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Best Nostalgia Poems

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Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Stardust Road

“Stardust Road”

"Soft defense driven through my thoughts,
I vanish away into yesterday’s scenic road,
Set the mood among the dark clouds,
Wish I could go back to the night, of fourteen and cold.
Tell myself not to look up and cover myself with the world.

Sorry I could not stay, 
One too many excuses & lies,
To where they never fixed themselves;
I could not handle the air,
I had to breathe right the cold nights that followed. 
I stood as one in love, under the starry sky…
Young and alone, I left the never-ending vindictive feeling.
The dust slept every reason inside my soul.
I travel the world, snoozing with the magic of the sand.
Stars that echo and drop twinkles to my walking toes.
The horizon was my blanket and shield…
Where the light and night I wore, 
Accelerating, escaping… no more justification! 
"Oceans of excuses sailed through my soul, 
Heartbroken, but in love with defiance toward the stardust novelty. 

With a sigh!
I hesitate not to look back,
Somewhere the ages turn to rust: 
Old and grey, all alone,

The leaves I stepped on then are trample and gone.
One day I shall return for the proper goodbye.
For now, I must travel down this lonely road silently.
Slowly my heart will heal itself, nurturing the frozen sleet away.
Releasing the 14-year old girl at last,
In body and in mind and soul, 
Confronting her with an, I BELONG HELLO!”

By;PD

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

You Caught The Wind

I remember you, from when there was a spring When the seasons were ripe, with verdant green Our nimble feet danced in the wind and on the brink of everything Not a furrow in the brow of youth We borrowed life for just awhile We tapped our shoes, on a promised stage Where carefree laughter was the rage that filled our age with endless miles We danced and twirled a twin ballet just you and me on summer's waves Two pirouettes, in mode of curls of blossoms, frilled, and tender leaves unfurled in winds, we found a way to soar our wings, above the world We knew not yet of death or dying or of regret, or cause for crying But, something frowned upon the season You caught the wind, and without reason A colder wind that kept you flying far beyond my eyes could see And to the other side you disappeared beyond my words beyond my tears Now here alone I touch the day and taste the night remembering I will walk alone, in autumn sun And lay myself on dying leaves I think of you and think of then I feel the wind against my face that sweeps me to a distant place where I recall what is not erased I'm closer now... to hear the sound The whisper of the seasons calling Above the trees, the sky is blue I think of you, and feel the breeze And all the while, the leaves are falling
....................................................................................................... For Catie's Contest: Inspired by a poem by Elaine George: "Autumn - A Ballade"

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

PLUCKED VIOLIN



This is too complex; i mean the throbbing wound grating my belly on a dappled day, a day breathing of tender winds and violins. Perhaps, the strains of notes shuttle me back to my grandfather’s library sitting on books and archaic telescopes. Here, we would empty the shoulders from a rough sail; he scattering fiddle songs on painted walls… the mellow notes tasted like hints of vanilla scent warmed by cadences of burning musical passion as his eyes , half-closed ,melted the noise of an anxious world, of teary wrongs. ‘Bathe in the splendor of the night,’ he mused, submitting to a trance smitten by some refrains of Moonlight Serenade… and my rubber spine would bend with the flesh of his vibrating hands; violin strings weeping till we drowned in holy streams. Now, I feel this undefined nostalgia… the phantom of light exhumed his lust for old charm; and my eyes fall on the alley of roaming vagueness. I could have loved him more than heaven plucking his strings so soon, uninvited. Regina Riddle's A Special Memory 9/17/2014

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

This scar of mine

                        There is a scar
                          On my face
                            Small, steadfastly placed
                              One only notices if they are this close 
                                 To kissing my soul
                                   On my cheek
                                      Below the eyes and sideways
                                         Beside the bubble-gum sweet
                                           Mouth, vivacious story teller
                                            like an upside down
                                              sharp angled  half moon                    
                                               The endless emotions of my sky
                                                 So attractively rough
                                                   It attacks the delicate features of my face
                                                    Allowing my streetwise beautiful
                                                      Personality
                                                      To shine through, I don’t hide thetruth
                                                        It’s as plain as the scar on my face
                                                         Life isn’t ugly, you make it that way
                                                          Some days I wish it wasn’t there
                                                          But I always
                                                          Appreciate it’s presence  
                                                          I won’t ever forget
                                                        When I received 
                                                       The blow to my vanity
		            From a fight over youthful yearnings
                                                     Inside this 
                                                   Is my learning processes
                                                Scars hold history
                                             I shall carry with me
                                         Through tough times
                                        Soft and easy, peaceful
                                      To remind me
                                    Of me

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Spring Bud

                                
                                 
                                  
                                 
                                
                                 My 
                               breath
                          shivers under  
                       a rug of loneliness,
                    a sleepy heart huddles
                   against such memories 
                 of togetherness and not of 
               goodbyes, hating to disperse 
               the fiery rhymes of your lips, 
                as well as the warmth of its 
                 sweat...tastes like red wine, 
                   then it beats...and beats
                     gently, as it envisions
                          you, in an early
                                misty
                                   s
                                  p
                                r
                               i
                              n
                            g






Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Ghost Rider in Vegas

He caught a ride to somewhere going nowhere;
first hopped inside a slowed-down limousine.
The driver felt a chill and turned to stare
at someone seated in the back unseen.

A new car’s scent; the passenger smelled nothing.
The seat of luxury he could not feel.
The driver then off-key began to sing
to no one as he slowly tapped the wheel.

His passenger joined in and crooned unheard
that ancient tune “It was a very good year,”
his old blue eyes once clear becoming blurred,
and down his cheek there rolled a single tear.

Again compelled, the chauffeur turned his head -
then saw a small spot where the tear was shed.

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

COME WHAT MAY




The steep waning of duskfall held by one Cuddled by a wheeze , the dim air’s pale light, Nestling upon boughs of memoirs undone As scenes rise mildly with an ached delight. Although fall plunges into my own depth, Giving way to chills of winter ,prolonged So must spring blossom with a fragrant breath For roam I must through peaks of Augusts’ song. And musings dip upon the faltering wings A blazed remembrance of seasons’ refrains; Snuffed by love’s risk, hardened from cold warning Oh time withers, breaks ...still I call your name. Hearts evade pleas, sweet moments gone astray That now I rest on a crib of old stars But such is life allowing what is the way; To gather new treasures...near or afar. Judy Konos' C'est La Vie 11/5/2014

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

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 | Nostalgia Poem | |

Autumn Reverie

Shifting haze, so slowly trailing
Through wood and field, now veiling
Melancholy skies, holding back the tears
With wild geese flying to meet other years.
Flames of crimson torches come flinging
Leaves on knarled branch swinging; 
Desolate winds rush leaping
Taking flowers to their final sleeping.
In the groaning of the atmosphere
Unfolding sorrows weep with the fading year;
Fields of cluttered stubble are tangled
With rampant weeds, dew drop spangled.
Flocks of birds leave like flying missiles
Over fields of corn and drying thistles;
Then my dream of autumn fades, paling
Through a grandeur all prevailing
When sunset fires light sky and sea
And sink in the breath of serenity.



Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

A Rose In The Heather.

So still and beautiful lays the rose in the heather,
Lifeless and dying, given to bring you happiness,
So fragile is this rose laying in heather,
Slowly withering and drying, crumbling to a powder,
I look at you and see this rose ever fading,
Once growing, living, accenting its surroundings,
But now gone, plucked from the bush by one mans lust,
I could never compare you to this rose laying in the heather,
For your beauty surpasses its own,

So still and beautiful lays this rose in the heather,
Now dried cracking and dead, stored in a book to bring memories,
So weak and faded is this rose in yellowing heather,
Slowly falling apart as you touch the fragile petals,
I look at you and remember the flower when it faded,
That germinated and grew where I had sown its seed,
Now gone, plucked from the ground by one mans hope,
I would never compare you to this old heather and roses,
For its life was surpassed by yours,

Now I tell you I love you with cellophaned roses in heather,
Draining lifeless this dying confession of my dreaming,
This rose is more fragile then the first had I gave you,
But I could’t approach, my courage eroding at your sight,
I look at you now and see the love I sought inward,
Once alive and growing but only within lost confines of myself,
But never quite gone I hold this consuming fire close inside,
I could never combine your world with mine,
You always looked passed never noticing me,

Now I open my book that holds the first rose, wishing I gave it for the sake of 
chance,
Instead I hold a created memory that never came passing, 
That never could I fear,
I hold tight to the lie that through wonted silence I painted,     
But that chance for your love died with the first rose wrapped in heather.

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

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 | Nostalgia Poem | |

Missing My Little Boys

My babies have all gone,
They've grown and left the nest,
Spreading out their wings to fly,
Upon life's thrilling quest.

The years flew by so quickly.
Babies turned into little boys.
Little boys grew into manhood,
Putting away their childish toys.

I miss those little boy faces,
With their mischievous, winsome smiles.
I miss their childish chatter,
And their creative little boy wiles.

Why didn't I pay more attention?
Why didn't I play with them more?
Why didn't I realize how fleeting time was?
But I didn't and it makes my heart sore.

I miss the little boys that my sons were,
But I'm proud of the men they've become.
They'll always be my little boys,
And I will always love them.

Kim Merryman    3/10/12
Entered in SKAT's "Greatly Missed" contest

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Umbrella

There she stands 
Centre stage for all to see
Tall and slender 
Precariously she balances.

I reach out for her
Draw her to me 
My hand skims her body 
Slowly reaching her skirt.

Playful fingers find hidden areas
Delighted her legs spring forth
Displaying the very beauty
Of her delicately adorned skirt.

Gaily she dances around
Dizzily twisting and turning
In the brightness of day shading
She gently tends to my needs.

Personal ballerina takes to toes leaping
Merrily bobbing up and down
As emotional to her performance
Clouds cry a thousand tears for her.

Reaching our destination
Slightly shaken, she leans
Watches me quietly drips
Against the wall.

Reminiscent of the day's fulfillment
We acknowledge one another silently
Restful knowing we shall be
One once more.

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

This Song is for my Mother

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
I couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
A song about old promises 
Made so long ago
Created and cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke

Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Memory of a mother
Shared my dreams and really cared

Long separated by the miles
Distanced from her golden smiles
Mama…
I know I wasn’t there……

For you

Would have placed 
A magic carpet 
‘neath your weak and shaky legs

Would have raised
A strong west wind
Let you breathe with ease again

Would have bribed 
God’s venal angels
Come and soothe your endless pain

Would have vanquished
All the demons
And bring peace to you again

Be the child
I never knew
In a land
We won’t grow old

Be the light
I always loved
Warmed my dark 
And lonely soul

Be the girl
Playing games
In a world 
The sun won’t set

Be the laughter
Calms my heart
I never will forget
I won’t forget, won’t forget

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me cry
Couldn’t bring myself to write it
‘Til this darkened day arrived
Song about old promises 
Made so long ago
Created….cremated
Ashes of the words I spoke

I broke my promises, oh mama
Now you’ve gone away 
I’m broken
Drowning in the pain each day

I’m  drowning…drowning...drowning…drowning

This song is for my mother
Let her hear me…….



Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Neverland

On the southern side of the old cemetery there was a field on the corner of Gilmore and 1st, thick with hidden gopher tunnels and blackberry bushes where bare feet constructed cupped paths, trampled deep in tall amber grass It wasn't far beyond a patched wire fence that hemmed my Grandmother's russet old house. Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed and seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes would race with the tumbleweeds, once tossed into rows like last winter's snowmen, hot sun had decomposed Traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose from Grandma's old arbor, which loomed in the distance A rusty old weathervane, cruised 'round, and 'round The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy dog snoozed But, deep in the field, was a land of our own A place we called 'Neverland', our loft in the wind In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed, And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands from my brother's wild brainstorms, while his black plastic hook, assigned him the Captain, and me of his crew of a ramshackle ship, like the old storybook While I dangled in air, from the tired old swing "Tinker" my name...in this all-boy domain.... I would push off, he'd pull me right up to the sky and into the branches, brittle leaves in my eyes...... I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky I could grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........ for he was much older, much wiser than me and I would play like a tomboy,.....shoving doll-drums away, on those hot summer days......with red hot splintered rays in the dry summer sun, that would spotlight our play. We would play until twilight, and watch the day fade Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity Tootsie Pops clinging to the tip of our tongues while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________ Inspired by Charlotte's Contest "Places" 8/22/14

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

The First Kiss or That Darn Ann Landers

Son of a gun we were still young;
only 15 years gone by.
You were the first my kissing bubble to burst, 
and for you, I think so was I.
I wanted to start putting other parts 
of our bodies in the field of play;
But you stopped it instead as you paused and read 
what Ann Landers had written to say:

Keep your petting on the outside, keep your tongues inside your mouth,
Keep your hands north of the border, don’t let them travel south.
There’s no use in trying to rush things and ruin the rest of your life,
So just hold his hands and hug him until you’re man and wife.

You stuck to your creed in spite of my plea, 
and I didn’t want to press you;
So your hand I would hold and my tongue I would fold, 
even though I want to undress you.
Late at night my conscience I’d fight, 
still awake in my lonely bed;
Thinking of you and what I would do 
if these words weren’t still stuck in my head:

Keep your petting on the outside, keep your tongues inside your mouth,
Keep your hands north of the border, don’t let them travel south.
There’s no use in trying to rush things and ruin the rest of your life,
So just hold his hands and hug him until you’re man and wife.

I followed your rules, played it cool
for the first ten to twenty dates;
But by the end of the year to me it was clear 
we wouldn’t be tempting our fate.
So we parted our ways; ending our days 
to see other people instead;
As I set forth looking of course 
for a girl who hadn’t read:

Keep your petting on the outside, keep your tongues inside your mouth,
Keep your hands north of the border, don’t let them travel south.
There’s no use in trying to rush things and ruin the rest of your life,
So just hold his hands and hug him until you’re man and wife.

More than thirty years have disappeared; 
For me two wives and four kids.
And as for you, I hear it’s true, 
that getting married you never did.
I’ll never forget and never regret
That first kiss where we both did live;
And though I did slander poor ole Ms. Landers 
to my daughter this advice I now give.

Keep your petting on the outside, keep your tongues inside your mouth,
Keep your hands north of the border, don’t let them travel south.
There’s no use in trying to rush things and ruin the rest of your life,
So just hold his hands and hug him until you’re man and wife.

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

THE LONELINESS OF A LOST CLOUD

God named me a straying cloud,
and by His perpetual wish I abide...
as the loneliest cloud floating on the earth's breeze.
I glance below and discover the yellow daffodils pride, 
and fluttering they dance beneath the apple trees;
and as a sparrow I feel the bond. 


My night visitation is more exciting than broad daylight,
I encounter many stars and make them my friends,
and they love shining on the Milky Way...
looking down on the lonely bay so bright;
and tossing their luminous heads, they brightly dance:
so happy they have come my way!


Even the ocean's waves join them in their play,
but their dance is better than theirs,
and at such wondrous sight I make verse...
being offered their warm company;
I am amazed by how they roll and still gazing away,
I do admire the spectacle that gladdens me.


So often, on my couch I gladly lie to rest,
but overwhelmed by empty or moody thoughts,
that splendid image flashes in the glow of the sunset;
my daffodils still wave and invite me to dance,
and I dance with them, making a happy sound...
not to feel the loneliness of a lost cloud. 


Entered in Brian Strand's Adaption poetry contest
This is an adaption of Williams Wordsworth's poem,
"I wandered lonely as a cloud"

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Mississippi Moments

History journeys along with its meandering flow as
a wide birth from bank to bank has eyes straining
trying to see across to the other side, far too wide.
Muddy rivulets stirred up by the river boats drift by
and my dreams become intertwined with what
I have read and the sleepy house boats floating near 
the banks that the river dwellers call home.

A huge stainless steel arch with its catenary curve 
looms gracefully nearby as a gateway of welcome,
built as a monument to Thomas Jefferson and the
pioneers who braved making their way to St. Louis, 
why it is fondly called “the Gateway to the West.”
I felt as if the Arch was paying homage to the mighty
Mississippi with its tall shadow falling on her erratic waters.

Children were waving from the banks at contented tourists 
waving back as they drifted slowly by and time stood still 
with the music of the river taverns mingling with the 
contrasting sounds of riverboat whistles, and I drifted along 
with them sensing serene pleasure into another time and place.


Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

A Shade From The Past

Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved, 
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages of weeds
where propriety mattered, and was favored as gold,
high society, has gathered to flavor their tea
                                                      
There's a trellis, embraced by a rose climbing vine,
while places are set, ready for dining in jade
shadows of arthritic old trees. Slivers of sunshine
and silver leafed branches, sift magnolia bloom shade
 
Tea will be served, by large knuckled hands 
at several round tables dressed with Swiss lace designs
Wearing lavender silk is our proper Grand Dame'
who fits her surroundings, as vintage as wine

Voices are lilting like the birds in the trees
Laughter and chatter, mingle with soft, summer breezes 

 
A bouquet of old friends, around a few scattered tables. 
Silver coifed hairdos, to make celebration
Crepe myrtle and wrinkles, beneath ashes and maples
Water cress munchies, and triangle creations

Sweet honey-suckle, tucked over the porches.…
Rose petal blossoms, are painted on china 
Bridge cards, tumble by Blue Willow dishes
Biscuits from England, crumble sublimely

Large bosoms bouncing, and big floppy hats
Gossip dished up with lemon-sliced frowns
Up in the tree is the neighbor's calico cat
who catches a glance, and a chance to crawl down

Are they ladies of leisure, from a time that is lost?
Or a painting I've seen on the wall from the past?




______________________________
Inspired By the Garden Party Contest
Sponsored By Cyndi McMillan 6/6/14

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

carved on a willow

carved on a willow
our love growing out of reach

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

The Ferris Wheel

I can't describe just how I feel,
when I go round on a Ferris wheel,
the lights, they shine so bold and bright,
above the carnival grounds tonight.

My mood is uplifted into the air,
as my heart beats without a care,
I feel so free, as if I could fly,
with nothing between the ground and I.

The cool night wind flows in my hair,
the people look so small, way down there,
I hold my breath as I go over the top,
a feeling, surreal, I don't want to stop.

As fear escapes and I enjoy the ride,
I can't help but look down, over the side,
I am up among the stars and the moon,
an exciting feeling that ends, all too soon.





Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

UNFORGOTTEN


My recollections are grifters, dragonflies glazing
glacier springs, skimming over unforgotten lands,
fleeing my inept hands that so long to just once snatch 
that fragility, but those filigree wings raze the heart.

Recollections can be Mercurochrome whims 
that heal with stings and then leave stains.
Are such things a balm and do they enflame? 
Grifters all, those yesteryears and their sly charms,
That shift alarms and then zero in for the kill.

Dragonflies soar through my dreams like they did 
at the cottage we rented the summer I turned twelve, 
before my mother changed, became ill.

Glazing the lake, the sun seemed lower there.
Glacier cubes, little ones, would click against
cups that held lemonade, but I had a secret.
Springs hid in a forest nearby, so I would trek
through woods to sip water so pure
that I was Bernadette in Lourdes.

Skimming stones over the lake, trying to 
count past two, I never succeeded.
Over and over, I would try to wake the 
Mystical Lady beneath the reeds.

Unforgotten are those days.
Lands of soft green are now gold.
Fleeing memories can’t be done.
My childhood is a menagerie of tales untold.
Inept are these words as I scribble moments
that ate melting Raisinets as the sun set.

Hands, much smaller, now flutter in mine.
That and this, she commands, and asks why
the man in the moon wants to hide.

So, I watch the magic in her unfold,
like that spring and that child from decades ago.
Long is the growing process, but short are days.
To remember those firefly evenings is to forgive,
And those campfires sparked more than conversation. 

Just once, though, I wish I could forget the rest.
Snatch that gawky girl and return her to enchantment.
Fragility deserves a second chance to sing with crickets.
But those hours are gone, and the ones I now live in
are driven by the compulsion to nurture.

Filigree wings worn by a tot remind me of journeys and 
how time’s narrow portal opens only to close.
Raze I will that autumn and its mad, destructive chill 
and I will protect one serendipitous season.

The heart we are given can be filled with such love that the
maternal trickles its way down to a girl studying dragonflies and
we hop on a boulder to sit with our former selves
shoulder to happy shoulder.  


*For Debbie Guzzi's Et Cetera Contest.

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

Unforgiving

You think you know him
But you refuse to see
The artful way he abuses me
He captivates my mind
He traps my soul
He pins my arms to my side
When I tell him just to go
He uses knife like words
To slice me with his tongue
His eyes are like daggers
Causing me to come undone
Harsh fingers press against my face
Proving im a Doll
To play with as he choses
Or throw against the wall
He taunts with cruel intentions
To make my heart bleed
Playing Devils advocate
Once I cry myself to sleep
Soft and bitter sweet
In an instant he turns to stone
A heart as cold as ice
Mean down to the bone
But you refuse to see
You glance the other way
And listen to his words
You join in his game
Each word he says is now a jest
Each look is a mistake
And when he grips painfully
He just meant to play
Close your eyes to his work
It really is an art
But no matter how you spin it
Inside he is an abusive jerk

Details | Nostalgia Poem | |

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 | Nostalgia Poem | |

Leaving Madrid

In mid-June's heat, we wait inside the bus, 
and everyone has said their last goodbyes.  
The Moorish boy I’ve come to know is sad.
 He says he knows I never will return.  

The bus pulls out (his face just fades away).
We pass through streets that now seem not the same
as those that we first rode down when we came
here six short months ago. It seemed so strange!

Madrid, my first impression of you was
how everything seemed  dingy and so grey.
But staying here, I found your treasures, and
enjoyed your many charms that I unearthed.

I’ve walked among your people, tasted foods:
paella, soups and pastries and much more.
I’ve visited Retiro Park, seen art
in sculptures on your streets and in museums.

I’ve visited your shops, your restaurants
where dancers of flamenco hypnotize, 
your ring for fighting bulls, your theaters;
your streets seem now familiar, almost sweet!

And now we leave to catch that big bird home.
I do not  know my future; I feel glum.
The group I came with,  now like family,
seem happy as they chat excitedly.

They’re speaking of their families back home
and what they’re going to do back in the States.
But I alone am missing you, Madrid,
before I even board that giant bird.


For Deb's  Somewhere Over the Rainbow Contest
(the way I remember my last day in Madrid in '74)