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Nostalgia Introspection Poems | Introspection Poems About Nostalgia

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

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.


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
evaporating 
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
Iridium. 
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 
eleven 
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
overtures.

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.

Grey- 
for the morning 
now knocking on my window.

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




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.


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
08-01-14








.


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.


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..


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.


Details | I do not know? | |

Memories

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.


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...


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 blue...how 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.


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 


Details | Light Poetry | |

Glutton

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


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?


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 | 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.


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.


Details | Rhyme | |

Bitter

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 persist with tests.

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


Details | ABC | |

New Year

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


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  
Resignation
Never lets her kiss within
The cave I excavated
Collapses upon my daily sins

In those younger years

I once loved the sun


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.


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.


Details | Free verse | |

Pseudonym

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:
Mortality;

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.


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.


Details | Rhyme | |

Raindrop

I'm a raindrop on the window pane
Running here, there, nowhere but down.
Lost in the cool flurries of rain
As the storm dons its liquid gown.

Deep in my soul a reflection of you
Magnifying the memories and grief.
The years we had now seem so few
Our rainbows seem so very brief.

I raindrop down the dark abyss
So futile seem the echoes of fun.
I pool in how sorely I miss
Our liquid laughter in the sun.

Raindrop, raindrop going nowhere at all
Dribbling slowly down memory lane.
I drip and droop and languidly fall
In stagnant pools filled with pain.

In my heart the memories lie,
Your rainbows dance and sway.
So many storms have passed me by
Since you left and went away.


Details | Rhyme | |

My shoes

The shoes on my feet are old, worn and tattered 
I’ve walked  hundreds of  miles in them 
They have been through a lot and are beaten and battered 
But they are my shoes.

Sometimes they hurt my feet 
And when I step in puddles, 
its not a very nice treat..
But they are my shoes

The soles have started to come loose at the seams
and when I walk I can feel it flap as it  hits the ground 
Maybe a new pair of shoes is what that might deem.
But they are my shoes.

They haven’t been clean since I don’t know when
I could wash them I am sure, 
but some how it would take something away from them.
But they are my shoes 

When I put them on and walk out the door 
they never question where I might go 
they just silently accept it and so much more.
They are my shoes.

They have kept my travels a secret 
took many, many beatings 
and haven’t betrayed me yet 
They are my shoes 

I see people look at my feet all the time
I am sure they wonder why I haven’t tossed them yet 
But to me they are comfortable and fine.
They are my shoes

Don’t judge me because of my worn and tattered shoes 
you haven’t walked where I have walked
or been where they have taken me, trust me I’ve paid my dues 
These are my shoes.

And I will throw them out 
when and how I choose