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Nostalgia Beach Poems | Beach Poems About Nostalgia

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

Details | I do not know? |

The Beach of Promises

The Beach of Promises


1.


Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,

strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.


2.


Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck,

walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.


3.


Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,

lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,

my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,

wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.




Details | I do not know? |

My Wishes are Simple





My Wishes are Simple


My wishes are simple,
my desires few,

to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.



My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,

to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.



My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,

my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,

healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.





Details | Free verse |

Winter Beach

After the rain, 
the speckled glint of shimmering sand
is now muddy brown.
Like a blind, closed tight on the warmth of summer,
the winter beach has shrunken in,
changing the colours of my day into
a darker palette, shades of grey.
The sun shriveled
pale faced and worn
as the cold season begins.

Seagulls a beacon
against a slate November sky
their sound, comfort to a lonely beach.
The steps down to the water, pea green,
slimy weed on stone
bright against an ink-rippled tide.

Seaweed colours bleed into my mind while
textures playfully mingle.
The salt air stings my nostrils
caresses my lungs with wellness.
Sea sounds carry from the shores of Wales
as I crunch the length of the ebbing milk tide.

I look to the horizon and imagine another me
walking a beach somewhere over there,
listening to my thoughts, 
as they channel the sea
Grateful for this beauty, the gift of the nature
I look over my shoulder, my footprints remain
solid, as in a freshly cemented path
their sound, echoes in the shells.


Details | Rispetto |

Our Summer Fun


The summer sun shined in the sky like a jewel. Dad and daughter happily played in the waves. Beach sand was hot but the saltwater felt cool. This day in my memory, I'll always save. A ride on Dad's shoulders always made me smile. Holding my hand, we walked the beach for a mile. My dad wearing flip flops and his cut off jeans, searching for shells, my mind's eye relives the scene. Hot dogs in hand as sea gulls swooped down to spy, hoping to steal a bite of our beach cuisine. Sodas in cans, rock and roll played in hifi, bare feet in the sand, body doused in sunscreen. Details have faded over the many years, but this day's imprinted behind salted tears. A vision of ocean sparkling in the sun, hearing Dad's laugh on the shore, our summer fun By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, April 14, 2012 for A Summer Memory contest (Frank Herrera) Third place


Details | I do not know? |

The Sieve of Time



The Sieve of Time



Cast ashore,
along the banks of time,

whirling through the passing years,
clinging to my futile scribbles set in rhyme,


Cast ashore,
thrust into an unrehearsed pantomime,

clenching slivers of joy as weariness descends,
lulled into a peaceful slumber exhilaratingly sublime.


Cast ashore,
hazily adrift, a dandelion seed on the wings of time,

trapped in the sieve of spiralling memories,
caught between pristine bliss, and reeking slime.


Cast ashore,
flung aside for no discernible crime,

my human heart thuds with elusive hope,
though battered, bruised, and covered in grime,

I stagger ashore, 

alone,

embracing each moment of detached, oblivious time.



Details | Free verse |

Sandalwood Fan

Sandalwood Fan

On the verandah of the Moana Hotel
Not too many years ago
Under the great banyan beside the
beach at Waikiki

They would bring a fragrant sandalwood fan
to all the guests that ordered tea.
They set it before you in its own fancy stand

the most alluring fragrance wafted on demand,
when you opened it’s carved blades
 and gently  fanned. 
 Given  to holders on an honor system
Understood to  return on leaving…

Sadly, too many proved    untrustworthy.
after a time- these fans became  un-available

A friend who had shared many tea- times there, with me
one day -sent me a small gift from China
A slim package which when opened re-kindled memory

A glass topped case holding a sandalwood fan
just for me

Suzanne Delaney


Details | I do not know? |

Port of Call

Port of Call


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

with the breath of the ocean a caressing balm,
soothing pained memories away,
to the swaying of a solitary palm.


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

feeling the brushing away of all past turmoil,
on a quest for solace, ever so hard to find,
yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,
as the tide cleanses all pain,
and leaves despair far, far behind.


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,
that hushes the ache of bygone moons,
tasting the salty tang on my lips,
as the burnished sun,
over the distant horizon,
swoons,

and dips.


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

searching, ever searching,
for a slice of solitude,
as memory bids a final adieu,
reaching under the sea so vast,
and seeking comfort in the depths,
while embracing,
the tomorrows to come,
wishing that they be true.


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

seeing my truths drown,
as they slip beneath the turquoise waters,

feeling my heart ablaze,
with a passion that rarely falters.


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

yet knowing that I am home at long last,
wishing the waves would wash away,
the defences that once stood,
like an impregnable wall.


Barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

I have found, at long last,

my final port of call.


Details | Narrative |

Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle

LE TRE SORELLE 


My favorite spot in Italy, and perhaps anywhere, was Ristorante Le Tre Sorelle 
in Positano. It was at the bottom of at least a hundred stone steps, just on 
the right, and right on the beach. A hundred steps seemed like ten, with 
delights for the senses on every step. Chic bikini shops with tan young clients, 
tiny pastry shops, ice cream vendors, mini-galleries, and lone musicians, all 
bathed in the soft bright sunlight of the Amalfi Coast. 

Le Tre Sorelle had affordable pasta and a priceless view. Between 
checkered tables and cobalt sea marched the ancient beauty of humanity in 
every form and state. 

Over espresso, we created names for people in this parade, to suit our 
fancy. “There is Mr. and Mrs. Cold Obtrusive boring Mr. and Mrs. Kind 
Receptive.”, we might say, or, “There is Mr. Old Fat Rich failing to interest 
Miss poor Young Georgeous.” Sometimes we would separate our unwitting 
victims into “should wear bikini”, “maybe should”, and “never should” 
classes. We made up other rude categories depending on how much wine 
we could afford with the affordable pasta. 

The challenge of youth in Positano was to find a place to sleep for free. 
Step one in this quest was to find a pretty girl who also had a hotel room. Step 
two was to persuade her to share it. Step three was to sleep on the beach. 

But the beach was duly patrolled by the Beach Patrol. So the trick was 
to dance in the last-open disco until everyone, including the Beach Patrol, 
were too tired to care. Then with luck, we could borrow some fisherman’s 
boat cover for the night, until the fisherman went fishing. Still, this meant 
one or two good hours of sleep. 

Besides, at sunrise, we could swim in the sea and chill ourselves awake, just 
long enough for the first espresso of another beautiful day, at Le Tre Sorelle. 

In spite of youthful nonsense, the crushing beauty of Amalfi, both human 
and stone, pressed it’s lovely wisdom deep inside our souls. 


Details | ABC |

IN THE WORDS OF A GULL

The beach below....
The way the wind does blow
The sea....
A sparkling jewel of blue
All for me....


How the sun rose...
Magically everyday
Full of colour and light...
Pure screech of delight...
Things I can see
Far below....
Where I can play

Everyday...
Something new
Far below...
A jewel of blue
The sea, that I love so...
The sea....
Where I play

The wind blew...
Carried me high...
Pure screech of delight...
Above a sea...
A jewel of blue
That reflected the sun's light

The day passes so swiftly...
Darkening sight
Coming of the night...
I must return to ground...
Rest,hear that sea sound
Wait patiently for the return,
of the light

A sea....
Sparkling so blue
The beach below...
Fill my heart so
The wind can blow
All for me...
On a day,
enlightened too...

The sun....
Rose for me....
Full of colour...
Full of light...
So I could fly....
On another day

Upon a silvered wings,
polished by the sun
The day.....
Made for fun
What it can bring
For me....
Upon a sparkling sea