A Taste

Once you have tasted milk and honey
your buds are in a state of bliss.
Your world has suddenly turned sunny,
your lips remembering the kiss.

The epithelium of these lips
is made up of one kind of cell.
And once they're primed by pleasure sips,
their character comes out its shell.

And like a homing pidgeon will
attempt to fly to destinations
that are familiar and instill
the 'HONEY, I AM HOME' sensation.

It is well known - if cut and pasted,
you only need to click on SEND.
Your efforts to undo are wasted,
the cat is out the bag, my friend.

Just take the wolf. A taste of blood...
(s) he's hooked for life with no regrets.
Wild pigs do wallow in the mud
and tennis balls beseech the net.

So, once we've known
love's heady fragrance,
have tasted it
and let it linger,
we simply cannot act like vagrants:
Give me your hand
with EVERY finger.

Now night has fallen in the tundra,
the silver fur reflects the moon.
A solitary, silent wanderer
keeps pushing on,
it's morning soon.

As trees dream of infinity,
as moths must hurry to create
a chemical affinity.
And when they have it is too late.

Our time is water past the weir.
You'll never taste it after that.
So let us grab it while we're here.
How does one catch a pussycat?

by Herbert Nehrlich

Comments (4)

Nice passionate poem.... :)
A nice, romantic poem.
Louise, I think your name is an indicator. You are bizarre. What I do after sixty is something God would never give you at any age. You sound like a frigid spinster who looks like something the cat dragged in but was sorry about.Do you suffer from a diagnosed illness? H
Wild Pigs? Pigs do Wallow in the Mud...do they after 60?