Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Nostalgia Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Nostalgia

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

12345
Details | Prose Poetry |

THE RAIN by Anna Lo P

"As I watch the blue skies
 Suddenly turned into gray
 Darkness easily surrounds 
 Their clouds, covered in haze.

 The rain will fall again, I say
 A nature's moment I dismay
 Raindrops will soon touch the ground
 The sad feeling, again I'll be hound.

 Splattering rain, the sound that haunts
 Sweet and sad memories of the man
 Taunting me to remember once again
 The love once lost, never be back again

 Every drop of rain that falls, I pain
 Each drop it falls, my heart is in vain
 "Try to listen" to the rain, he once said
 'Tis like a last goodbye, could not hear I said. 

 The sound of the crying heart, I still hear
 The sound of a weeping soul, I can hear
 The silent tears that they weep,
 The silent scream that echos so deep.

 Listen to every drop of rain
 To it's agony, vain, pain, 
 Listen to the rain as it falls, maybe
 There is your love, every drop after all...xoxo


Details | Prose Poetry |

March

March

Sweet, bitter March,
last year tears haven’t dried out up 
till now and yet you
are already at the door,
knocking lightly!

Sadness is still flapping over my head like
a frantic goose, what have you brought with you
to silence its primordial honking?!

I can see your hunched silhouette against the wall
Of my waiting, standing awash with shame,
wringing your empty hands desperately!

O' March , anniversary of tears and smiles,
Memories are pacing around nostalgically, sniffing
the withered roses, leafing through the pages of books
trying to put the haphazard leftovers of a once
beautiful image into shape…

The hurricane that accompanied you once
has subdued, leaving behind a nerve-tearing silence and
a deracinated life!

Don’t wonder; rootless hopes are still roving
over the corpse of a long dead dream, taking
strength from the ever pulsating stars…

March, March , embracer of birth and death,
the breath of eternity has abandoned
your rosy-cheeked child..
The resonance of its happy giggles are
haunting the vacant hours of night, sending me
reeling of longing!

Its face emerges from among the clouds of years, an angelic
Vision imprinted on the face of a mourning moon!


Details | Prose Poetry |

a fair day

It was a fair day for silence.

The sun had risen up courtly, almost mechanically,
Like a marionette on the strings of a puppeteer.
With the sun came Heat, wrathful to have been woken at such an hour.
As if avenging its early rise, 
Heat caused oppression, 
Discomfort and confusion 
Upon the innocent day.

It was a fair day for exclusion.

Only one was oblivious to the relentless heat,
He sat there motionless, lifeless and corpse-like.
They would glance at him nonchalantly.
He was just a piece of the scenery, 
Always had been there, 
Always would be there, 
Invisible.

It was a fair day for neglect.

Some say once he had been aware,
But life had hollowed him out, 
Left him a shell, 
Unmoving, 
Unblinking.
The day progressed, the light dimmed, 
It was as if fate and destiny had led him to this moment.
If anyone had cared to look, they may have noticed a glint in his eye.
He liked the sunset.

It was a fair day for an end.

The sun slowly made its way back home.
Heat gradually left, bored with the sun’s absence.
Silence was once more.
The sun closed its eyes. 
The moon began its regime over the obeying night sky.

It was a fair day for sweet nothing.

He still sat there, 
But no one knew.
So was he still alive, 
If no one saw him die?


Details | Prose Poetry |

1959

I spent the year of 1959                                                                                                                 In England with Al                                                                                                                          And the world was mine then                                                                                                                  Al's world anyway                                                                                                                           He taught me that  one English penny was twice as big as an american one                                  And things like that are important when your ten                                                                           When your ten you believe in King Arthur and the Lady of the lake                                                 And you believe in people like Al too                                                                                                   Because they always know what to say and when to say it                                                                                                  Now the year is 1969 and I am two times ten                                                                                                     Never to be just ten again                                                                                                            Because now I've learned that even kings have moments of weakness                                      Tables crack in two                                                                                                                         Ladies cry when you leave them                                                                                                   And small boys do too


Details | Prose Poetry |

Camp Anawana (An Ode to 20-somethings’ Nostalgia)

Sometimes I can't believe it
It all happened so fast
Real life is truly here
Just who is that looking at me in the mirror?
How come these bills are addressed to my name?
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And I'm all grown up

Sometimes I miss the days
When your crush had cooties, not STDs
And afternoons were spent climbing trees
And it's hard to grasp our age
Who's that man calling you "his wife"?
How come that little girl just called you Dad?
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And we're all grown up

Sometimes the kids today
Make me feel so old when they say
They've never heard of Kurt Cobain
But I know that we're better
Cause we could fix our Nintendo in just one blow
And we all figured this out sans Twitter
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And I'm all grown up

I remember the stupid things
Pogs and Goosebump books
Playlists were mixtapes on cassettes
And Friday nights meant TGIF on ABC
Nickelodeon was our only obsession
Friend requests were made in person
And they still showed music videos on MTV
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And it's a different world - Nothing's the same
Cause we're all grown up


Details | Prose Poetry |

Seaside Memories

Modest swimsuits, bathing boxes
 White-blue flesh ice cold
Scratchy towels, sandy sandwiches
 Pots of tea being sold
Foxford blankets, picnic baskets – 
A donkey ride on the strand
Flowery summer frocks, mischief brimming 
 A practical joke being planned 

Hesitant breast strokes – high pitched laughter
 Terror, delight ‘the cold’! -
Sunburn, windburn, scalded skin – 
‘You’ll remember this when you are old’
 Your mother is calling ‘the picnic is ready’
 ‘I’ll be there in a minute’, you say.
As you dive down again under – 
The sea bed to plunder -
‘There is treasure down there, Mam’ you say!’

Landladies’ rules, pubs with high stools
‘– A large bottle, sir, if you please -
And may be a chaser?’ ‘You are a disgrace, sir -
The night will blow away with the breeze’.
A day at the races, smiles on mens’ faces,
Jingles in pockets, dinner in ‘Rocketts’ -
 A beer and a fag, a joke and a drag – 
‘This is grand, Sir!’
   
Which horse do you fancy – I think Mary Nancy
Called after his missus – and just as delicious
‘A winner for sure, sir
 And what are you bettin’?  Think of what you’ll be gettin’
When you win on the jackpot –
 It is certain, sir!’
 
Sea-side rock plastic,
 Coloured windmills fantastic
Naughty postcards to be hidden
 – Their content forbidden, 
By your mother – 

The day’s nearly over – 
You are tired – you’ll recover
For a night at the amusements – you have one and twopence
Clean clothes, polished shoes and a song.




Details | Prose Poetry |

MOTHER TONGUE

We had a steel-coiled fence 
that kept us apart;  kept in purity,
spoke out in purity.

We played Barbies in a tree that
bordered each side, not knowing
it had a
zone.

Our Barbie world was created; 
dresses hung on branches
little mirrors for wee doll hands;
leaves assigned our closets.

I gibbered and you jabbered, and
the worst thing happened, I learnt
English, but what happened to your
French?

Language traveled through the holes
of our steel-coiled fence.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Memories Beyond the Door

Fly away from the memories
The ghosts of past trailed, never stop to chase
A journey finally brings me back
Back to the same door that I used to open

The breezes that I never forgotten
The odor of the hall that never change
I stood at the edge of my gate's sanity, the lips of an old trip
Be ready for the first gusts of my treasures' pasts

Vacant room is just like what I've thought
No passer, no shadow, only me in this big hollow
I reached the dusty quilt, cover up my self
This is my comfort zone, while I sit among a loss

Tears of yearn never melt, I assume it has dried
Maybe it goes to some other places
Where nobody or nothing could even see or realized 

Missing out this place, I think this is too much
The reflection of my bitter sweet memories reeled out
Playing the same scene at the same place where I stood
Where I can see those people who once ever filled this empty room

Those people who now fill the empty space of heaven's room


April 29, 2013
7th place
Memories Beyond The Door Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor	Constance La France


Details | Prose Poetry |

Reflections of You

I caress the blooms of the lilac bush and breathe their sweet fragrant breath. Here in my garden where spring has risen from the melting heart of winter’s death. And when a gentle breeze  kisses my face, I am simply blown away, to that magical place, where you wait for me, along the Fundy Bay.

Bare foot, I skip down a Granite paved road, flanked with ditches where morning glories grow, as I move  through a mist of ocean brine, streaked with rainbows that melt in the morning sunshine and drip from the blooms of a every Sea Salt rose.

 The house - its asphalt shingles, sparkling in many shades of grey - stands firmly  on its hardwood pillars buried deep down in the clay,  the same clay I mould  into a tiny earthen vase, that joins the jars of  pollywogs and dandelion garlands, all lined up on the old root- cellar doors, where I play. 

 And in a cloud of purple perfusion, again, I breathe the breath from the lilac bush that grows there, beside the brook, as those white lace curtains flutter out the kitchen window, and  beat against the window frame -  fanning the heat from those fresh baked apple pies - as another tear falls from my eye.


Then,  from a distant pine, I hear the  white throated sparrow singing, her melancholy tune and the clap of the screen door as I step into that room, a child again breathing the breath from a lilac bloom. 


“Mom….. ……………. I’m home!”


Details | Prose Poetry |

Be Still

And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist 
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams
Rise


12345