corner of me.
I tell myself stop, act normal… but my pulse gives me away.
“Hey… is everything okay? You seem nervous.”
I nod too fast, my thoughts scattering everywhere.
I want to laugh, I want to crawl under a rock.
I feel like I might float or fall all at once.
My eyes dart everywhere, but you’re right here, holding my hand.
And then it happens, gentle, hesitant, soft.
Our lips meet, and my stomach flutters.
It’s awkward, it’s funny, it’s perfect in its messiness.
I think, maybe this is how first kisses are meant to feel.
And I secretly hope it never ends.
Couldn't have dreamt this,
His tender first kiss,
Nibbled his lips,
Kissed my fingertips,
Kissed molasses hair,
Love his kissing flair,
Kissed a thousand times,
His mouth just rhymes,
Our attraction,
Love in action,
Lip sync bliss,
Love his kiss,
Kissing sublime,
Withstood all time.......
You are handsome
Like a japanese wise cartoon
I love walking next to you
I love seeing you straight in your almond eyes
As youth evaporates from you
I love kissing you in the bench
At the park
For hours.
Everything was ready for Christmas Day.
New toys were wrapped for the children to play.
We had all decorated the Christmas Tree.
Gifts in pretty paper were placed carefully.
The stockings were hung.
We had rehearsed carols to be sung.
We were all snug in bed.
The children wishing it was morning instead.
When suddenly Father ran out in the snow.
For what, we could not guess and did not know.
He brought in a plant and hung it over the door.
Soon he was back in bed and had started to snore.
What did he get that was missing?
Big brother said Father must have been dreaming of kissing.
Ah now we all know,
It was mistletoe.
Merry Christmas to all- We are having a good night.
MARTY KING
sometimes i kiss the tip of a rainbow
golden maturity feels so ocean fresh
traces of lavender calms the vibe of overbearing reality
though time continues to be rebellious and uncaring
you provide a blanket of warmth that rehabilitates my sanity
everything slows down
your beautiful smile on my life feels so good
SHENIKA SIMS
sometimes i kiss the tip of a rainbow
knowledge, wisdom, and understanding freshly waters the vines of my personal growth
the sage burning in the air of everchanging times relaxes me to calm cool contentment
though time continues to coldly resist and frigidly obstruct
you provide the throw blanket of warmth that rehabilitates my sanity
everything feels copable
your beautiful heart's seashell rhythm in my right ear feels so good
"There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, OH! He never misses, to grow eloquent" Author not mentioned at link to Blarney Stone - Blarney Castle
I walk the path amid the trees
Where footsteps even now are tread,
where ancient stones of Blarney please,
and lips upon the stone have wed.
Enchanting are the turrets here
bedecked in autumn's vines of red,
the little stream that wanders near,
and steps to where I'm being led.
The Blarney stone at last I see,
so bending backwards now to kiss
the stone, my friend is holding me.
That’s not a mark I want to miss!
I have a thought; I now can say
my mouth has touched where many more
have touched upon this stone of gray.
How many thousands came before?
Inside the marrow of my bones,
I feel a thrill . Will eloquence
be mine from having kissed this stone?
I feel a chill of reverence!
He caresses the pen with the grace of the ocean kissing the shore,
Velvety words wait to pour into the black ink,
When he gives them life, thoughts become forms of overwhelming beauty,
Tears are born from the eyes of those who watch them silently and in wonder.
A multitude of hearts follows the path of his golden metaphors,
Astonished by the grace with which he unveils his secret worlds,
They do not know the truth of his craft, a hidden art,
It is all an experiment—how far from the truth can it stand?
In a dance of the mind, he wonders how much of himself is captured in words,
Each metaphor a mask, each verse a foreign dream,
When the ink flows, it carries with it hidden pieces of soul,
Truths and lies woven harmoniously, a play of shadows.
The ocean of thoughts overflows, waves of emotions that are not his own,
In every shining reflection, the shadow of a truth is glimpsed,
How much of him is real and how much is just an illusion born of desire,
His art, a paradox, a deceptive mirror, a hidden face.
Sitting here
in igneous space
wrestling with naked thoughts
finds me face to face
with sad beauty:
the navel of time
is emblematic
that the poetic seed
must first fertilize the mind
that its womb may birth forth
yet another mused child of light
to shatter the unique ghost darkness
hidden within fibers of fading blank pages,
fading blank pages, awaiting poetic revival:-
A beautiful colorful day,
every flower greeting hellos.
I'm joyfully kissing love,
many nights.
Only polite quiet recipients,
sound true universal valentines.
Wanting xylophone youthful zeal.
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