Long Nostalgia Poems
Long Nostalgia Poems. Below are the most popular long Nostalgia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nostalgia poems by poem length and keyword.
Run across the fair fields, as fast as you can run, the fields your grandmother ran as a young girl,
Over long lush dark green grasses, whipping your knees, soft spongy turf springs each new step,
To stop where fast flowing streams rush and dance to the wind, a sweat breaking out on your face,
All out of breath kneeling by the bank of a brook, a stitch in your side, corn waves like a gentle sea.
By the brook with childhood friends enjoying sweet company watching spring as her beauty unfolds,
To walk across wet water mead’s, seeing glades in their finest clothes, to a meadow, in full flower,
Rolling in grass making camps sitting legs crossed as warm summer breezes temper-sweating brows,
Making sure you sit next to the one you care for most, nothing will be as good as this day ever again.
Playing in the meadows where your grandmother played, picking daisies, making very long chains,
Holding buttercups up to chins to see if they shine, then laughing, shouting out loud when they do.
Playing kiss chase, slightly slowing down, when the one you want to be kissed by is chasing you,
Under old pear blossom trees, flushed rosy red cheeks sitting next the one who is your first love.
Laying in high grass chin in cupped hands, it is so special this lovely day will be yours for all time,
Just staring at friends, full of innocence and so happy, this romantic time can never be repeated,
Unplanned moments where beautiful things just happen it’s your youth just enjoy the here and now,
Where everything is brighter has more colour, smells from the meadows become a memory for life.
Laying on your back staring at turquoise watery skies, listening to the silence, a perfect sunny day,
Heaths meeting small woods surrounded by greenest carpets only seen by a child’s pure innocence,
Give your heart and soul to this day enjoy natures gifts, your end of days will recall these moments,
Falling asleep in the December of your life, this last dream your friends will be there waiting for you.
So gather these thoughts, tie them up in a bow, put them safely in a corner of yesterday’s thoughts,
And walk again with your dear young friends in those happy times golden hair fluttering in the breeze,
Back to days of cotton dresses and turned-up jeans with baggy shirts, nobody noticed or even cared,
Hold your sweethearts hand once again and run across the fair fields where your grandmother ran.
Anxiety about what I might think preceded me
As I sat on the stool in the middle of my living room
Ready to think about who knows what,
I relaxed for a moment and then closed my eyes.
Gratitude and peacefulness were my first feelings.
I smiled inside thinking about how literal Ingrid had taken me.
He remembered that I intended to write at 3:00 a.m.
As the clock ticked, Ingrid kept time for me…
Fear crossed my mind next, afraid of my own thoughts,
What they might be. Nightmares. Horrors.
Repressed experiences dreaded.
But thankfully, the ringing in my head saved me.
At least for that moment…
A few things slipped in. The Jeffery McDonald murders
That took place when I was stationed at Ft. Bragg, N.C.
The horror had anguished me on an off over the years.
Then, I heard the crickets again. Thankfully.
Next, a hit and run accident that was reported in the news years ago
Flashed through my mind…anxiety from Army days.
It had happened on a road we sometimes traveled.
Fear, reality check, and cricket sounds followed.
Yes, it is that cricket sound that I enjoy so much.
It took me to the natural world in all its beauty.
Little seeds germinating in my sunroom...
Crickets outside making their noise; I smiled again.
And the crickets in my head chirped.
I was thinking that this isn’t so bad after all.
I have learned to find happiness inside myself
Then, Ingrid said, “Time’s up.”
I felt relieved.
© March 1, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
My DARE: Dane, you picked Dare* I dare you to sit in the middle of your living room...
(on a chair if you have toooo!) Close your eyes, and feel for 5 minutes... (you will need a
stop watch that alert you when the 5 minutes are up. During them 5 minutes, you have
to feel everything, allow your strong emotions to feel. Even if you have little one's are
running or your cat is purring at your feet. Don't allow it to bother you. You have to
concentrate and find that one spot in the back of your mind. The part that digs real
deep into every feeling we forget is there. After the 5 minutes are up... Sit in the spot
where you write, and write for 10 minutes, Write about every thought that passed
through your mind in a poetic way, sad~happy~ mad, crazy.. and so on... Take us deep
into your mind... Thank you..pd
Confession…I wrote more than 10 minutes…time slipped up on me.
It's about time we talk of ruins.
So, let us talk, for you never know,
How long ears of hope will remain receptive.
Your lips are missing, and your kisses fall,
Like ripe plums and tint my confession,
Like coffee stains with smell of rust.
Looking back, dreams had stories,
About laughters blooming in dews on trembling grass,
With roots growing into layers of blue skies.
That dark sweater you began knitting,
Lies lifeless by a woollen ball,
Like buried half of a rainbow.
My greys are silvery now, and my smile
Looks like a scar, but my heart
Keeps shredding dead skins.
Footprints covered by caddish shadows
Of hubristic tongues,
Never to be retraced, and
The wish to carry your whispers beyond life,
Scavenged by beaks of time,
Is nothing but a piece of
History's torn chorion.
Entangled in my pensive repentance,
Memory of a girl (assuming),
Whose playful steps ruefully erased
Even before she was assisted into the world,
Stares back from an obsolete painting.
I sense blood seething in my veins,
But with no ill-will.
If only i could stop this hour from passing away,
And touch life one more time,
Gently and wisely, perhaps sweet palpitations
Would be heard knocking from within.
Lying in the heap of fallen bricks
Of dilapidated castle of Eros,
Where, once upon a time,
Our romance was folktale for angels and fairies,
I'm supposed to be bleeding the high-noon sun
To feed yesterday's vampiric fleas.
My body no longer lives on bread and grains,
But on tears and prayers, and
Keeps on living, surprising the undertaker and
my foes,
Who begin to think
I am here to stay indefinitely.
So, I labour to hasten my swan song
To gladden those who want to witness my exit.
The yarn with which
I began weaving a flag,
Has been sold to brothels of politics,
Where patriotism is only a slang
In perorations of capricious pimps.
My nights are haunted by ghosts
Of betrayed slogans
I once coined on fisting graffiti.
Standing amidst graves of words
Spoken inconspicuously,
I see soldiers placing putrid shocks and
Ugly boots
On books strewn across the floor
Of my old school's library
Which is now a fortified barrack.
But when I see tombs sleeping like babies,
In quietness of a cemetery,
I beg you -
Don't let me die without a wound, and
Even if it is in pretensive nostalgia,
Bury me with bloodstained kiss.
I was a classic 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, in mint condition, admiral and white.
My owner had other beautiful, classic cars, like stars sparkling into twilight.
My owner loved his old cars, saying 'they don't make them like they used to;'
And I enjoyed getting out upon the open road, to show him what I could do.
My fellow cars and I saw lots of sunny days, in bliss freedom of the flowers,
Traveling the length and breadth of this land, in the clasp of jeweled hours.
Flighty friends and I recalled 'good old days,' in rosy sunset times of finally,
Laughing and talking our memories in darkness, as moon shone, indefinably.
Forever friends were like feeling family, in the floral days of fuchsia's reign;
When flitting, green butterflies fanned for long, and falcons flew like a train.
I lived in the house of pleasant shadows, which didn't have many windows;
For it was one huge room without a view, like a path without the primrose.
Sparkling summer sauntered in silently, creating such scenes on my street!
Silken clouds roamed, when Sam ran his errands. Traveling was ever a treat.
Neighbors made admiring noises about me, going off on rides in neon night.
We cars were the toast of the neighborhood, nice nostalgia, in a golden light!
Clown orchids had ceased performing, in gone days of purple, beard orchids.
Now their summer relative had the holy ghost, like bliss from many sources.
Mask flowers held beautiful mystery, in alluring hues of pink, cream and red;
Like sweet secrets of moonlit shadows, and violet dreams after going to bed.
Once, Sam and I were cruising Sunset Highway, for it was my turn that day;
While dear friends waited in the cool, quiet of home, for their chance to play.
I felt a sudden impact on my left, and I knew I was hurt! There was damage;
But if not for Sam's expert driving, we might not have been able to manage!
This had happened to me times before. Such is to be expected in a long life.
As ever, friend Sam was my Superman, my mechanic in times of cruel strife.
My convalescence didn't seem so long, as I laughed about old days with pals.
When streets were not very busy, and many listened to front porch musicales.
For we were darling, daring trailblazers, quaint old paving way for all modern,
Leaving lingering feelings of fond nostalgia, like lovely fall leaves which yearn!
Ben and Cora Green had seven children, like calendar pages turning;
Each one born on a different weekday, like mango sun, forever burning.
Zoe was pretty, with big eyes and dimples, while Leah loved dancing,
Yet, Bill was sort of a pessimist; like when mystic trouble is glancing.
Edward had a zeal for jogging, while Ruth ran many errands for free.
James always had a part time job. Pete was all sunshine, very happy.
Fun barbecues attracted friends, to lawns of families and red flowers;
When fluff, sleepy clouds wandered, during deep green, golden hours.
Hues of fall leaves were fawning, when flying on crisp air, like family;
Visiting the days of fuming flora, of cool chrysanthemums, so pretty!
The Greens lived in a house of calendars, as mystic prisms flash color;
The life sundered into separate hues, like in gardens of blissful wonder.
Saffron sun shone on their street, as they smiled at people they'd meet;
When silver willows whispered surrender, to warm breezes, of no retreat.
Neighbors were a part of noon memoirs. Shadows were national heroes,
In ruddy times of heat and desperation! In the heyday of burgundy rose.
'Lady Leigh' irises sizzled in red, with the fruity beauty of 'pineapple lily,'
While insects snacked on 'goldfish' plants, beneath pink clouds, so frilly!
'Starfish' flowers had big highs and lows, in strawberry days of summer;
While 'Peruvian apple' cacti bloomed, on a single, dark night of slumber.
The Green children conveyed nostalgia for joyful childhood, into old age;
As colorful fall remembers summer just left, so flower strewn and sage!
Zoe grew up to be a model, while Leah became a famous ballet dancer.
Bill became a happier TV weatherman, for after rain, sun is the answer!
Edward later ran in marathons, and Ruth founded a charity organization.
James worked hard for conservation, as Pete, a clown, toured the nation.
Like the smiles that charm each seven day week, as a teal world waltzes;
Or like satiny peace of pearl moon charm, when the purple world pauses!
'Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
And the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.'
She said that this man, my grandfather,
held her head under the black pool water,
while up above, a German man leaned
out of his window, against the moss and brick
to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman!
She is the most beautiful woman in the world!"
The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold
broke my grandfather's concentration and he
let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering
in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance
to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving
power of a stranger.
This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten,
velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table.
She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman
in the world".
She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems
until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom,
to fool her, she thinks.
She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should.
When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry
of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story.
It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was
acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place.
Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think,
right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather.
The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape
the perfect pizza in his pizza shop.
This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in
his innocent eyes.
This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never
deserved.
I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead.
Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her
words along the way.
I was a famous conductor, and performing beautiful music was my joy,
As diamond sunshine, to pervade darkness, finds any means to employ.
Music had long been a part of me, in that I sang long before conducting,
Like the famed adult bluebird choirs, lead the songs they are instructing.
My much loved work kept me busy. Still, I loved every precious moment,
As wild, crazy, summer colors dash afar, with no cries of encroachment.
But I had a personal favorite song, which I loved more than any other,
As anyone recalling their great loves, find their thoughts turn to mother!
This song had held special meaning for me, for what felt like long ages,
And I never tired of hearing it, as blooms will never have enough vases.
I thought of the melody as 'my song,' for in my heart, it was mine alone,
Like multicolored autumn leaves flying, when green summer is disowned.
It was then marigold days of sultry July, and dark purple martins soared,
Like finding you have heartfelt passion, for someone you once abhorred.
I had just entered a restaurant, when I heard that stirring song playing,
Like chattering, mischievous monkeys, swing forever in treetops, saying.
Then like always, I was transported, back down nostalgic memory lane,
Just as orange birds recur every springtime, singing the melodies again.
As I was returning home that evening, the full moon was in the treetops,
Whispering with those flashing stars, as a part of the nightly peace talks.
As I went up the front porch steps, the fragrance of lilacs was tangible,
As on the streets of scarlet summer, where wild blooms are fashionable!
The moment I entered my house, my heart song began its playing again,
As a sultry summer that's come lately, only to meet the vivid fall refrain.
Though I was enraptured by extravagant music, and music was my life,
Still, it was odd that it could play itself, the moment this person arrived!
It seemed that the song I'd loved so long, had come to love me as well,
And had determined to follow me always, like fragrances casting spells.
My heart song is still pursuing, through mellow days and jasmine nights,
As owl stares at a moon of rapture, and bees are off on honeyed flights.
That song of precious sweet memories, greets me every room of my life,
Like a red rose that blooms for you only, even where wild blooms are rife!
When you return home after many years,
stepping onto familiar soil,
your heart stirs with bittersweet anticipation.
The sun-tinted house that once witnessed your dreams
now stands a stranger, with cold eyes afar,
overgrown vines clinging to its weathered walls.
It is as if time has woven arras of indifference,
forgetting the dwelling you once held dear.
Your gloomy eyes , yearn for the sight of loved ones.
Brimming with longing and delight,
search for the comforting presence of a mother’s love.
But her cot is empty, an echoing void
that resonates with absence.
The silence lingers, a haunting reminder
of the void left behind.
Your ears strain, longing to catch
the timbre of your father’s call,
but the emptiness engulfs you,
and his voice is but an echo in the time.
Oh, how it pains you to realize
that the essence of your childhood has vanished,
scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream.
The trees you once nurtured
no longer extend their branches in recognition,
their leaves now whispering unfamiliar secrets to the wind.
The birds that sang in joyful harmony
have embarked on their migratory journey,
leaving behind only mark of their melodies.
In your room, where time stands still,
A sanctuary of memories, both tender and surreal.
Your photo on the tinting wall,
Whispers tales of laughter.
In this moment, you stand suspended
between the realms of nostalgia and reality,
caught in the delicate dance of remembrance and loss.
The evening glows, once bathed in golden hues,
now cast their gentle glares upon your soul.
Days spent in the backyard beneath the sheltering heaven
of a tall tree flicker before your eyes,
like fragments of a fading painting.
As you wander through the corridors of time,
retracing the steps of your youth,
you come to realize that home is not merely a collection of tiles
not a building, confined within four walls,
it’s a dropbox of your heart, where dreams are saved, love and laughter sprawls, a symphony of whispers, of joy and tears combined,
an abode of cherished echoes, forever intertwined,
an eternal flame that cannot be extinguished.
As you stand there, amidst the overgrown ruins of the past,
You find the lost essence of being, imprinted upon your soul.
No matter how you wander, how far and wide you roam,
You know you’ll always return, to the place that owns you.
…
In this evening, I wear the perfect smile, and,
you’ll quake, in the wake of my guile
Cause I’m the best liar you’ll ever meet,
Because, In a way, I swear, I’d mean it
Not, to say that I believe it, but
The intention’s there all the same
This is my confession, my admission of guilt.
Because, it’s upon good intentions, that the road to hell is built
I’m always working toward my goals, and my dreams
But, in self observation, I'm beginning to question my means
As of late, been having a lot of trouble, maintaining the tension in the telegraph lines
And for that reason, the deserving will have no honorable mention
For these wires that run from ear to ear
have been in disrepair, for the best part of the last year
And, this is my apology, as well as, a desperate plea
Because, in reality, I’m in need, of someone that can save me,
Someone to be the monkey on my back
And one who possesses all that I lack
Someone who could, with words deify the drying of paint
And, since patience is a virtue, my girl will have to be a saint
Someone who bear with me, when I beg her to stay
and then push her away
Endearingly Awkward, is all I want to be
The martyr, with out the fee
But, the apprehension in me, doth decree
My title has the need for a higher degree
of precision, and simplicity
And, In fear’s wake, I’m brought to my knees
And, despite my hearts desperate plea,
I comply, and then cease to be,
Until, love breathes her life into me
I feel poison coursing through my logic
And capitulation that could be considered tragic
I’m growing weary, of this battle,
In which my ambitions are roped like cattle,
And slaughtered, just to end up filling the bowls and plates
Of, fear, my sworn enemy, the one I’ll never cease to hate
Considered jaded by some, and boring to most
I feel the part of the silhouette, or the ghost
But, in all honesty
I am, in a word, broken.
I don’t know, I cant even begin
To tell the difference between ecstasy and agony,
Or know what to say, when asked about my identity.
in the evening, behind this perfect smile, at my fork in the road,
contemplating left, or right, and carrying a hell of a load, .
I put faith in a coin toss,
Not knowing which led to love, and which to loss,
caught in clenched fist,
And slapped down on bare wrist,
for an instant, i wonder
if this Is reprobation?
Or some road, leading to my vindication?
Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh
warm and snug on Thanksgiving Day
the children restless, we went on our way
as the shedding forest began to sway
and the gusts of wind set astray
the vestiges of autumn's display
that unveiled the cabins along the bay
Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go
through the misty river's chill
turning toward the cider mill
its churning paddles frozen still
past the farmsteads and withered fields
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields
caught in a breeze of burning leaves
and all the reveries the season weaves
We arrived on main street after sundown
gliding through the charming town
toward the chiming white church steeple
past the storefronts curbed with people
in the wake of the gingerbread float
at the stern of the Pilgrim's boat
behind fairy tales and candy lands
as the revelers sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands
From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight
as geese took flight into the night
over the sea where moonlight sought
to quell the hues that twilight wrought
Frosted lamp posts lit our course
and into a trot sprang our horse
his hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels
while from the shops whose cozy glow
projected windows on the snow
there flashed the goods someone will leave
under a tree late Christmas Eve
the toys and clothes wrapped in bows
and all the gifts that a stocking stows
Now past chimney smoke and picket fences
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
where old Victorian silhouettes are found
and gestures of goodwill abound
toward the sound of waves we wound
as our lanterns flickered on the ground
the atmosphere around us festive
while within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace
folks enjoyed a simple pace
while outside others strolled about
amid the maize and wreaths throughout
absorbed in a twinkling universe
of colors snow-clad and diverse
To our delight there soon arose
a savory ambience for the nose
adrift from tables set with care
with a redolence that met the air
as we hailed the last of passersby
and climbed the road into a sky
whose stars adorned the snowy limbs
to a house on the coast, flowing with hymns