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Nostalgia Narrative Poems | Narrative Poems About Nostalgia

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

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Details | Narrative |

The Street Front Cafe

I come in from the blustery wind turning to shut the door behind me as 
a gust launches into the café, sending a quick chill amongst those already seated.
I pause and take a quick look around the room. I smile as it’s not full yet but there are enough here to make the place cosy.
I notice a smattering of pictures on the wall but that isn’t why you come here. No, you come to the PoetrySoup café for the poetry and prose.

Being new to the neighbourhood I wander first towards the closest wall to catch a quick glimpse of those who have been honoured here.
I smile as I recognise a few names.

Loosening my jacket (there must be a chill in the air as I seldom wear a jacket!) I head over to the serving area to place my order. A hot chocolate to start with and a nice piece of black forest cake.
As I wait to the side I turn back into the room , taking in all the surroundings. There is an air of hominess about the place.
The worn black and white squared tiles on the floor, show scuffs and cracks.
The chunky square wooden tables and chairs with neat condiment holders to the side.
As I take my order I stop for a moment as I search for a spare table.
Amongst the conversations and laughter a phrase stands out and I turn to the table where it came from “Hvorfor Takk” (why thank you – Norwegian) I smile as that can only be Anne Lise. I recognise her Norwegian although mine is very basic and very rusty.
I make my way over to greet her and say hello.
I notice 2 other women sitting with Anne Lise and recognise PD – Linda in a flash as well as Andrea. “Hei I am Thomas and you must be Anne Lise.” I say as I arrive at the table and have caught the attention of those sitting there.
A huge grin lights the faces of those seated with my introduction.
“May I?” I ask standing before the only empty seat at the table.
“Please do.” They answer together then laugh.
Before I can all three stand and
Anne Lise introduces firstly PD Linda, we exchange a hug and our hello’s.
I recognise the next woman and jump in before Anne Lise can introduce Andrea. We hug and all sit, chatting away like school children waiting for the teacher to arrive in class.
They all turn around in their seats excitedly and start pointing to other members who are busily in conversations at their own tables.
 “Over there is Kelly D, sitting with Gail and Mystic Rose” says Linda.
“…and Yvette Kelley with Bindu,” interrupts Andrea.
“Connie Moore is over there past Skat-Aux and Lucilla,’ points Linda.

I smile as heads turn at times to stare in our direction.
Standing I excuse myself for a moment as I head across to various tables to say hello to all those that have made me feel so welcome.
I share hugs with Kelly and Bindu, we share a laugh for a moment as I move onwards.
On my way around I meet Beverley Crespo and stop to share a quick conversation before completing my circle.
There are so many others in here as the place is filling up now.
Outside a change of season blows cold through a bleak neighbourhood, but inside there is a warmth in the air that comes with friendships and love.

I look around before sitting again and smile.
Spying my forest cake Andrea stands and heads to the counter.
Bringing some chocolate cake back we all laugh.
Anne Lise asks me about my Norwegian heritage and tries teaching me a few more words. I try but just can’t quite get them yet which makes her laugh. Linda asks about my writing and in turn Andrea and I smile at the bond we already have with our friendship.

Before the night is out I have shared moments with all of my wonderful friends. Kelly, Gail and Mystic as well as a laugh with Bindu who has the warmest smile. Then I got to chat with Skat and Lucilla, Connie, Yvette and Beverley with whom I shared some heartfelt words.

It’s getting late so we shuffle around and say our goodbyes.
Before heading in our own directions. Some left in pairs. Others in groups.
Some left alone but with a warmth inside that will burn brightly until next time.
Come over and drop in anytime. The PoetrySoup café is always open until late and they serve the best friendships going around.




Details | Narrative |

Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
Helpless, 
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
cautiously, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

But 
I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
shoes
when I get old? "


Details | Narrative |

An Escape

Have some time to spare in-between a work schedule 
burning me from the inside, out.
Wasted too much time on the computer already,
my body aches from physical inactivity.

Thoughts are racing faster than the speed of light,
the routine of modern life is trying to cage in a free spirit-
a pen for a wild horse with boundless energy,
a strong kick and large teeth.

Haven't come down to this part of the bay for years.
Not sure why anymore?
Not too sure about anything right now.
Believed I was too young to be having these thoughts,
but here they come like a booming drum beat,
keeping time with the pounding of my heart,
but always just a little louder,
to remind me how this warning isn't about to depart.

The putrid stench of kelp and dead crabs
baking in the afternoon sun,
curls up my nostrils, awakening memories of childhood....
....the salt in the sea is the salt in my blood;
we have been one since conception.
The salty, deep green rot, smells like bliss to me,
compared with the scents of over-heated wires,
burnt coffee, and industrial-gray carpeting.

Sit down on a large chunk of driftwood.
The waves aren't crashing in their usual rhythmic crescendo,
but lapping quietly like chortling laughter.
The ocean is chuckling,
laughing at my insignificance
in comparison to its almost limitless horizon 
of cruel, cold water.

A familiar pungent aroma creeps my way-
the high citrus scent of bergamot
mixed with the sweet perfume of skunk.
Two young punks are hauling on some reefer
up the beach from where I am sitting.
Can hear their youthful, carefree chatter.
The last time I smoked weed, seems eons ago now.
The smell invokes the rebel still alive inside,
giving a glimpse of who I had once been-
eyes blazing red,
mind full of humble awe
flying high above the clouds like an eagle.

The shrill cries of gulls fighting over a starfish
breaks my stupor of reminiscence,
reminding me of the hungry ways of nature-
the hungry ways of mankind and money.
Damn! My stupid job awaits!

As I make my way back,
pant legs causing the sand grass 
to sigh in dry moans and whispers,
I make up my mind to visit 
this old stomping ground more often.
In fact, I might start coming out here
on all of my lunch breaks.
Out here, the wild horse has ample room to roam,
even if for only a few moments of escape-
an illusion of escape is far better
than having only stifled dreams
and no hope left at all-

feel much better already.


Details | Narrative |

Life Is What You Make It

Birth was suppose to come easier than this
I pant quickly as I was taught, but it isn't helping,
nor is squinting my eyes,  helping to make the pain go away
But, then when pain evaporates like the tears in the corners of my eyes,
without ever getting a chance to slide slowly down my cheeks,
it fools me in thinking it is almost over now, and I should be happy
 
But all I can think about is my mother
and how different it was for her, 
especially while her young husband was so far away

My back aches, and then once again, 
I look for the owner of the mysterious voice, that is my own
I groan, and the doctor finally makes the desperate decision
I am given a block for the pain, an incision is made
and although I feel numb, and foggy, my mind in a haze
I can feel hands grope, ... a tug, a void, and then...the small noise... a cry...

And the next several hours are a blur
until everything is clear and I'm back in my room
on the sterilized sheets, too stiff, and too sleek, 
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleeping

This miracle I bore, soft as silk, with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, with a deep pang of grief
for another time, another place, a place long ago...

I bathe in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream behind me,...... to a hope that had ended
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own

I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
I so cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast

The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death




_________________________________________________________
3/14/14


Details | Narrative |

The Birth of a Novel

There-
In the artificial light-
Without a pen she writes-

Recalling days-
Of linen paper sheets and candle light-

As she dips her unseen quill-
Into an overflowing mind-

Extracting vivid memories-
Of a precious bygone time-

Then she paints these pastel scenes- 
With words 
upon the neon screen-

An old Victorian house-
Beside a babbling stream-

Where she finds her resting-
In a seasoned rocking chair-

Glowing hazel eyes-
Beneath a mound of silver hair-

And there  in early spring-
As lilacs bloom and song birds sing-

A child receives a gift an angel brings-

As she listens long into the night-
While her grandma tells the many joys and sorrows Of her life-

That in loving memory-
For her now-

This long since grown-up child writes-

The story of-
 ‘The Mariner’s Wife’

~~~~~~~~~~


Details | Narrative |

Alone in a Hospital Room - An Alzheimer’s Song

Don’t you remember, love, how we danced that first night;
beneath the sun’s rays, toes dipping in the cooling sand, 
to the tune of our favorite song –
with me humming the best I could – 
(I sounded terrible, but you told me I sounded divine, remember?)
while falling all over myself, and your delicate feet; 
and you, trying so hard not to laugh as I made such a fool of myself!
Did you ever think we would go 
from being love-sick teenagers dancing on the beach, 
to a couple of old-timers reminiscing 
about our best years – our long ago days together? 

Honey? 
Sweetheart, please…
If there is any part of that teenage girl 
left within that beautiful head of yours…please; 
please, just look in my eyes as you once did…
look at me, sweetheart…
Don’t you remember? 

My love, do you hear? 
They’re playing our favorite song…



*Inspired by Izzy Gumbo's Solfege Contest
I really hope I did this right! :)


Details | Narrative |

My Bicycle

Once I had a bicycle,
A loving present from my grandfather;
Since I was his favorite granddaughter,
He granted my wish at a snap of my finger .

Since he was so old,
A new bicycle he could hardly afford;
He took his bike when he was young,
Which I found it once at the back of our barn.

As far as I remember,
It was really so old and rugged;
But my grandpa was like Mr. Mac-Gyber,
Amazingly fixing all things all-over.

My granda was a well-known painter,
I thought he will repaint and use sandpapers;
When I surreptitiously sneaked into his hut,
He was there recycling all my milk cans.

When everything was done,
He gladly gave it to me with a big hug;
I hurriedly drove it at once,
Down the street and field with so much fun.

“My bike was real a unique one!” I thought.
So different from others in our neighborhood,
Its wailing siren was made up of a  cow’s horn,
Tubes were made of dried bamboos and corn.

Other parts were still the same,
Like forks, hubs and chainwheel set,
The rest were made up  of my milk cans,
They were pedal, brake and seatgear stem.

Handle bars were what I like  most,
Converted from the handle of his old plow;
So sturdy and so strong all I knew,
And  I can drive it  so long in full control.

However, when I travelled quite afar,
Parts were falling one at a time;
Until everything suddenly split apart,
Eventually it dropped and rolled me down.



Date: Aug. 3, 2012
( A loving tribute to my dearest Father)


4th Place Winner
Contest: Any Poem of the Week Contest
Contest Judged: 8/4/12         12:00:00 AM
Poet Sponsor: Poet-Destroyer


Details | Narrative |

The Fairground

                          The Fairground
 
I remember the fairground when I was a child, there
was the candy Fairy Floss machines, and you could 
See them spinning the spider webs of sugar which 
Made up the sweet delight, that children loved to eat
Then There was Sideshow Alleys with its clown stall 
With the moving heads and popping the balls into it's 
Mouth, there was the shooting galleries and penny 
Toss events and many other things to play, there was a 
Ghost Train and the Dodgem Cars and Boats, where 
Bumping deliberately was not allowed, the Penny Arcade 
With Pinball games and the Claw Crane  where you tried 
To grab a prize If you where lucky, penny slots which 
Could give you a free ball and your penny back by flicking
A lever, and now the main events, the Big Dipper or
Roller Coaster, it would leave you going back for your
Stomach, the large Slippery Dips, Hall of Mirrors and
The Tunnel of Love river caves, Ferris Wheel and the
Helter Skelter where you rode down a spiral on a mat 
But the one thing that stands out in the Fairground 
Was the giant Carousel, a beautiful hand crafted 
Turntable loaded with beautifully crafted wooden
Horses, which where all hand painted, children would
Always want to ride this iconic ride and if you where
Able to grab the brass ring, you would get another
Ride absolutely free, yes the Fairground was an event
In itself, as children would always want to go there
All of the time and even the adults would ask  their
Children to go, because inside every adult lived 
Another little child, they all loved the Fairground. 
 


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 
seen.

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.


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.


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