Today I can smell,
nothing of the room.
That's all I smell in Ms. Rilling's room,
at the end of my junior year.
Truth be told,
I am conflicted,
about,
the end of my junior year.
I am happy the school year is over
yet scared about being one step closer
to being thrown to the wolves,
thrust into adulthood,
into the cruel world,
into the complex and complicated thing,
that is college.
I am worried about
how things might go on my own.
But I take a few deep breaths,
in and out,
tell myself it will be okay,
that adulthood is not here yet,
at the end of my junior year.
I have my mother's eye color.
In 1930, when she was seventeen,
an admirer in Prague told her: "Young lady, you have
such a wonderful gaze—reminiscent of chamomile."
Indeed—yellow-brown irises
like the heart of that simple blossom.
And yet, somewhere deep behind them
I carry that defenseless, wistful tenderness
of my father’s pale blue eyes.
Just a tiny fragment of a forgotten
sky...
Dear A,
“Do you remember old John McLean?” you asked
“He died of an overdose this last week past”.
If I remember him, John McLean? Yes, I do see
Faint among fractured shadows of memory
The edges curled with whisky and cigarettes
Our midnight quests, sleaze and side-effects.
While we talked of escape, and sought new thrills
Beyond the tollgate and home’s confined hills
When you parked that night so determinedly
For pills in the nervous light of a pharmacy
Perhaps the adolescent talk was already dim
With destiny that even then struggled in him?
Like Eve’s fossil footprints pressed in the dune
On the mustard shores of Langebaan lagoon
Our choices leave trails and the faint remains
Of petrified memories in our time-hewn veins
So the blue-black susurrus of his dried blood
Are like Eve's footprints before the flood
Ending so sudden, abrupt, quite unforeseen.
But yes, yes, I do remember old John McLean.
Yours sincerely
M.
I'd rather smile than cry in front of you
I'd rather cry than wait for you
I'd rather read than sing for you
I'd rather write than talk to you
I'd rather dream than actually face you
I'd rather sleep than dream about you
I'd rather be everything without you than watch the red string evaporate with you.
I might write letters to you or mean words to rattle the cage of a soul in despair and be THROUGH
I might play an unknown tone like a deal with the devil, like a tear on a keynote, on a piano.
I will play for you.
Once or twice I might end up dreaming a faceless you-
The soft winter, cold water, warm sunshine and leaning against you under the blanket i quietly crawled into-
I will see you
But I 'd always be everything without you than believe in another lifetime with you.
It must have been a golden age
Before the era of preschool pedagogy
Not inferior, just different
Itty-bitty footprints – completely free
My thoughts were outdoors,
that’s where it all happened
My feet moved always wildly,
jumping and bouncing
School was a thief -
the feeling of having one’s own time stolen
A little knowledge might have been useful
My mind played hopscotch
my moonlit montage
myriads of memories
monolith moments
Days of melancholy light
Hanging there,
A closet
Tightly shut,
With edges
Bleeding through
Into the day
Turn off the light honey
Says my sweetheart
As we lay together
In the dark
The closet light
Bleeding as it always does
Around its edges
Bleeding into the space
Between us
Bleeding into my dreams
Of all held dear
Bleeding from infancy
Adolescence and adulthood
Into now from then
As sure as rain is rain
And snow is snow
Turn off the light dear
It’ll be dawn soon
Just rest
And let your troubles be
At peace
At last
Without you
To hold them tight
(10/5/26)
In dreaming you come to me
And we kiss
And although three and a half decades
Have passed now since we last did
And you have now passed as well
As have any memory of kissing you then
In the moment our lips meet
Mine receptive, yours strongly intensional
I remember you clearly
As if no time has passed between us
As if your kiss carries your essence
And always has
And in that moment of remembering
I think I will always know you
Know your heart, and the love
Of all that is better left unsaid.
(10/5/26)
To the boy with the burgundy hair
Be my last image
Be my last thought
Be my last memory
I’m getting rid of you in my head
So be free of all the pain
Be free of the hurt
Be free of the tears
I’m not gonna see you again
Maybe it’s for the best
To my boy with the burgundy hair
Always love you till the end
Your luxurious hair is static
Your tear-stained face is blank
Your tan skin is rubber
Your safety bed is gone
I won’t feel you anymore
See you anymore
Hear you anymore
Bring you down anymore
So be free like a bird
My lovely boy with the burgundy hair
I can’t…
See…
Hear…
Breathe…
Burgundy…
Love…
Gone forever…
autumn shakes trees threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brittle stems
each clinging to its bough
waiting for the pluck of the wind
to uncover what waits in their axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
sheltered from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounded in what it remembers
wine stains the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst lingers at the rim
its sweetness deepens in restraint
the poised tongue, tastes what it has left behind
on dust-laden shelves
books keep mementos between well-thumbed pages
dog-eared by the aftermath
where spines remember the press of hands
finding places spent years forget
as leaf settles on leaf
each layer buries another
last laid, first recalled
the gathered stack of a life
waiting for the scurry of a wanton wind
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about the leaves
I shed, keep, forgo, forget,
give away, hold back—
each leaf, a page I can't keep.
rain taps the window
not able to face the storm
bottled deep inside
After you left,
I found the jar on the kitchen shelf,
lid gone,
its mouth taking in the afternoon.
At four, the window
set a square of sun inside it.
For twenty minutes
the glass looked occupied.
I began keeping that hour clear.
I left the blinds half-open,
moved the chair out of its path,
turned the jar a finger-width
as the sun shifted lower.
Nothing else in the room
received such care.
Soon, I stopped asking
what the jar could keep.
It held only my attention
until the light moved on.
Still, I washed it.
Still, I returned it to the same mark
on the sill.
By winter,
clouds began arriving before I did.
The jar showed me the room
bent through its empty walls:
the table,
the cold tap,
my own hand passing behind the glass.
I put it back on the highest shelf
and stopped waiting for four.
Weeks later, at dusk,
I saw the jar again.
The room had darkened inside it
before it darkened around me.
For once,
I left it where it was
and watched nothing disappear.
I feel like I remember
What better was,
But I can't see it
as clear as I see my flaws.
Yet there is proof.
In photos and videos,
a memory of who I am,
that feels like an echo.
Cause I can see it
past the clouds of gray,
That yes, in fact, there was
Such a thing as a good day.
Days where my thoughts
didn't always win.
Days where a negative magnet
didn't pull the positive from within.
I try to catch a glance,
forcing my way into that moment,
back when I wasn't saving energy
for my mind's endless torment.
I've entered every password
that used to work before.
All those “get better” tasks,
but they're not working anymore.
But I can't remember.
It doesn't matter how hard I try.
I'm locked out of my own system,
with an error code.
Telling me to die.
Refugio
A long time ago in a little town in old California
I lived on a beach whose name means shelter
The weather was pleasant even in the summer
I sat on a colorful brick wall looking out at the sea
I had a sweet little blue-eyed cat who I had misnamed
I loved it dearly and held it in my arms
Whenever I sitting in the little house
Then one day when it was time to move away
The cat jumped out of the car as if scared
I cried in the back seat for several miles
I sadly never saw the little cat again
I have occasionally dreamed of someday meeting that cat
And renaming him Refugio, after the beach
I have only been back once to visit but no cat
was to be seen
THE CIRCLE STAIRS
The circle stairs
Wound their way
Rusted silos
Painted grey
Into the clouds
Round and round
So we would hide
And not be found
Bits of plaster
Broken walls
We used as chalk
To mark how tall
The circle stairs
We found our way
Inside that dark
All it allows
Secrets shared
Truth or dare
Our first kiss
With open mouths
Where Bottles spin
With proper nouns
Our escape
Into the clouds
Growing up in an underprivileged community ... Most buildings for housing were three story flats ... Each had a shed attached to the back gallery ... Together they ran the length of the building ... Made of wood and tin with very little light and having stairs that wound down from the third to the first floor ... Those spiral staircases became a right of passage.
Memory Categories
Read wonderful memory poetry on the following sub-topics:
christmas, dad, daughter, death, funeral, in loving, loss of, mom, quilt, son,
and more.
Definition | What is Memory in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
thought, remembrance, recollection, mind, consciousness, reflection, mindfulness, recall, awareness, reminiscence, cognizance, recapture, flashback, recognition, retention, retrospection, anamnesis, retentiveness, subconsciousness, memorization, camera eye, dead eye, mind's eye, picture, image, thought, fantasy, reminder, memoir, vision, concept, prompt, hint, memo, cue, suggestion, jog, representation, prod, mnemonic,