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Bell Apr 13
Our saving grace
now leaves me with a perplexing taste of hiraeth in my mouth
In our moment of need, we clung to it
although simple
and dashingly ordinary
we wouldn't be here without it
but now that it inches toward its inevitable end
I am filled with bitter nostalgia
one of empty promises
for even when our season was ending
I cared for you nonetheless
I clung to your ruminating sweet taste
for even when your newfound thorns engulfed me
I held on
watering jug in hand
as I laid my eyes on your grand opulent tree
just as fondly as before

Now we are back in season
but my hands have grown rough and weary from the thorns of last season
your once dulcet taste
repulses me
for the taste of my blood is surprisingly pungent.
Our season is nearing once again
(Read last two poems for more context)
max Jan 29
so tired,
so alone,
in a crowd of familiar faces,
i can't even remember my own,
i'm blinded by my thoughts
covering my eyes with dark doubt,
music guiding me,
blasting my eardrums out
if i measured my tears,
i'd be disgusted by the amount,
i'm tired of my mind and how it puts me down,
take it out,
throw it away
leave it nowhere to be found,
i'd rather be a puppet,
i'd rather be a robot,
than stay in this ruined vessel of emotion and distraught
so i'll simply listen to the music
from these broken down artists,
rather than these intrusive,
dangerously louring thoughts
(n.) an unfilled space or interval; a gap.
Kyra Embers Jan 4
If our tongues were blades,
They'd be hiraeth lulling me to sleep.
An exotic dance, a battlefield
haiku attempt 101
Zhavaed Haemaed Nov 2020
Where is my old childhood lost
A paradise it was in those fields
I long now for a untimed halt,
A way back to those reveries.

The Sun barely lightens up the soul,
It is, within me   . .. winter freeze.
A sabrelight of foregone days strike,
A forlorn descent into insanity.

Optimism comes at a price, of course,
There is but not much to usurp.
Thus I sit in despair and toil _
Away to faraway runaway scenes.
Foreboding, apprehensive are the skies,
My thoughts, my muses .. only company.
Hiraeth is a Welsh word for homesickness or nostalgia, an earnest longing or desire, or a sense of regret. The feeling of longing for a home that never was. A deep and irrational bond felt with a time, era, place or person
Quill Oct 2020
Oh how silly for a heart to yearn for a home that doesnt exist

For a chest to ache with the sickness that one only gets when they've traveled too far

For a soul to feel as though it were born in the wrong universe

For hands to tingle with idle magic at their fingertips

Until it overflows, onto a page, into a song, over pillows and sheets as tears cascade and stain and drown

Oh how tragic for Hiraeth to take hold
Hiraeth: a Welsh word for homesickness or nostalgia, an earnest longing or desire, or a sense of regret. The feeling of longing for a home that never was. A deep and irrational bond felt with a time, era, place or person
Terra Levez Aug 2020
He called me Hiraeth
and I never knew why
he carried me in cupped hands
like water,
like evaporating rain.

He called me Hiraeth
and i never knew why
he held me in clenched arms
like ghosts,
like people he has already lost

He called me Hiraeth
and I never knew why
he dropped me through stratospheres
like atom bombs
like war, famine, hate

He called me Hiraeth
and I never knew why
he watched me through refugee eyes
like a burned home
like a train barreling into the night
This poem is by S.G. Kilbride. This is copyrighted to this poet.
Terra Levez Aug 2020
Like sand
he slipped away from me
he was Hiraeth
a lost home
to me
(n.) a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.
нина Jul 2020
earth
once inhabited
for containment
bottled up cider
— soon too sour

that we do is beautiful
but fleeting – living
a vile act of pure free will

blissful less peaceful
the corpses we make
. . . . - - -  - -  .
-elixir- Jun 2020
The days go by,
as I carry on,
in this mundane
reality
of the burden of toil
and shards of turmoil.

Amidst this,
spiked, is my mind
of longing for something
lost in the passage
of time, a memory.

A want for sanity
amidst the rampant insanity.
A path to a place, a home.
As we wound ourselves,
from the ambiguous predicament.
Hiraeth is a Welsh word for homesickness or nostalgia, an earnest longing or desire, or a sense of regret.
Zhavaed Haemaed Mar 2020
I am not here ..
This is not me ..
The hands. They're tied
The eyes, can they even see?
I am not here ..
My heart aches furthest away
My lips still taste freshness of the dew
Wisp of the morning air as I alight here
Those far off hills still hear my silence
Strengthen my arms to attain a balance
In an utterly unbalanced existence
Of bidding at a foreigners' coherence
Emotionally capsized as I try to rise
Mindless, alive _ as I count my breath
This is not me ..
I do not live here ..
Humility defeated at novelty's sake
Honesty killed at the behemoth's gate
Humming a hymn of the hilly way
Gathering pain for all It is at stake
Making a living, just not living today
This is not me ..
Find me someplace else
Have never been charred as I seem
Have never been jaded and careless
Over analysing was a known part
Yet I let it all just go by cynic's way
This is not me ..
I have to dream now
Final reprieve from this trying stay
Heaven stands witness I tried today
Quitting sans fight has never been my way
Caged yet with the birds I warged in today
Love in their flight, wish I could stay
Wish I could stay
I am not here
Not at all here
Today
Title credits: Radiohead !
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