"needfully" poems
I like my headphones for the
Insulation. Sometimes my ears
Take in too much stray noise,
Dredge up too much disorienting
Mud from the depths of a TV
Screen or an iPod. Then I can
Always snuggle into my headphones
And be silent - and silence is a
Dear dear commodity, to be sure,
When every other scene-
Stealing, pudgy-mouthed buffoon
Has to put his ten cents in. So
Much sound should be a sin;
Background music, ambient noise,
Music for airports, and pubescent
Boys screeching from tinny silver
Speakers near the wall. I don't
Want it, not every bit, not all
The hate and the slippery tongues
That speak and salivate and don't
Say anything human. I want to reprimand,
To excommunicate them from
This Holy rite of sound. (And really,
I would be content to never hear
Music if I could block out the roundabout
Fights and the sultry nightlife descriptions
Gushing from my screen, if I could
Use my headphones to keep
That liquid crystal from pouring in
My too needfully silent ears.)
Maybe I'll follow a painter's path:
All visuals and open dripping wet
Wrath with a noisy race. I can be a
Terrifying girl. Cut off my ears and
Be deaf to the world. Wrap me in
Canvas and chase me back into the
Woods on a starry starry night.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are
Life of the Muses' day, their morning star!
If works, not th' author's, their own grace should look,
Whose poems would not wish to be your book?
But these, desir'd by you, the maker's ends
Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare friends.
Yet satires, since the most of mankind be
Their unavoided subject, fewest see;
For none e'er took that pleasure in sin's sense
But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence.
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these poems, yet, both ask and read
And like them too, must needfully, though few,
Be of the best; and 'mongst those best are you,
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are
The Muses' evening, as their morning star.
2.5k
You do not water me daily,
You allow me to parch
And count the seasons I perennate
With only a drop of what I thought
Was especially for me.
You do not tend to me,
You let me need you needfully;
You burrow deep into my soil
And untangle my roots,
You knew exactly the right fertilizer
To get me to grow.
You do not take me in at night,
You leave me in a greenhouse
I shared with the rest of other plants
You couldn't pick from,
Shivering, waiting for another day
I happen to flush rosier petals
And get your attention again.
You do not choose me,
You do not own me,
You do not love me;
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a confused collector,
Visiting every parterre,
Plucking all the best flowers,
Chancing for the greatest find
Without the intention of keeping it.
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a collector,
A lonely little lad
Running out of other pastimes;
And I am just a hobby
You do not take to heart.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding the flower
You knew could use your sunshine,
So you let it hang right where
It is almost there.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding that flower;
Maybe a porcelain you can break
Into many brittle pieces,
But never a plant
You can watch dry and die and be dust,
No I just cannot be.
I am a vase,
Not a flower;
And you are not the gardener.
I do not belong in your collection.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
I was fire set upon
A bed of wood to flicker on.
The steady feed of brush and bark
Kept me ablaze to stay the dark
And yet at once, a time before
An oil fueled my cobalt core.
So mindlessly, I did consume
All things before their buds could bloom.
Further back, beyond that burn
I reveled in to quell the yearn-
There was chill that eddied forth
That ushered in the wind from North.
My fires faltered needfully
And lapsed into a harmony,
That warmed us both without the threat
Of razing us with hot regret.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
Your darkest fears
A life of regrets
A story of tears
Time never forgets
Daylight for another
While you're still dark
Emotions smother
You missed the mark
And this world turns
While desire spins
Humanity yearns
But only chance wins
Violently mixed
Beaten by life
Utterly vexed
Cut with a knife
Screaming in quiet
Grasping unknowns
Needfully silent
Graves full of bones
Wasted by the way
Deserted roads
What can we say?
Life’s overloads
And can we make it?
Those who have lost
Ever admitting
Such a great cost
I don’t know for sure
But please still try
For hope is the cure
Before we die
2-13-18 by Kirke Wise – Darkest Fears
And so often it is with the life that you were given. In recognition of actual reality or perhaps being able to accept things as they are. This is about life's disparity. Things which I imagine that some of you may perceive in your own life. It’s about clarity. We all have one very short time to live here. So embrace it. Correct it or fix it if need be. Don’t spend your time thinking about others which may seem unbroken. Think about yourself. Because it is the short life that was given to you. Make the most of it. Just something to think about. ~ Kirke
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Goodbye my love
Melodiously sigh the radiant crimson orange clouds
As their tendrils seem to flicker against
Distant emerald tree limbs
Resting on the darkening jagged hill
The sighing tune fades, yet endlessly repeats
out towards the pale azure horizon
All that is beautiful
Echoes of longing
Needfully resonated in the chambers of two lover's hearts below
Every kiss hello
Prelude on airy strings
To a goodbye
Precious paradox
This fleeting joy
embraces the lovers as vines climbing the grey stone wall
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC
feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.
(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )
to break and to be broken by–
upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–
(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them
where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)
But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with
the uncertain darkness
of life:
girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC