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Introspection Nostalgia Poems | Introspection Poems About Nostalgia

These Introspection Nostalgia poems are examples of Introspection poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Introspection Nostalgia poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

Things That Seemed Poetic

Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Rhyme | |

Mirror Ball

I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,

A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.

The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.

The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.

Gene Bourne

Copyright © Gene Bourne

Details | Sijo | |

Thistle Solitude-- Visual No 1

I had briefly caught sight of the other side of yesterday, blinded by the sun, and weaving through the deep, thistle solitude. I'll carve a path through thorns and flowers, to reach an old memory.
Inspired by Andrea's Contest: Glorious Sijo Fields 1/31/15 Visual Number 1

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Free verse | |

These ribbons I tie as you leave

Blue – 
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.

Red – 
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.

Orange – 
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone. 

Green – 
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs 
like dandelion seeds blown from 
My wistful lips when I was 
waiting for them to bring back my wish.

Black – 
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from 
your father’s funeral.  

It was the only time I watched you cry.

There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through 
their watery colored reflections.

Pink – 
for the way your skin repels from my 
Touch, quivers as though my finger- 
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.

Purple – 
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss. 

You left her waitng..always.

I have been special to you,
she replies to your

Her letters 
Who blush
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.

White – 
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.

They spit 
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.

My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.

We will divide our booty

Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold 
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.

for the morning 
now knocking on my window.

I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
the tangle of these vacant sheets. 

Copyright © Jennifer Brooks

Details | Rhyme | |

A New How

If you could relive an ancient day, which day, which day, which day would you say?
First kiss, first date 
Or undo a mistake?
Watch your child be birthed again 
Go back and unhurt a wounded friend?
Unsay a word?
Unbreak a heart?
Undrink that first drink?
Unscar that first scar?
Or would you go to another place
Feel your dad's hands
See your mom's face?
Laugh with your sisters
Let little brother win that foot race
Maybe pet that dog just one more time 
Hear grandma recite that old nursery rhyme
Maybe take up for the kid that got picked on
Or hear again for the first time your favorite old song
Or tell your kids you loved them again and again
No matter what they'd just done or how late they had been
But you can't go in reverse to relive any day
What you would have done
Or what you would say
But you can say now what you wouldn't before 
You can be someone new open up a new door
You can make a difference in your here and now
You can't be a new when but can be a new how

Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw

Details | Pantoum | |

The Golden Hour

Gorgeous boy, your skin shines in the sun’s golden hour.
Waves of your jet-black hair, short-cropped like Caesar's 
dripping tendrils on a chiseled brow, wisps beside each ear
A bare-chested Apollo cycles in low-slung shorts.

Waves of your jet-black hair, short-cropped like Caesar's, 
my ardeur imagines eyes a molten sapphire blue.
A bare-chested Apollo cycles in low-slung shorts,
calves taunt, thigh muscles pumping, a true stallion.

My ardeur imagines eyes a molten sapphire blue.
surely, the night sky is less beautiful than your eyes,
Legs with calves taunt, thigh muscles pumping, a stallion,
lovely man-child, whose dreams will you soon make true?

Surely, the night sky is less beautiful than your eyes.
Dripping tendrils on a chiseled brow, wisps beside each ear,
lovely man-child, whose dreams will you soon make true?
Gorgeous boy, your skin shines in the sun’s golden hour.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Rhyme | |

Little Yellow Socks

* Written for my daughter, who really does have a precious pair of Little Yellow Socks.

Little Yellow Socks
       by Amy Swanson  12/5/2008

Little yellow socks
running down the hall
"Slow down with those socks on,"
I'd yell... too late, the fall!

Little yellow socks
padding softly late at night
climbing up into my lap
one more hug, out goes the light.

Little yellow socks
follow me with squeals of laughter;
Oh how she loves to run in them,
Begging me to come chase after!

Little yellow socks...
now not being worn a lot.
My little girl is growing up,
No longer just a tot.

Little yellow socks
will be cast aside someday
I must guard these precious moments;
in my heart, they'll safely stay.

Copyright © Amy Swanson

Details | Tanka | |

Claw foot Sanctuary

Refuge lies in ripples
Her head rests
on white porcelain
Fragrant lavender recalls childhood
Memory rises with the mist

For Chris's contest ~

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | I do not know? | |

The Ringer

What if age was determined
By the amount of life experiences you had
Would you be an old timer, seasoned
Or a young naïve lad?

Would you change the way you lived
Or would you be satisfied?
Would changes to your life be massive,
Or would you seek a priest to confide?

I wonder why we don't live more
Not knowing when the curtain falls
Instead we tread on egg-shell floors
As if we plan when the bell tolls..

Copyright © Master Jones

Details | I do not know? | |

Nasty girl

   There you go again doing things that you are not suppose to be in and then you look at 
me like oh i'm so sweet if you only knew I can be a freak without showing it. Here they 
go listening to the rumors but i'm your friend so in the end I know that they are true. 
How could you do that with him and her and they were on the ground you were pretending to 
pick up gum? You need to be safe, making out with strangers girl I aint no saint but god 
what are you doing? I don't want to see you years from now telling me you got aids, I 
worry about you and I feel like your special so I even wrote about you come on look how 
much you mean to me. You like him I get it but how many other guys have you liked in the 
past. He's your only, he's a phony make sure he's not just in it for the prize because 
girl you never know some guys are. It's the truth and you need to listen, I don't mean to 
sound bossy but soon enough your name is going to be posted on all the bathrooms walls. 
Telling things that you haven't even done yet. But you will front about it, Lie again. 
Telling everyone it's happened how do we know what's real or fake. I love your 
personality I wish I could steal it, Your loud, and flirty, daring and smart girl you got 
too much heart to be showing it to everyone who wants a sip. this is for all the nasty 
girls out there who think I don't know what i'm saying just ask anyone of them who are 
dead now or are on the streets prostitiuting. Don't be afraid to be a freak it's healthy 
but sometimes it's better when it's secret closet freaks have more fun.

Copyright © Shahana Jackson

Details | I do not know? | |


Like fossils deeply implanted
Molded forever in time
Seared with years of living
Piercing creeping thoughts
Tripping over feelings
No perfect gait outlined
Like silhouette on the mind.

Copyright © Dorett Cope

Details | Free verse | |

Roaming through Memories

alone now I roam through memories recalling treasures of the past journeying back to seaside treks with my husband riding to the city to see Broadway shows reliving nights of romance even visiting John’s grave in the best of times memories carry me to ocean jetties where vows of love were exchanged as waves lapped gently against rocks if only we could feel these sensations again family outings at the beach building sandcastles burying Dad’s feet in sand sauntering along the festive boardwalk hiking through woodlands with friends who have passed wanting to hug them again feeling the weight of concrete preventing my spirit from moving on as I reach out to heaven seeking a sign praying for guidance hoping past joy will be restored confined by sadness I roam through memories alone now
For Drake’s “I Roam” contest 4/23/11

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Free verse | |

Do You Ever Think of Me

Do you ever think of me,
though much time has passed and
we have not talked, we have not met?
Do you ever wonder how I am,
what I've done, where I've been?
Do you ever picture in your mind
how the years have changed my face,
lined my brow, slowed my pace?
I often think of you, as you were,
when I'm we two
would talk the night away then
greet the day with smiles and laughter --
ready to face the roads ahead,
the crooked miles we'd walk alone --
but, after, waiting to relax again,
to smile once more, trusting that
we'd meet some time and talk till day,
with nothing changed that counts at all...
still all smiles, all hugs, all laughter.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Rhyme | |

The Park -- Part One

Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Noon comes; the hours pass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Silence reigns throughout the park.
A crumpled headline, a forgotten toy,
lifeless, do not hear a far-off bark.
In the park, not a single little boy.
Midnight comes; the hours go --
soon, the sky begins to glow...
morning breaks, and with it, sound.
In the park begins the morning round.
White skeletons of benches -- slats --
in all the wintry parks of Age
fill up in morning. Deserted flats,
each with the aspect of a cage,
become an unused, waiting gauge
that measures dull and wasted years --
floods of loneliness -- rivers of fears...
The weak and battered, pallid crowd
which, daily, parks ingest
speak in muted tones; but loud
is the message all suggest.
The clangor of the beaten Belles,
trampled in the slime of years,
entreats the mind to plug its ears;
yet, if it will, it hears...
memories, perhaps, keep active still
the shriveled and the loosened flaps
that are the mouths of all the Bills --
reduced to gray and ugly gaps...
Down the graveled pathways come
children bent on carefree play.
Belles, though silent, are not dumb,
nor will the Bills forego their say.
But warnings fall on ears too deaf;
around are eyes too blind to see.
And so the tots, too young for Death,
play on and on till time for tea.
Day after day after day
children come and children play.
Pigeons flutter in the park;
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Once more, deep silence claims the park.
Midnight hours come and go.
The sky again assumes a glow.
Wind stirs dead leaves to rustle.
Starts again the aimless bustle
of the battered, weak, and infirm-eyed:
those whom living failed -- who died
but still must play their signal role
of unloved, friendless, unhailed Old;
who gather daily in the park
to envy tots their vital spark --
the hope, the promise in their eyes --
before it fades, before it dies.
But tots at play -- the young, the bold --
must laugh and sing -- cannot be told
that youth's not long and Time is cold.
Time devours -- a ravenous beast --
and men are the courses at his feast.
Some he swallows in their prime,
 On some he waits too long a time:
 these rancid morsels, Time's midnight snack,
explore their memories. They hie them back
 to that old moment, deepest black, 
when they first dared to know -- and first said --
that Time's the master all men dread.
(Please read The Park -- Part Two, which is a continuation of
this poem...due to space limitations)

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Free verse | |

Old Piano Book

Now yellowed with age
a lonely music book,
hidden in every page
old musician dreams

of endless nights passed
struggling with melodies,
lovely trills and arpeggios,
etudes and symphonies;

a sentry keeping watch
over dirtied ivory keys
played and loved once
by souls of olden days;

labors of faceless men
held close to its breast,
strains still remembered
kept deep in the chest;

an old piano book stands
now sullied by the years,
within its torn pages live
dead musician tears.

Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito

Details | Lyric | |

The Old Homestead

Orphaned footsteps round the old place.
Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered
coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise,

coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic. 
The long land screams within its own silence.
Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge

for the undulating grass and, those it serves.
Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards 
its head - and the barely living turn to listen. 

The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright 
blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for 
its self-professed being and looming enormity.

She looks at the broken window glass and 
through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those 
were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens. 

This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains 
as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba 
wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental 

scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards; 
always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer 
shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness.

Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine 
front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron, 
rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of – 

I lived. This mother of five young does not cry, 
just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps;
to know them loved; hear the birdsong through

unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking; 
feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg 
to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living. 

The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole,
marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own.
The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence, 

welcoming her familiar face home.

© Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009

*Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration; 
celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving 
Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there 
every summer until it was gone...

Copyright © Kristin Reynolds

Details | Narrative | |

The Captain and I

With the palms of well-worn leathery hands that in younger days guided a Tall Ship round 
the globe many times with the help of stars that still twinkled in his eyes, the old man made 
a porthole in the frosty forest of swirling ferns that had been painted on the kitchen window 
pane by Jack-Frost during the night.

As I sat on his lap, he told me the creaking sound made by the rockers from the rocking 
chair we sat in on the hardwood floor - if he closed his eyes, could make him believe he was 
back with the wind in his sails, rising and dipping and swaying with the whims of the 
waves ‘ore the sea.

Back- and- forth, back-and-forth, we rocked as the porthole on the window pane grew larger, 
exposing the winter wonder land outside where trees and roads and roof-tops lie frozen 
beneath a layer of fluffy snow that looked like icing on a birthday cake, as the house 
softened and swelled in the warmth of the burning kindling wood that snapped and crackled 
in the stove. 

Rocking  back-and-forth, back-and-forth, I asked him, looking into those eyes of green, with 
that far away look. “Grandpa, won’t you tell me please, what lies beyond the sea?”  He 
paused for a moment, blowing silver halos that rose from his pipe in an aroma of sweet 
smelling ‘Old Sail’ tobacco, and with the magic of his words, he took me on a journey, 
rocking across the sea where he showed me all the places and wondrous things he’d ever 

That was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, where an old man, taught a 
little girl, that life is but a dream.


                          In memory of: Captain James George the Third - My Grandfather

 2nd place in  'Anything Goes #2 Contest - sponsered by Constance La France 

Author's note:  

This is one entry of many that will appear in my next book ' A Journey of Roses and Thorns'. 
They are true events that have happened in my life - some where roses, some were 
thorns.  I have learned valuable lessons from both.

Copyright © Elaine George

Details | I do not know? | |

Some Old Style Verse for a New Frame of Mind

The Middle Time is now upon me,
And the tune to which I dance is somewhat thin;
A ghost remembrance of that cacaphonous din
To which my steps were measured in my youth.
I know there lies now less before 
Than all those days that lay within
The sepulchure of careless memory passed,
And I apprehend the sometime bitter truth
That evil days approach my door
When much of what I've come to love will bid its leave
And I be forced to gaze aghast
At sights my eyes would fain not see,
When I to faithful hope must cleave.

And yet, what better time than this, the high point of the feast?
That Jester, Youth, has left the table
Leaving us the better able
To speak of things which more befit the greyed brow,
Matters weighty and sublime
Which better suit our natures now, though perhaps in tone more sable
Than such issues as delight the Fool,
And content the simpleminded sow -
Let us worthily pass the time
To Banquet's End, in company merry and refined,
Reviewing all we gained in Life's long school -
Establish what we value most and least,
Then say we fed our souls while yet we dined.

O grieve not that thy step be not so quick nor light
As was it's wont to be in bygone days,
Nor pine for carefree, childish ways -
They had their time, and sweet they were,
But now thou hast a surer, measured step
And the nobler thought is the one which stays,
And Youth for all its joyful folly
Is not a state forever to prefer
To a mind and manner better kept
From fancies and seductions strange;
Who but a Fool would be forever jolly
And deny his Midlife's further sight,
It's deeper view, it's wider range?

Copyright © William Masonis

Details | Narrative | |

Chinese Scrolls

Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | ABC | |

New Year

Years past unfold
Seems just yesterdays 
Tomorrow will be New Year
Streams of thoughts never change.

Copyright © marvin celestial

Details | Rhyme | |

The Return of Heart from Darkness

there was a moment
I felt our hearts brush,
there was within time 
a thought, mine you would crush 

those inhumane moments 
within the walls of your world,
stripped me of feeling 
and all my emotions unfurled

threads of memory
drift through my mind, 
I pick up the ends
to try to make them align 

I have flashes of joy
that pinpricked our life, 
but the strongest in visions
are the ones staged of strife 

I remember all the love 
you stripped from my soul,
I remember all the nights
wishing I was once again whole 

these agonies I’ve bled
on my wedding dress,
I’ve erased, the seeing
of you ripping my flesh 

so these words aren’t wrought 
within the pain of despair, 
for I choose to remember
the very best we shared there 

let the Road to Perdition 
that I traveled with you,
carry the heartache and pain
so we can say this adieu 

the thought I now cradle
to the end of my lines,
is of laughing and smiling
in the heart of springtime 

your power has fallen
and can’t hurt me again 
as I sit here, wonder,
was the beginning worth the end 

Copyright © Jayne Eggins

Details | Rhyme | |


Struggling to be part
Of your affectionate heart
But nothing to expect.

Searching my share of
Fragments with your mind stuff
Still longing for whiff.

Oh this life always
Mingling with equal heartaches
Destined to be parted ways.

Whether this thing exists
I still be longing with tears
My existence persists with tests.

Rushing biddable thoughts
All the years with struggles
Misdeeds cause bitterness.

Copyright © marvin celestial

Details | Light Poetry | |


This's the world of dreams  and 
Where I think ev'ry that reels,
After a thousands times,
would as same beliefs things 
besought me,
Is it a mere dream? 

Copyright © kelechi Emeaba

Details | Free verse | |

Who am I

In the mirror on Vishu morning I see an Indian woman
Whose Brooklyn tongue can't form Hindu prayers.
Can I bleach my skin to match my voice?
Can I scrape my tongue to match my face?
I've resigned myself to my fate--
Forever asking the sky
"Njan aara?"
In a language my children will never recognize,
In an accent my grandparents will never understand.
I am what my parents feared I may become;
A child whose soul has turned Westward;
A woman whose only memories of Diwali are the flickering lights.

Copyright © Anamika Nair

Details | Free verse | |

I Once Loved the Sun

In those younger years
I made a friend of the sun
And allowed her to bathe me
In brown creamy skin

In those younger years
I ran across a beach
And played with the sun
Let her sprinkle freckles
Upon my healthy golden cheeks

In those younger years
I had my way 
With the sun
Took her in so many 
Different positions
Under the burn of her sultry touch

In those younger years
I  traveled to exotic climes
Just to enter my sunshine heaven
And soak up her glow

But the cave I now inhabit
Shuts out all the warming rays
The cave in which I hide
Repels all her sunny ways

The cave I made from earth and  
Never lets her kiss within
The cave I excavated
Collapses upon my daily sins

In those younger years

I once loved the sun

Copyright © Catman Cohen

Details | Verse | |

A Coffee Bar with Orange Paint

A coffee bar with orange paint --
   Brown tables on a tiled, grey floor --
Soft light within blown glass above --
   A neon sign hangs by the door.

I come here sometimes just to write.
   A coffee bar with orange paint
To some would be apalling; but
   I do not see it as a taint.

Tonight an artist's work is hung
   Upon those walls in bold display;
A coffee bar with orange paint
   Allows her dreams to have their say.

I like the color in these walls --
   A brazen hue, not pale or quaint;
And in this place I weave my words --
   A coffee bar with orange paint.

Copyright © M. Teresa Blaylock

Details | Free verse | |

Emotional Turbulence

The voices grow louder, Intensifying with emotion, anger lining every aggressive word. My insides squeeze tighter as the vitriol poisons my mind, How does such hostility exist? As the sound of hatred deepens, The feelings strengthen their grip, like a vice, So tight, I can no longer breathe All the negative emotions I have ever felt, fill me, Threatening to overflow. So long have they been banished… Enough. No more! My mouth opens, An earsplitting scream of pain and suffering shatters the silence, Sobs of sorrow and grief wrack my body, Murderous shrieks of anger and hate, Wretched cries of self-pity and self-loathing, Poison the air. Now, free of these emotions. But the monster still exists Within the dark depths of my mind.

Copyright © Anastasia Papanicolaou

Details | Free verse | |

whispers in silence

What keeps me awake
When the cool breeze bears whispers of things to come
Promises to be fulfilled on the morrow?

Is it my joyless moment of cognizance
knowing that this stagnant night ripples from no real breeze
Only imagined promises birthed on the whims of a longing heart?

Yet, what keeps me awake
is not these dreams of flattering winds
but it is this night of lifeless branches and unrifled leaves
the lack of real whispering winds taunting my heart
What truly keeps me awake
Is the silence of tomorrow.

Copyright © Samir Georges

Details | Free verse | |


Life, as a pseudonym,
Drags its shadow's shadow, which snarls
Itself around traffic cones and
Streetlamps, tearing at its skin
With deliberate intimacy
To alarm light witnessed
Only through strained peripheral vision.

A lace-stitched veil
Slips through sidewalk cracks,
Unisolated windows,
Cataract smooth eyes.

The flesh of the matter invades
Such as the Red Death
In living color--Vibrant
Cadavers speak the language of Love:

It slides over possessive nouns, sticky
As salivation,
Push and rattle and harbor themselves against
Warm, wet cavities eroded
In the backside of actualities 
Sweet Tooth.
Authentic miasma, honest illness.

Any footprints discarded in covers of dust
In which Fear has been recognized
Yield into thoughts by persuasion 
Of waves.

Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad

Details | Quatrain | |

Granddads Book

In my quiet times I often try,
To remember places I've been.
To recall folk I have passed by,
And sights that I have seen.

There is nothing wrong with my mind,
Sometimes my memory is quite refined.
I think it's filled over many a year,
With so much junk, nothing seems clear.

So, I made up my mind to write it all down,
To recall it all caused me to frown
It started like I was in the dark,
A memory flared, I was in the park.

That day in the park was just the lever,
I found my mind was as good as ever.
Tho' times and places got out of line,
I wrote it all down, now wasn't I clever!

I'm nearly at the end of my story,
A journey I'm glad that I took.
For my grandsons to read in years to come,
I'll call it Granddads Book.

© Dave Timperley 2012.

Copyright © Dave Timperley