"wistfulness" poems
the best kind of love my head tells me is the kind that doesn’t leave anything behind,
because things that last have the power to linger and break and mutate and ache
but if
you ride on a feeling that only lasts the night
it will be intense and extreme and unforgiving and wonderful and even
belief in the right to take something more does not exist and all it leaves is
a final indelible wistfulness
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
I. “I will always love you. I need you.”
A small seed is planted
In ground that has long been barren
Any flower or tree or life that has tried to grow
Has been cut down by her own callous blade
Against olive warm flesh
Or surpassed by the loud rumblings and grumblings
Incessantly begging the girl to eat
But now,
A ceasefire
The girl is loved
She is cautious, at first
Perplexed by the boy’s affection
But he sweetly holds her hand
Looks at her with eyes of wistfulness
As if she was an intricate work of art
A thing of beauty
And she decides
To
Let
The
Seed
Grow
II. “I’m not sure how I feel anymore.”
The girl had grown into a lemon tree
Made from light and love and vitamin D
But he took away her light
He forgot to hold her hand
He looked at her with eyes of apathy
As if she had become a colorless, bland
Thing of normality
And she decides
To
Let
The
Boy
Go
III. “I’m sorry. I still need you. I want to make it work.”
The girl thought she had grown on her own
But she wilted without her sun
She cut herself down out of pity
Because all her lemons had turned sour
She was no longer beautiful
But now,
The boy returns
Sad to see that her tree is gone,
He asks to plant a seed again
But the girl is trying to plant a new seed
Her own seed to create
Her own light
Love
Beauty
So that the tree will belong to her
But she misses the boy
She struggles to find a seed to plant
Too distracted by rumblings and grumblings
Because she keeps forgetting to eat
She looks at the boy with the seed
And she decides
She
Does
Not
Know
*“One day she left without a word. She took away the sun.
And in the dark she left behind, I knew what she had done.
She'd left me for another, it's a common tale but true.
A sadder man but wiser now I sing these words to you:
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”
(Peter, Paul & Mary – “Lemon Tree”)*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
first love, a blue coyote-
- first heart, a red red moon
first day's not dawned-
love sings a song
a'top a desert dune
genesis of loneliness-
indigenous to wistfulness
- first cry of love
against the first night sky
blue coyote sings
to a red red moon.
r ~ 10/3/14
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
MAE HIRAETH ARNA AMDANOT
( THERE'S LONELINESS ON ME FOR YOU )
Her shadow is
laughing.
Her shadow is
taller than a tree.
She is a key
for which there is
no door
a Polaroid photograph
dying in the sun
( fading into the nothing
from which it comes ).
My mind slashes through time
grasps this memory
of her
clutches it to itself
until once again Death
orders it to
. . .let go.
It...does so.
Her shadow
laughing.
Her shadow
taller than a tree.
***
Hiraeth, pronounced "here eyeth" is a Welsh word that has no direct English translation. It is defined it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire...a homesickness for a home you cannot return to, or that never was.
Hiraeth is best buddies with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Turkish gurbet, Galician morriña, Romanian dor.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
I met him one night in December...
close to Christmas Eve
When I walked in he had
candles lit and some
scotch for us to drink
His peepers are dark and squinty
His laugh is warm and lovely
His voice is satin spiked with honey
He drinks purple-graped-red-wine
He resembles Dionysos
Nature as a male
He works with cryptic messages
Amalgams and
his speach is a rainbow of
different languages
Could of sworn I've met this
man in some dreamy
distant place...
Palaces of concertos ringing
when I study his copper face
I had a restless wistfulness...
A particular soulful malnutrition
That eventually dissipated
in our bathtub conversation
I swear I would cross oceans
In the hope that we might
meet again
I understand he has a habit of
diving into fountains...
He dances with gypsies on
the street
Sometimes I fail to see how
someone as worldly as he
could like someone like me
I call when he runs by Vesuvius
I want his extra time
I always forget the 7 hour
time difference but...
when we talk it makes me smile
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 12:02 AM UTC
He writes as if he invented the word 'yearn'
Wistfulness and want in every line.
It's as though he's been starved of words his entire life
And now he's drowning in the dictionary,
Gorging on adjectives and language
A reformed wordarexic
Flooding the pages with need
And everything I want to read.
I hope he writes forever
For I, too, love to feed.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
lean over the edge
into a pool of pungent wistfulness
on the other side of a memory
scrawled over crumpled pages
or in the depths of a silent tear
reaching out for lost history
falling gold and hushed wafts of jasmine
rising notes of the promised tomorrow
stitching together the divide
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
The hollow truth carried on the wind
Budding asphodels wilted upon the pyre of paradise
Erst the rusted gates of Heaven
Deleing corrupt realm deliverance salting
The rivers of Eden,
Ananta, contemner of dawn
Stealing Levannah breaking Sol.
Without brethren kith, treading the tide
Of redemption thitherto
A tear in the fabric of the universe
Another drop in the ocean aflame
So that that fire humanity could be set
Broken vessels as like sunken ships
Eclipsing their own elan;
Fraying equilibrium averred officers of Hell
No more angels standing yet ranked still
In offices most high despairing
Purities ruination conjunctively
As with the same stride sought in
Pitched battle- touchable caste
Derelict of kin.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
I do not like olives.
They are the only food
I have been unable to educate myself into.
Just one food,
Most people have more,
But I will eat anything
Rather than an olive,
I'd rather gobble down a rotten egg.
I want to like them.
When the waiter brings a little bowl,
Balsamic, bread and oil,
I sigh and let the wistfulness kick in.
They are so civilised,
So summery,
I feel I'm missing out -
- But I just can't -
They taste like mackintosh,
Or shower gel,
Or toothpaste gone wrong.
I feel sorry for the olives,
Offering a holiday vibe,
A Mediterranean ambience,
And meeting revulsion, rejection,
(Juddery shuddering).
Perhaps I am making too much of this,
No-one can like everything,
They will never know.
Perhaps I am someone's olive aversion.
Perhaps they are
(Juddery shuddering)
At the thought of me, right now.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
clutching at pebbles
thrown hard into sky as birds
bitter yolk of unceasing raindrop
ideals personified, then scattered in leaf
a coarse blending of the soul and what is
scream of forgotten swing alone in sunshine
a fear internalized, an unquenched song of watery despair and silence
pacing, pacing, toward and away from a melody that is
as intangible as balloons whispering to decaying stars
fading into nothingness, brief respite, void of sound, emptiness most
profoundly pierced with kaleidoscopic shards of senses and memory;
with music of blueberries, gleefully dropped
into tinny pails overflowing from wistfulness
with touch of unblossomed rosebuds admired,
unyielding like crabapples moist in calloused palms
with smell of tree, unrepentant and unchanging,
yet gnarled and longing, indistinct, uncertain
with taste of wind, speckled purity of truth elusive,
of realization categorized, of wispy but unrelenting passion
with the image of a hope
etched, recessed, scorned, repressed, grasped, suspended in song
the maybe’s and the why’s
the can’t’s and the shouldn’t’s
the have-to’s and the why’s
then slowly fingers defiantly uncurl from stone, in motion unrefined
and quietly, fervently; quietly, fervently, I begin to sing...
a mottled snapshot of my mind.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
Floating,
Pleasantly oblivious,
In false clarity,
'Til the sun goes down,
Tinting the sky,
A vibrant array,
Of golden red,
And sweet marigold hues,
I slip,
8eyond the safety,
Of the calm surface,
Sinking carelessly,
Allowing gravity to drown,
What's left,
Without a single attempt,
Of protest,
Drifting peacefully,
From conciousness,
Into the unknown,
With wistfulness,
Painted on my face,
As I die,
Searching hopelessly,
In the sky,
For him
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 11:46 AM UTC
Eleanor stepped from the rear platform of the caboose as they were sidelined to let a freight
Pass she mused how she loved freight trains how romantic they were the gust of night air from the
Passing train that and the sound the train made was intoxicating she too was a piece of heaven she only
Had a blanket wrapped around her body just above her breast her blonde hair was wet it had deep
Comb lines she presented the highest qualities of womanhood freshness innocence a wild freedom a
Tenderness her face expressed a look of longing a yearning the call that commanded wonder she picked
Up the natural richness from the golden sunset as they traveled west the silver stream that was wide in
The river they ran alongside for many miles this night it had been her bathing pool bemusement and
Wistfulness came from her eyes and played on her face there to was a sadness a mystery that spoke of
Pain she was travelling with a music troupe on the cheap she stated to stroll in the dark up the length of
The train first she encountered the only Spanish man in the group he was setting with his back against
The train on the rail at first quiet and thoughtful was his tune you visualized walking down the dark quiet
Street of a Spanish village then he increased with a fastness you could hear Olay the scene quickly
Changed to the famed bull fight in the great arena he played slow and softly making you feel the
Tenseness as the great Matador faced the great beast the first pass was letter perfect the grace the cape
Moved in a half circle then he spoke Toro the bull charged but in the blink of an eye the Matador saw
The bull turn his head with those massive horns it caught him in the side and then the terror of a human
Doll being tossed and stomped the cadence of the guitar told it all the day would go to the bull glory and
Honor would go to the dead Matador she continued to walk as the guitar sound faded only to be picked
Up by the sound of a rich trumpet it pierced the sweet night the distant pine seemed to sway in
Appreciation the lone Coyote not to be out done howled his plaintive cry to the magnetic moon the
Expanse of the dark southwest night was the fulfilling and telling of the tale many ghost rose that night
Native American people always on the move in their nomadic way the wild mustang were real they
Stood grazing in the lush grass just across the river Eleanor with her rich creamy skin seemed as a dream
Passing between them made perfection call out from a night train
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
It is not so much as I feel it completely
All consumingly, madly, inexorably,
Yet it comes in like the tide
It caresses me until those moments where it dashes my body against the razored cliffs.
It is like a radio that never turns off to give me a semblance of wistfulness rather it gives voice to my demons until all I can do is cover my ears to the technicolor sound.
Is the silence I relentlessly pursue? or is to be finally engulfed by the mercurial sea? I had a dream, where I sank slowly into the depths and it was the most wonderful sleep. Even now sometimes in the witching hour, where silence and shadows is permeated only by my thoughts I think how nice it would be to slowly sink into the unconscious - as the breath is pulled from my lungs and my mind finally gives into the silence I crave. Where my unrest from the grave rises and pulls me in for the last embrace
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 2:13 PM UTC
The enduring ephemerality,
Strung together moments of blissfulness,
Each fleeting in its temporality,
But feeling infinite in wistfulness.
The hands of time spin circles without end,
While memories live in moments discrete.
Some moments blur to a nondescript end,
Moments with you time will never defeat.
Events live so long as not forgotten,
Life’s meaning breaks time’s continuity.
With each breath a new time is begotten,
So time gone lives in perpetuity.
When timeless blissfulness is in the past,
The paradox of time still makes it last.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
The sunshine dabbles on my skin.
Pale with wistfulness. It somehow reminds me of bitten back lips and swallowed words. The sharp edges of each letter paper cut there and here.
I stay a little longer, motionless, in this hazy light.
I'll come back alive.
I will be living once more.
Just give me a pinch of time.
That will do.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
I used sit beneath the shroud
Of stars that swathed the sky,
And gaze at length, with wistfulness
At Moon’s cycloptic eye.
My eyes absorbed familiarly
What were in my own.
Her perfect luminescent face
Despite the scars that shown.
I wondered if she missed the earth
Around whom she did dance
And if she tried, fruitlessly
To catch his lonely glance.
They’d never touch or cross in path
On journey through the sky
She knew this, and so did I
No matter how she tried.
I wonder beneath the moon
All wrapped up in the sky
But now I know just how it feels
To only ever pine.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
start a poem;
with what?
I choose a word and think: I always start poems
just like that;
I want to be more abstract
and tralala pulchritudinous --
there's a word for you; I used a thesaurus,
how phoney
how transposed and disconnected from my heart
I write
and I know I can do better than that
than this
yeah, I know that
and I'm a strong believer of
art
creating itself
when it's meant to be created
and that sometimes it's just not meant to be
but when there is so much
filling the heart with wistful agony
and agonizing wistfulness,
creating something pretty
feels pretty good; and you'd think
there'd ought to be something
to write about
if I can feel this much inside of me
if it's that heavy...
I guess
what I'm really trying to say
is that
I'm afraid.
but that's not good enough, is it?
I want to write wilting lilies and papercuts
and stubbed toes and a bit of rage and longing, but mostly
I want to write the truth
and the truth is
I'm afraid
that I'm not enough;
but I know, I know,
that's not good enough, is it?
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
We felt the wistfulness and urging
Somewhere in the pale light
Slanting across our bodies
Submerged in a bed that smelled of our discarded childhoods
Tasted of our desperation and craving for love
Devoid of anything saccharine, bitter in the aftertaste
In the early morning I laid there, on top of you
Warmth trailing from your body,
Snaking across the smooth planes of my stomach
You cradling me like I wished my father could have
Fingers threading through my hair
Untangling the knots from my childhood
You spoke into my hairline,
Christened yourself repeatedly on my skin
Your voice was a Freudian call
Above the dirge of angry tidal water
Echoing from the corpses of our past
We felt the wistfulness and urging
Somewhere in the pale light
Slanting across our faces
Verdant green of your eyes hypnotizing me
I splayed my fingers against your chest
Felt your ****** harden against the soft pad
I remembered the taste of sweet tomatoes, plump, ripe
Bursting juice onto my tongue
Coffee-soaked ladyfingers
Dappled sunlight streaming through leaves
Blue cloudless sky
Peals of youthful laughter
The smell of your mother's car—Pine Air Freshener
Her rosary swaying back and forth
A religious sacred pendulum
We felt the wistfulness and urging
Somewhere in the duller light
Slanting across our skin
Our contrasting polarizing canvases
We mourned each other in our brokenness
And in the pale evening,
Tried to assemble our skeletons back together
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,
And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to me,
And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest,
My perished people who housed them here come back to me.
They come and seat them around in their mouldy places,
Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness,
A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,
And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness.
‘Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here,
A pale late plant of your once strong stock?’ I say to them;
‘A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere,
An on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to them?’
‘—O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not thus:
Take of Life what it grants, without question!’ they answer me seemingly.
‘Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us,
And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!’
1.2k
Collaboration with Jack
Where oceans dance on sleepy shores,
glistening beneath crescent moon breaths,
counting star drop secrets on charcoal skies
I stare at a horizon, a single shadowed line.... waiting
Into the depth of the distance, my thoughts drift
I know they will find their way somehow
I'll remain here, the closest point to you
my time, my freedom, I no longer wish to be my own
Cast upon these harmonic waves, my desires,
whispered into a sea breeze of flowing dreams,
Become one with a metronomic tide of needed current
seeking a path to your perfect heart and I breathe...slowly
Thoughts and desires now run free, seeking their destiny
the direction, always known to them, yet hindered
a moving course across the ocean, the destination, always you
wistfulness and impatient dreams will become a reality
And of this reality, these distant shores, we shall be together...
not of sun drenched morning awakenings,
nor a midnight sky of watchful eyes,
but of one love on a tireless journey, far beyond every horizon ....eternally
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
in fires of its breath
gardens with misty wings
be left upon the stars
which ashen mornings bring
a sight of heavens rich
the golden rain of old
from corner of the eye
through sieve of drowning souls
as wet of earthen stories
she drinks away the hours
broken but gentle still
volleys the passing showers
and wistfulness of past
the summer's broken dream
as pressed love in pages
may haunt a roses' sleep
to lip a life's desire
destined to bleed the night
which husky secrets share
do spying ears of time
i lean upon the frame
of tender springs unseen
behope the oozing light
through rosy tinted screen
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
When the city speaks in whispers
over the shouting of animals
and ca-cawing of birds
I trace the lines of your face
against the case of my pillow
wondering again why things have taken so long
While life is so short
one quick gulp of the fantasy
now to rest in fluidity too shallow to tread
So I think of you often
and I forget you even more
not for memory because we're timeless
but for my own idea of the calendar
It's based on howls and ghosts
on improperly relaying messages
and what I truly loved most
And what kind of test this is
and incorrectly translating
endless lists of wistfulness
What kind of test is this?
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
31 october 2014
*There will come a day
education, career, kids, love
after,
when all the feelings in the world have
allready been felt.
On that day
there will be so much, still
but all is old, recycled, outworn
Like that old sweater you used to love,
only wistfulness keeping it mourning in its drawer.
One day you will find it
recognise it, smile
only to put it back,
never wear it again.
There will come a day
laughter, tears, irresponsability,
later,
when we will live but not.
Routine kills the reckless,
only absurdity fills their lungs.
On that windy day
there will be so much, still
so please,
don't tell me about used up feelings.
Please, I beg.
Tell me I’m wrong.*
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC