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Best Nostalgia Poems

Below are the all-time best Nostalgia poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of nostalgia poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Nostalgia Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Nostalgia poems are below this new poems list.

'Nostalgia ' by Lokanath, Litty
Nostalgia: trapped by regret by Script, Post
Nostalgia for Meaning by skendeliene, ruta
Nostalgia: overcoming universal boredom LT EN by Gabija, salamandra
Nostalgia: Delicate but Potent by Krenik, Kaitlyn
A TOUCH OF NOSTALGIA Fitton Hill Story Group short version by jimmy boom semtex, nick armbrister
Nostalgia and Teachers Day 2 by CHUAN SENG, KENG
Nostalgia and Teachers' Day by CHUAN SENG, KENG
Nocturnal Nostalgia by Nunez, KP
Seaside Nostalgia by Cranney, Damian

View all new Nostalgia Poems

The Best Nostalgia Poems

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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


Copyright © Bella Cardenas | Year Posted 2007

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Stardust Road

“Stardust Road.”

"Soft defense is driven by 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 me 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 a body a mind and soul, 
Confronting her with an, I BELONG HELLO!”

By;PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

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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 time 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 must fall
.......................................................................................................


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

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I Think Of You - At The Edge - 3


A reflection of the coloured pencil drawn sky
skates on the glass smooth surface below it.
While a rebellious group of shades take their positions 
on a glorious stage to express themselves artistically and
I...

i think of you

Wisps of clouds shaped like a palm leaf
fan the winds that stoke the fire
of a randomly sketched sunset.
I...

i think of you

The cool of an ocean breeze 
travels the shadows of this low lit evening.
Caresses my skin like the essence of romance.
Enthralled by the allure of a candle lit sky,
I...

i think of you...

Our French Bakery early mornings.
Café au lait and croissants.
Our freesia soaked baths.
Your mink soft body.
Its milk and honey scent.

As I fall off 
the edge of the world,
I...

i think of you.




March 19 2015
Armand






Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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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







Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2007

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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…….




Copyright © Catman Cohen | Year Posted 2011

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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? "


Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013

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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.


Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011

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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.




Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2011

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Hanging Berries

.

                                I was sure of meeting you
                                under a hanging of mistletoe— 
                                this December.

                                A fair flying flag of snow 
                                to my inner war.
                                Maybe ... maybe I can
 
                                burn the fallen leaves
                                those fallen years—   
                                this December

                                A promise in whispers, 
                                secretly kept, binding a pact.
                                Someone would sing a carol of joy— 

                                It's December!
                                The sprig of mistletoe hanging, waiting
                                predicting happiness, perhaps 

                                each berry for a kiss, a kiss from your lips
                                your lips still 
                                so unreachable.

                                I was sure of meeting you 
                                under a fresh branch full of berries.
                                A latent foresight, a beating dream.
 
                                The past should be the past:
                                it's my own Christmas present.
                                I've been waiting for so long

                                and must deserve it. Snow:
                                grains, crystals, pellets
                                covering  days and hope — December.
                                
                                I was sure of meeting you
                                under a hanging of mistletoe
                                this cold, distant            distant December
                                  


1/31/16


Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2009

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When We Were Royals

Leaning against the warmth of old oak, I recall your sun burnt skin that summer. As I let my fingers linger on the side of the bench where you used to sit, a memory - like noon day’s sun light, seeps into my senses. A light wind ruffles my hair at the nape of my neck, that same spot you liked to kiss. You said we were royals as we scattered bread crumbs for our loyal subjects. Where have those pigeons gone? I lift my face to sky and close my eyes, breathing in the scent of nearby roses; suddenly something tickles my cheek! Opening my eyes, I see a Monarch butterfly, its color that of your sun burnt skin. Written 8/31/2015 and now used for the Any Poem You Ever Penned Poetry Contest


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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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.


Copyright © Charles Fuller | Year Posted 2006

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Neverland

On the southern side of the old cemetery, corner of Gilmore and 1st, a field claimed by children, was crosshatched with tracks It was riddled by gopher holes, and nettled with blackberry bushes and 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, tossed into rows like last winter's snowmen 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 old hound snoozed by the clothesline, in the shade he had found 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 was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed. And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook, assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing "Tinker", my name...in this masculine game... I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky and into the branches, crisp leaves in my eyes...... I would fly to the depth's of the steel gray-blue sky I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........ for he was much older, much wiser than me and I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away, on hot summer days......while red splintered rays of dry summer sun, would spotlight our play. We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die 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
____________________________________________________________ Premiere Contest number 2Poetry Sponsor: Skat


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

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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


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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PLUCKED VIOLIN--- MEMORIES



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 these undefined memories… 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. Nayda Ivette Negron's Memories Contest


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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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.


Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2008

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Beginnings And Endings

Birth was suppose to come easier than this.
I pant quickly as I was taught, 
but pain evaporates my gallant front
and tears have come from eyes squeezed shut

I hear a voice unlike my own
The room is filled with some concern
I groan, the doctor takes a turn
Quick-fire decision, a swift incision

... a tug, a void,...a cry...  a babe..

The next several hours are a bit of a blur
until everything clears, alone in my room
on sterilized sheets, too stiff,  too sleek, 
too fragrant of bleach, to think about sleep.

Suddenly, all I can think about is mother
and how different it was for her, 
especially, since her young husband was so far away

This miracle I bore, as soft as fine silk, 
with tiny closed fists, rose-petal nails
fills me with joy, with relief, I am filled
 with a deep pang of grief
for a long ago thief
I can feel the connection, mixed joy, and compassion 

I bathe in the scent of my brand new beginning ......
But my thoughts stream behind me,...... to a hope that had ended
My mother in bed, after losing her first....
So young, in her bed, without child,........ bleeding red
from the war that she fought, while my Dad fought his own

I cry tears all alone.... for the grief that she owned
I so cherish the breath.....of this babe on my breast

The circle of life, starts with birth .....sometimes, death




_________________________________________________________
3/14/14
Contest: A Hundred In a Row
Sponsor: PD


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

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Acid Rain

*/·) */ ·| */ · \ *(_·_) .| · | .| · | .| · | .| · | .| · | .| · | /#|_.| · | /\ (##(_| · |,_))) \###| · | /&/ \##)&__&&( )##&__&&\ /#|&&&___.&\\ (##\_&&&_'._)| \ ######## // "+,_____,+" Psychedelic notes, Strummed with creative wonder: From a lonely soul. · Music for the world, Crying guitar solos hum: Raining energy. · While his audience, Awaited the finale: Burning his guitar. ____________________ Inspired by Jimi Hendrix


Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2009

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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.


Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2010

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REQUIEM IN MY HEART



Out in the middle of a large farmland, I become a girl of old charm and unexpected songs again. Past the flanks where cluttered rows of hyacinths and ferns quiver, disarranged huts begin to shake as the rough wind wheezes. And on this late July, mounds of dust remind me of summers back in my grandfather’s hometown. Yet, a different vanishing overtakes me.

a season passes…
carrying all its flowers
to emerge as buds

Watching for thrushes that grow moist from dusky froth , my heels trek along deepened clay. As I lay on haystacks listening to stars chiming, the inky moon sinks its riddled face through a veil. Somehow, I feel alone...abandoned  like the  opera of a heart which seems to fall into a tragic ending. Yes, Grandpa isn’t around any longer, as a requiem of tears swells.

on this barren field…
a solitary twig cracks
from one glittered tree

The nightfall drools looking for the yellow among clouds. For a while, the hazy outlines of strangers--native women and children ---disturb my old revelries  when Grandpa would linger by the porch dipping tunes from his violin. Through calm intervals of laughter, we sway together;  fire to air, salt to honey. Much as I need to inhabit this space, it no longer belongs to me, or to him. But twilight comes brimming with all the glistened jewels of our own world.

between two lifetimes
is a haunting melody…
like a song unsung


11/19/2015
Creative Haibuns Contest
For Charlotte Jade Puddifoot




Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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I Recall

I recall a filthy sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks…

Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers...

I recall one low spot 
beneath a straggly Chinaberry 
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes...

Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home….












Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2013

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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


Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

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A Shade From The Past

Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved, 
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages, unknown
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
Places are set, for dining in jade
beneath shadows that stretch under arthritic old trees
While slivers of sunshine, squeeze through the branches
of silver leafed limbs, in magnolia bloomed 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


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

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carved on a willow

carved on a willow
our love growing out of reach


Copyright © Rickie Elpusan | Year Posted 2005

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where barren branches touch newborn leaves

Scurrying on my way home, a little leaf catches my eye, and I am compelled yet again to slow down.

a whirlwind of thoughts
compete with swaying of trees~
lone leaf on my shoe

I am not sure exactly when my fascination for falling leaves started, there is just something so beautiful and artistic in which they drift to the ground....I recall one particular moment in my college literature class when my professor inquired into my choice of the word "wither" in my leaf metaphor for a dying old couple. 

My explanation involved telling him that for me, that particular word had a certain gracefulness to it, and that was how I saw that couple in their twilight years. But I deviate, for I merely intend to write about the interesting tree that I saw the other day. I do not know what species it is, but it bears its berry-like fruits on its branches and it has cordate leaves.

barren branches touch
newborn leaves on other side--
a paradox tree

A smile languidly forms together with my memory of seeing that same tree six days post double-faced state. It proudly donned a full crown of leaves in less than a week. With this image in mind, I can’t help but feel mystified, with the constancy and dichotomy of change….It seems like everything around me is continuously evolving, revolving. I can’t help but feel lost.

Almost in defiance to this line of thinking, I shake the leaf off my shoe, and trample on it. Instead of feeling satisfied, I feel guilt. I never did forget that Enid Blyton tale of how dried leaves were actually fairies. 

littered autumn road
I stomp on the frail fallen….
my feet crushing death

Rolling my eyes with my melodramatic thoughts, I continue my walk home. It’s crazy how leaves can make me go philoloopysical. I am tempted to actually stop in the middle of the road and simply sit there—be among the trees as the wind serenades them, with the leaves swaying gently, some choosing to pirouette, some doing the salsa dip.  

Being the practical person that I am, I just run my fingers along my wind-discoed hair. If it were possible, I would like to be a leaf. I find such nobility and grace to it. Imagine being able to capture light, transforming energy to create nourishment. Giving, breathing life. There is a delicate artistry with the changing of its colors—a complex, fascinating chemistry in each blade that I’m sure God is so proud of.

eyes gently follow
  dying trail of withered leaf;
wind sighs its mourning


I pick up one leaf to remind me...

11202015


Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2015