It is Christmas Eve, all preparations for the day are done,
My hand grabs the doorknob as I step out to take a stroll,
On this peaceful night the village is silent, and I see no one,
Walking under the warm glow of a decorated streetlight pole.
I stand and gaze at the windows of the house next door,
Where a tree glows with bubble lights and tinsel strands,
Three stockings holding wishes, await over the fire's roar,
A scene straight from a dream, so wonderful and grand.
Glancing upwards, as the clouds glide across the moon,
Silver stars are out mingling with the drifting snowflakes,
A sight to enjoy here and now, for morning will be here soon,
A beautiful Christmas memory, deep in my heart to take.
Only one car comes up the street, as I walk along our lane,
Just a friendly snowman is there to greet me with a hello,
I stop, adjust his top hat, and reposition his pipe and cane,
This cold-hearted man has made a child smile, I know.
My ears lead me to the street corner where carolers sing,
As those old familiar notes drift towards me on the air,
More sounds seem to awaken as the bells distantly ring,
I felt nothing but a warming glow as I was standing there.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
Going through some old things that just had to go,
I came upon something that nearly got tossed.
Memories came to me from long ago. . . .
I thrilled that my treasure was no longer lost.
Toys come and toys go. In the 60’s, one fad
was to own an odd doll not seen much today.
This doll had long hair and was scantily clad
but wasn’t a Barbie with which I would play!
Its body was squat and it had a pug nose.
I probably loved it because it looked droll.
Its hair could be orange, green, yellow or rose,
but if you don’t know yet, that doll was a troll!
How I wish I could dredge up some memory
to know what was happening inside my head
as a pre-teen with friends and what it might be
that we did with those dolls and what fun things we said!
The trolls that I owned must have been at least four -
both sexes so they'd make a small family -
their hair different hues, each a doll to adore.
But one day they no longer mattered to me. . .
I can’t say where all of my playthings got stashed.
When I left for college, they vanished from view.
But knowing my mom, they must have got trashed.
She doesn’t hang on much to things like I do.
Now four decades later, I looked at my prize,
bare naked and smudged but its hair still jet black.
It stared up at me with its cute amber eyes.
I couldn’t believe how I got that thing back!
It somehow had ended up in my new state.
Good luck for that troll, I throw few things away!
That doll would be learning soon of its new fate
and meet other troll dolls with whom it would stay.
Just like Peter Pan, I refuse to grow old,
and new trolls I’d bought with long bright spiky hair
when troll dolls again in the 90's were sold!
But I had to recall where I’d stored them….. oh, where??
(I found the dolls and added the old one to the new collection,
but my daughter's family moved in with me a few months ago.
My daughter is a clean freak like MY mom is (apparently it skips
a generation or something), and my daughter took my troll dolls
and put them out of sight somewhere so currently they are floating
around who knows where!
For Paula Swanson's "Yard Sale" Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
As Christmas beckons with season of cheer
I recall how we met, a hallway outside
Year Nineteen-Eighty in a film's premiere;
Offering your neck- scarf, we gently smiled.
Flurries drifted while in haste I agreed,
Invite for tea as we watched the moon fade
'Till season’s next, nuptial joy pealed
At 25, a mistletoe crocheted.
Tonight, the lights reflect your willow eyes
Bestowing grace from Magi stars above
Flashback of theme songs yearns for unity;
Enduring a year of departed love.
The holidays cloak time; you hum my name
From spring's past budding to December’s snow,
Alone, I toast reveries etched on life’s acclaim
Kisses missed from my long- gone mistletoe.
Kelly Deschler's Christmas Past, Present or Future
~based on my aunt's experience
Copyright © nette onclaud
This once was an empty hope chest,
All my wishes it was waiting to hold,
Now it keeps the things I love best,
As my life begins to unfold.
A hope chest holds things from the past,
It locks away secrets of when we wept,
And poems written to make memories last,
In my Mom's diary of thoughts she kept.
A porcelain doll, of which I was very fond,
My Grandma made her, with care and grace,
She had long hair, curly, blonde,
And a blue dress trimmed in white lace.
My hope chest holds everything I love,
Like old photographs that are looking worn,
And the wishes that I've dreamt of,
Ever since the day I was born.
My hope chest may hold new things,
Like a Valentine my first love sent me,
Maybe, eventually an engagement ring,
And the rose that won him my heart's key.
If there is a newborn on the way,
My hope chest will hold many things,
Like maybe, a baby blanket, someday,
A reminder of what life can bring.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
A melody from yesteryear
Plays softly on the wind--
A mix of myrrh and honey,
A wistful sweet and bitter blend.
Fond memories of bygone days,
Of long departed friends.
Of hollyhocks and lilacs,
A reverie that never ends.
A vision of a one-room school
Set in a woodland glade--
Of children playing joyfully
There in a spreading oak tree's shade.
A farmer toiling in his field
Behind a horse and plow.
No air conditioned tractors
As modern farmers do it now.
A rustic, weathered, country church,
A Sunday morning bright
Glows fondly now in memory,
Bathed in nostalgia's hallowed light.
A barefoot boy with fishing pole
Beside a lazy stream.
A song in perfect harmony
Played in that golden summer dream.
Oh memories, sweet memories
Locked in my soul to stay.
Oh melody, sweet melody,
A haunting song of yesterday.
Copyright © William Robinson
Together the Owl and the PusyCat were married
Then again sailed out over the deep blue seas
Searching forever for the great Land of Nod,
To the place where they could find true peace.
True peace, true peace… Where they could find true peace.
The love that twined forever within their hearts
They sought throughout all the wonderous lands
Going to the place where they would live in peace,
A place where true peace, rules and lives in the hearts of the land.
The land, the land… Where true peace lives in the heart of the land.
Alas, the love of the heart, though truly not easy to find…
Is easier to find than the love of peace, found throughout the land.
So it’s said they will continue to sail, until that day comes true,
And when they land for the final time, will be up to me and you.
Me and you, me and you… That day will be up to me and you.
Copyright © Carol Eastman
Thoughts are flooding me,
With memories of when.
As I lay my head,
On my pillow again.
Back in my mind.
I haven’t missed you like this,
In quite a long time.
It’s been a long journey,
A journey of tears.
What seems like a while,
Has really been years.
I can’t tell you what it is,
I really don’t know.
What pangs this old heart,
Allowing sadness to grow.
I’m plagued with the memory
Of your infectious smile.
As I toss and turn...sifting,
Through my mental files.
My sorrow has awoken,
With memories of when.
Tormenting my soul,
As I miss you again.
Copyright © Raul Moreno
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
Evening softly pours down from the hills..
The birds quiet , I hear the old dog bark
Another day will soon be put to sleep
And again I will be alone in the dark
The scent of lilac now comes to me..
The breeze gentle as a baby's sigh
The old back porch a haven now
As I prepare myself to say goodbye
Never thinking it would be this way..
So many days without much meaning
Hearing the creak of the rocking chair
Now to the past my thoughts are leaning
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick
Under the oaks where we first kissed,
And made incessant late night love.
Is shaded with memories of great times,
That my heart and soul are so proud of.
Under the oaks where time stood still,
I held you many times in my arms.
Where light dappled in the gaps of leaves,
As I gave you, your first gold charm.
Under the oaks marks the place,
Where you rest to the end of days.
I visit your plot with my heart on my sleeve,
Asking why God took you away.
Copyright © Raul Moreno
THE SEASONS OF MY LIFE
In the Spring time I was blossoming,
The world was bright and new.
I learned to laugh annd cry and fight,
For what I knew was true.
That there`s a time to have your fun,
And there`s a time for work,
A time when we must learn to earn,
And value all life`s perks.
In Summer time I learned of life,
Of people and the world.
I learned that life`s a mixture,
Of experience, a whirl,
That sometimes life moves way too fast,
It should be sipped and savored,
Or else it plays out way too soon,
And loses all it`s flavor.
In Fall I learned acceptance,
That what must be will be.
It does no good to fuss and fret,
`Bout what was denied me;
For some it seems are richly blessed,
While others get the crumbs,
Who gets what is up to God,
From Whom all good things come.
Now Winter fast approaches,
And what`s important now,
Is what memories I`ll leave behind,
Who remembers me, --- and how.
For At This Age Contest by Nette Onclaud
Copyright © Judy Ball
KEEPING UP WITH THE DOW JONESES
These here are the indisputable facts
I was born on the right side of the tracks
WITH People who only smiled if their stocks or equity increased
If not they wouldn’t have minded becoming deceased
They had big cars, big bucks and big time class
With a million dollar house mortgaged up the a*s
Their children went to private schools in uniforms
With charming and well decorated dorms
I looked at their faces and wondered why I didn’t fit
That’s when the fire in my belly was originally lit
I had no desire to play with kids from private schools
Nor did I ever agree to obey by their rules
So one day I skipped over steel and these here are the facts
The people I found lived in tents, not even shanties or shacks
But they didn’t have to read Dow Jones in order to smile
And couldn’t care less about having Gucci type style
They smiled at things people ignore like little tykes at play
And somehow or other they AWOKE contented day after day
They had no stocks to watch fretfully fall or RESOUNDINGLY rise
And you could see the easiness in their gleaming eyes
That which I observed in them appealed to me a great deal
The wrong side people taught me how satisfied I could feel
They lived out of back-packs, antique cedar chests and sacks
So if you come a’looking for me I’ll be on the wrong side of the tracks
© 2011.…Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
Copyright © jeffry cohan
come kiss the frost
from off late apple themes
the carnival is coming into town
where everything is nothing that it seems
hitch up the pony,
take the surrey down.
Let's take the long way 'cross the summer bridge,
the one where first you dared to touch my hand,
I still love seeing sunsets from the ridge
and down below the colors are so grand.
the county fair is finer from up here
all candy apple reds and spinning beams
the zephyr through the pines is all we hear ,
a place to sit and contemplate our dreams
the fantasy is kinder than the truth
recall the ferris wheel at sweet sixteen,
let's share that secret summer of our youth
and go back home to cherish where we've been.
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren
Drive across the country
Let imagination flow
Tumbleweed and flat lands
Reveal a western show
Mile markers pave the way
Across this land sublime
Wind blows through the car
On my arm sunshine
Generations of people
Spirits across the land
Occupy a history
Of faces in the sand
Deep inside our spirit
Adheres to our respect
This peaceful land of bounty
No one shall reject
Fresh cut grass lingers
The present rescinding more
Where old shacks and farms
Grasp our inner core
Land abound with wisdom
Dust has settled down
Enjoy driving the distance
See another town
Copyright © Jane Bowen
My harshest critic is the mirror,
Revealing to me...I haven't moved on.
My life has no current of happiness,
Just a stagnant still pond.
I dwell in a lonely atmosphere,
Though surrounded by numerous friends.
I feel the happiness...I once had,
Has came to an untimely end.
A numbness in my emotions,
The haziness never gets clearer.
It's now what people say about me,
My harshest critic is the mirror.
Copyright © Raul Moreno
The moon, pausing near her zenith,
On that balmy night in May,
Painted a warm, nocturnal landscape,
In varying shades gray.
A mockingbird insomniac,
With golden harp did play,
And serenade his lady love
With songs as bright as day.
A shy, retiring whip-poor-will
In some hidden, forest swale,
Intoned his lonely-heart refrain,
In a melancholy wail.
The gentle breeze, that washed my face,
Tasted honeysuckle sweet,
While silver dewdrops glistened,
On the grass beneath my feet.
Though my magic, childhood years have gone
On frightened wings of flight,
I treasure, in my reverie,
That enchanted full moon night.
Copyright © William Robinson
Soda pop and gum drops
A river full, so sweet
To be that child I once was
All that candy, I would eat
Not worry about a cavity,
the dentist or my skin
Just concerned with getting more
And filling it within
A jawbreaker, some nonpareils
Bazookas and candy dots
Sour apples and baby ruths
Oh I love it all a lot
Copyright © Michael Degenhardt
The snow fell gently on a quiet street
Neighbors walked in without knocking
There was a feeling of joy in the air
As each child hung up their stocking
There was a coal fire in the heatrola
Which took a little while to start
O Come All Ye Faithful on the radio
And a warmth radiating from each heart
The kids all went to bed early
Couldn't sleep until early morn
Waiting for presents from Santa
And to celebrate the day Christ was born.
Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.
Once held with love, by hands so small-
You’d hardly know that they were mine;
Her hair, a matted yellow mess
That sticks strait up, from hands and time,
The dress, Aunt Rose knit with gnarled hands,
Still ties up proper in the back,
It hides her scars; so much undone
While keeping dignity in tact,
One of her fingers’ is too short
When I was small, I bit it off;
Her neck’s been stretched from need and love
Which now I hide with velvet cloth,
Her eyes, the same sky blue as hers-
A mother ripped from life and earth-
Who passed away, leaving her child
One blue-eyed doll and no self worth…
Many a year flew by in time-
An adult with kids of my own-
When our house burned, consuming all,
From photos to refuge of home,
There came from ashes, hope reborn-
A beauty with eyes of sky blue,
Covered in suet, fire-scarred but safe,
The only thing that made it through!
A miracle or mothers hand,
That saved her from the fire's embrace?
To place her safe with honor, down
Atop the snow to cool her face,
This doll may look a ragged mess
To those whose tears she hasn't dried,
But when I look in those blue eyes
I see a child’s love, survived…
My Thumbelina, dread locked doll
No other friend could e’er replace
Her love; I love her battle scars,
Where memory lives upon her face…
2nd place winner in Karen Neary's TRASH or TREASURE contest , 5/2008
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds
The roller rink's still standing; the high school's going strong
with hopes a winning season will return before too long.
Those golden years of glory.. half remembered, half forgot.
Then you find another address and see another empty lot:
the sidewalk where you skated, the place you skinned your knee,
the alley full of treasure, the stump of the mulberry tree.
Cross off another memory for the old nostalgia tour.
There's no historical society for the dwellings of the poor.
Six months here and three months there, Mom paid the weekly rent.
You can't remember half the names to all the schools you went.
The corner house on Abilene, a stucco, pink pastel
is now a fine convenience store run by some girl Michelle.
That's where you got that little scar, the corner of your mouth.
Johnny's fist was heading north; your face was pointed south.
Nothing to see here... move along folks. Let's sing the old school song.
Where's that pair of ragged pants you wore all winter long?
Gone the junior high school where you won the poetry prize
but had to drop the art class 'cause you couldn't buy supplies.
Your favorite sport was fist fights - an art where you excelled:
your grades the only reason that you never got expelled.
You look up a few more places... just only empty lots to see.
I guess white trash nostalgia isn't what it used to be.
May 20, 2013
Copyright © Roy Jerden
Hearing the jingling bells of Santa's sleigh,
Hanging silver tinsel on the tree for trim,
My cousin and I going sledding all day,
Reading the story of Scrooge and Tiny Tim.
Building a house made of spicy gingerbread,
And hearing a Bing Crosby Christmas tune,
Leaving out cookies before going to bed,
Seeing eight tiny reindeer flying by the moon.
Santa Claus bringing toys down our chimney,
Almost every house twinkling with lights,
Cutting down a fresh, pine Christmas tree,
Hanging antique ornaments, so shiny and bright.
Grandma and I baking my favorite cookies,
Shopping for Christmas gifts in every store,
A fireplace with a stocking hung just for me,
And singing Christmas carols at every door.
My hometown covered in glistening, white snow,
And the sweet, minty taste of a candy cane,
Presents containing treasures we wouldn't know,
And drawing snowflakes on a frosty window pane.
My Mom making a snowman, as perfect as can be,
Decking the halls with garlands, wreaths and more,
Whispering wishes to Santa, sitting on his knee,
And the excitement we all had the night before.
December 12th, 2013
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
Fifteen days of living I blew bubbles
Bubbles pearlescent in the sun
In hope and love I blew you bubbles
Ephemeral, floating, glorious sun loved bubbles.
In my act of creation, exhale air
Life held close in the bubbles
Uh-whoo, uh-whoo, here’s life to live
I blew you bubbles for you to catch.
Leap and snatch we played bubbles
Bubbles so airy we can hold and spray
A bubbly world of shimmery beings
Floating in the wind of our wake.
And at the end of the pliant and fun filled day
We dreamed of bubbles, leaping for bubbles
Watery, airy bubbles floating, flaring and caught
and held within our hand a bubble, a bubble smashed.
And oh how silly we seemed to break our play
Open up our hand, find within a pearl
A soft shimmery white pearl of life
And let it fly away, in the breeze, like our dream, free.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper
I sing the song of yesterday
When all was truth and light
A time when love was really love
And every dream was bright
I sing the song of yesterday
When youth was virile, strong
A time of joy and happiness
When nothing could go wrong
I sing the song of yesterday
When passion burned with fire
A time when making love was rife
With hunger and desire
I sing a song of yesterday
When beauty reigned supreme
A time when luscious lips would laugh
And blazon every dream
I sing a song of yesterday
When my love was true to me
A time of sweet contentedness
I wish THAT time would be
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
My front door, the color of pumpkins
As a skeleton adorns the screen door
Jack-o-lanterns plenty about the porch
And spider webs exist upon the floor
Owl sits on the deformed tree in the yard
Filled with many spooky eyes in the holes
A scarecrow stands guarding my open gate
Cats, all black, run around looking for moles
A witch laughing sits in a dark corner
Moving to the sound of a passerby
We wait for the first sign of fearful kids
On Halloween night, I love it, no lie
Copyright © Russell Sivey
Remember Petticoat Junction?
Perhaps Green Acres too?
I Love Lucy and Carol Burnett,
Just for a laugh or two?
Dick Van Dyke and The Munsters,
Back when the "tube" was fun;
Doris Day and Love That Bob,
Don't forget The Flying Nun!
Maxwell Smart was an agent,
We all know Uncle Jed;
Hazel was that clever maid,
It's sad how comedy's fled!
The Honeymooner's over,
F Troop's down to zero;
The Beaver's long forgotten,
While Hogan's lost his heroes!
Gilligan's left the island,
A Jeannie no longer dreams;
Car 54, where are you?
At times, I wanna scream!
Andy was a country boy,
Gomer, a seargent's pest;
Who made room for daddy?
Don't fathers know what's best?!
Dobie shaved the goatee,
Mister Ed's lost his voice;
My Three Sons are missing,
Ozzie and Harriet had no choice!
McHale can't find his navy,
The Addams flown away;
A Martian ain't so favorite,
Our Laugh In's gone astray!
Primetime's lost its essence,
Laughter is a con man's game;
A Family Affair's in mourning,
Is the "new age" ours to blame?
Copyright © Milton Toran
“Made you look you dirty crook!”
And all those colourful phrases
Have vanished from our lexicon
They now belong to the ages!
“Keep your nose to the grindstone!”
Is another from way back when
So sad they've all but disappeared
Wish they'd come back again!
Since the dawn of the computer age
We speak in a different fashion
Conversing in very short sentences
Use acronyms without any passion!
We seem to have totally lost the ability
To have an intelligent conversation
Emailing, texting, talking on Facebook
A computer age generation!
I really long for those simpler days
When people took time to listen
All the world seemed friendlier then
Now feels like something's missing!
© Jack Ellison 2012
Copyright © Jack Ellison
I've passed this way many a day
and wondered as I strayed;
Who had opened, what had filled
the gap within the crib's dark bay.
The opening small in the wall
at once so spare yet alluring
with tilted sides and gap toothed maw
which now held field mice burrowing.
The boards of red once formed a bed
for stored feed of golden maze,
these cedar shingles had sheltered
the abundance of by gone days.
The farm's gone now, no fields, no cow
long past its youth, its heyday
housing only bitter sweet and
memories of corn cobs and play.
Yet, here it stands, as I go by,
and so quietly it brings to me;
the lingering joy of laughter
the faint echoes of jubilee.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
Summer was not much fun in the teenage years
In fact there was very little of it but lots of anxious tears
Then the summer disco started in the village hall
We couldn’t believe our luck we were gonna have a ball.
But who would come to a village disco not on a bus route
There were only about fifteen teenagers, and they were all related to boot.
Oh what joy, the army camp, sent in the boy cadets
We were all allowed to mix with them and this we did you can bet.
But there I was wallflower self- conscious feeling dull
Not asked to dance by any boy no one to give a thrill
Until the tallest most handsome boy, his smile lit up the room
Came and sat with me you should have watched me bloom.
He was the catch they all wanted, but none could catch his eye
Just me sat in the corner, and he never passed me by
At the end of each dance night, we walked home hand in hand
His kisses they were magical, I was in some promised land.
We only met once a week through the summer of seventy-two
What a summer it was full of fun and happiness and never blue
I often wonder about that boy who kissed so well at age thirteen
What a catch for some woman, and of his kisses I now just dream
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl
The tides of June carry me over yesterday's sparkling
waters to the distant shores preserved in my mind.
Playful summer memories are just a light twinkling
in my eye, pressed into worn photo albums, I find.
Hotter days conjure thoughts of friends, no school
to muddy the rippling lake and hours of summer fun.
'Last one in 's a rotten ..., splashing 'round, we kept cool,
cannonballs and belly flops, a relief from the ruthless sun.
An old boat dock became our fort, buckets of tadpoles were
our mascots. Our neighborhood breathed new life and laughter...
bikes flung upon the grass, lake waters beckoned of adventure
'til the ice cream man's music brought sweet dreams to chase after.
Michael Jackson, The GoGos and Duran Duran played the soundtrack
for our restless days. From our fort, the radio blared across the yard.
Warm breezes held music and secrets of boy versus girl attacks.
And though we often complained, the boys were never barred.
Many years ago, summer time brought treasured carefree days
of hide and seek, dodge ball, board games and cold lemonade.
Slip and slides, cool lake swims and running through sprinkler sprays,
all happy memories of our never ending June days on parade.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for Memories of June Contest (Joann Grisetti)
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
Heart filled with happiness, eyes much merry; cheeks color strawberry,
just running through fields of ripe huckleberry,
keeping away from the buzzing, restless bees...
going to a from their sweet hives hanging from massive apple trees.
More than childhood memories, such are these...
a reflection of youth that removes them from nostalgia; husky peasants
shaking off the husks from the golden corn;
a tasty, hot corn meal for those winter's dinners drooling on my tongue.
And approaching a torrent, I threw pebbles found on its almost barren banks
back into the spattering water that I drank sporadically until I was full,
to indulge in its freshness...squashing tiny daisies
that seemed too afraid to squabble with a giant and fight for their survival.
The southern landscape with its mild climate, was rich and fragrant,
inviting hands to pluck the delicious, tempting fruits
off their branches, scattering the thrushes engaged in musical tones;
and I tongue-tied hurried along cogitating an instant.
Would it be too childish to ask for a come-back,
to relive the cheerfulness of the oldest days, ceased by time and age;
to observe a reflection of youth take shape...
and embed, in a secret, a conversation regardless of present knowledge?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci