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Long Nostalgia Poems | Long Nostalgia Poetry

Long Nostalgia Poems. These are the most popular long Nostalgia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nostalgia poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Chuma Okonkwo | Details |

Precious Moments

                       I didn't know hearts could speak until we crossed part
               I was walking home, carrying a heart laden with the grief of my brother’s death
                      My mind straddling from the nostalgia of our bonded brotherhood 
                      to the thought of what the afterlife would deal him.
               You were seated at a secluded corner, carrying your hearts in your hands
               And crying out your eyeballs, wishing if God could bring back your father’s life.

      Upon that lonely and rejected wood we, dejected souls, sat cursing out death tirelessly
         For taking away our beloved brother and father.
           That day, I heard my heart speak for the first time; my heart exploded in awe
             And I felt I was captured under a spell; I saw the aura of glory in your eyes.
        It wasn’t your exquisite awe-inspiring beauty that got me lovey-dovey
        But the natural calmness in your voice as you told me your stories. 
          You reminded me of the fabled Arabian princess.
       My emotions turned into Janus- one reminding me of a lost brother
       The other, quite domineering, nudging me in my veins never to let you go.
          You saw the magic in my eyes; you felt the same way I felt
             We were marveled that fate brought us to meet on a lonely path.

    With your amazing pieces of cakes you re-awakened my dead love life on your birthday
   Your cakes were brilliant; you made them from magnificent range of fruits and spices
   The smells were superb. The aromatic smells of the cakes cooking in the oven and smearing your kitchen sent us to an early bubbly romance. 
   We became lovebirds; your crystal steaming room, neatly furnished with vitality bed,,  made for only two- us, was our love nest; we enjoyed every of our love bites.
    That night, you made a tipsy cake; we dined and wined while the stars watched over us
      We sang to our ears; every single love song we played, we made ours
      We danced while we got intoxicated on our own supply
      And before our eyes the night closed its nocturnal doors.

     Under your winter blanket were two figures, glued in carnal brash adventure, wishing the moment would never end. 
       I prayed tomorrow never to come. Alas! Uninvited, the Morning woke tomorrow up
       Under the blanket, we watched the sun set.
    But tomorrow came Janus-faced; with a vice we never wished for- impassioned jealousy
       It tore us apart; pulled us away; and took away our precious moments
    But I still carry in my heart those precious moments.

Long poem by Cindy Lu | Details |

A Reformed Daughter of the USA

Perhaps it was a bit of old moral Navy nostalgia misting from Dad's brow as he taught us moral just rule.
At times in my life, honoring my father and mother; one of the ten commandments-- a must though it seemed when my father passed when I was a teen was the hardest thing to do. Living with these regrets of sin, and my uncle Bink introduced a slow gin fizz over dinner with my Aunt, to ease the tension of not shedding a grieving tear the day he passed or after. After all, the veterans were at the casket and someone had to represent.

Living in sin, leaving the foothills of Appalachia at the age of sixteen (not more than six months after I talked to God in that cornfield and was so angry with Him for taking my father when he needed to be here to protect me).  I set out on my long journey to see the world and need and come back to serve Him (was my only hope) when in fact, my highest scores of the states district Sat's were repelling from a C average grade school girl. 
Dad said on his dying bed he wanted me to be a nurse, or rather as the “humanitarian” I became at eighteen; perhaps someones distraught, personal nurse.

The three children, two of which were planned by a Common Law husband. I was a responsible, nurturing mother and wife. Perhaps, it is what held my emotions together after all the drunken beating he offered up.  It seemed as though emotionally  I could not do anything by myself. Tattered and scattered was I.

Dad taught my brother and I old school military boxing; my brother three years older and touched with the fever (a crying little girl not wanting to hit my brother at first) I excelled to a losing champion, still today. I never won a fight with a man, and that includes two officers I seriously accidentally hit in reflex order.

Today, I know my writing is a gift.
I know motherhood is a gift as well as being a daughter of my dear Mom that is frail now at 80. I somehow don't measure up and shall never to her just honesty always paying her bills on a limited income, before they are ever due.
Murmurs etched in my heart and soul, of a common advice from her frantic yet stern voice, “You'll never make anything of yourself with that writing; as my pen steadily purges and flows a steam of blood rights of an United States Citizen, on Veterans Day.
When will my ship come in? (perhaps it was pirated, and sent with the barges of plagiarist  rhyme, sold off by a romantic)

 Here's to the rich and famous that can't pass through the of a needle-- as I light a Camel Wide, and pray for them all a rich blessing.

Long poem by Gerry Dawson | Details |

Weep For Me I'm Dying

Of a distant land I ponder.
Of a country torn asunder.
Of Zimbabwe ne'er forgotten -
Where the life has turned so rotten.
Ah it tugs my heartstrings so -
This much loved land so full of woe.

In my dreams I walk in bushland.
Glimpse stealthy leopard stalk at night.
And I see the fertile valleys -
Watch graceful heron soar in flight.
In the twilight, drink the wildlife -
As spellbound, I view the game.
While the crimson golden sunset
fades gently, gently as it wanes.

I tingle in awe and marvel in wonder,
At our Victoria Falls which smoke and thunder.
Down Devil's Cataract they tumble,
Spurting froth and foam as they rumble.
While Rainbow Gorge, in the light of day -
Gleams misty colours, across sky's way.

1 climb the steep Matopos Rock,
Where lizards dart and run amok.
Above a wondrous view Rhodes rests -
Which faces north, south, east and west.
Oh please God let him lie in peace -
Unravaged by man or marauding beast.

At the Zimbabwe Reins of historic fame,
(Built hundreds of years before we came,
By a lost civilization with knowledge and flair
Who left us a heritage, incredibly rare)
I pause to admire their stonework and skill
And to puzzle as to why -
They no longer are here -
Did they sicken and die or flee in fear?

Kariba our lake is a haven of bliss,
Where sportsmen trawl for the tiger fish.
Where the eagles call and the hippos bellow,
And on the shore browse elephants,
Magnificent fellows.
A paradise for man and beast
And at night lions roar to disturb our sleep.
Full of nostalgia I remember it all,
Before life began to crumble and fall.

Oh "Cry my Beloved Country", for the Shangri-la of yore.
For the land of milk and honey,
When there was peace, order and law.
Where lush crops grew on fertile soil,
And the people were happy –
Not greedy for more.
But dark clouds loomed, and then came strife,
And all freedom vanished – overnight.

In pensive mood I gaze in a crystal ball
But it's too late now a despot reigns.
The termites came. They stole our farms.
And theft and brutality caused heartbreak and pain.
So much hope and promise gone.
Instead – hunger and misery – it's all so wrong.

Now our land lies barren and bare.
And many leave to be safe from fear.
They start new lives in distant lands –
But stored in their hearts are memories dear –
And a fierce pride dwells –
In the hearts of all.

Long poem by david scott | Details |

A Bad Case Of Nostalgia

We met on February the twelfth, (1998), smitten by her, that was I                                         
But then myself I thought it was fate, once bittern, now twice as shy
It was a strange situation as we had met in unusual circumstances
She too dealing with depression, yet I couldn’t ignore her advances

She was my girlfriend, yeah my love, someone I wanted to marry 
But in the end, I'd ask was I really good enough to make her happy?
And because of what love brings, the relationship I tried to rekindle                                           
But gave up trying to fix things, at times I ask was I better off single?

If we'd first befriended ,but guess fools rush in, could I say it any louder 
Was it not intended, now where to begin with this bad case of nostalgia
Now a decade ago thinking of every moment we'd share, and every kiss
I'm starting to fade into obscurity, thinking of us back there, I reminisce

And my thoughts numb, so many memories over played of her and I
Here I now am just sitting on my bum, as the parade passes me by
Was I simply misunderstood?, I mean can I really say it any louder?
 It's no good, because right now it feels like a bad case of nostalgia

   Written (2005) this is part two/ a follow up to worlds apart(1998)
             About someone who I was very much in love with
                    This just giving a little more insight
       trying to put so much in to four verses but keep a pattern 
                   was going to strip apart rewrite tough thought leave as is
                because this i wrote as words came to me at time
                 though their were two extra lines i took out
               which were.......................

Long poem by Isioma Esemene | Details |


Some things are lost along the line
Some things, beautiful and fine
Driving down the lone road to the stream in my hamlet
It’s like yesterday; like catching birds from their nest
I giggled as I drove by
Mothers breast feeding babies and singing lullaby
Naked boys rolling condemned tires, and
Ripped virgins with little cloths coverings, as attires

I giggled as I drove by. It’s just like yesterday
I remember Jerome and others as we gathered to play
There was the moonlight rendezvous
Where we all gathered, boys, and girls, all of us
There was the tales by the moonlight,
Ancestral heritages, sacrifices and the Lion’s might
The Lion’s might, yet he falls beneath the crafty tortoise
I still can hear the choruses; I hear my youthful voice
I loved folklore songs. Wars songs for strong sons

Let me try seeing if I can still sing one more;
Yes! I still can sing “Omalingwo”
Omalingwo, Omalingwo tee …… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo nwam…… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo dia …… Omalingwo
Nne nei di na Otutu-aja-o………..Omalingwo
Elikwue ma yu atuna ngwo ji ……Omalingwo
Ngwo, ngwo onye oma………….Omalingwo

My God, I feel new!
I can still sing it! Oh God I knew!
Omalingwo! Story of the child of a deprived mother
Jealous king’s wives over ready for murder
Murder and deprivation if that will give them a son
To sit on the king’s throne and shine forth like the sun
Story of good over evil. Omalingwo!
A deprived mother’s son.

I giggled as I drove along,
Remembering my tiny breasts, when they formed
And more fortunate girls laughing me to scorn
I remember these things till sadness beclouded me
I am fully grown now; nostalgia overshadow me
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
We can’t assemble again, just like broken pot in pieces
Oh! The Eve’s tempting apple of white collar jobs

I heard Jerome lived and then died in Jos
Killed by religious rioters with missions unjust.
I heard Nwasombia is a head dresser is Lagos
At 52 and still searching? Celibacy is obvious
I heard Nosike is in aviation, head of pilots
Even Chima is now in parliament in Cyprus
Chima, who spoke big English like “opprobrious”

My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
No more gatherings, just like broken pot in pieces
Still driving along the lone road to the hamlet stream
Still thinking of beautiful things
The beautiful hamlet serene things.

Long poem by Andrew Crisci | Details |


War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred: 
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames 
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was. 

The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went, 
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis, 
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have 
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?

Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once lovely and happy, 
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?

Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies 
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries  
recited with graceful whispers, gave them 
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?

Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been 
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels 
bend under their heavy weight and bow.... 
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"   

Southern Italian Town:  Baiano

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Long poem by david scott | Details |


I've always asked myself is there a thing as fate
Is everyone not responsible for his or her destiny
If it were possible the future you could anticipate                                                            
If that were something that a person could foresee

Like the path that you choose to destroy or deviate
When your looking for home, a place of sanctuary
And it ends up being filled with emptiness and hate                                      
But guess everyone can have a sense of uncertainty
I was told things you earn nothings handed on a plate
And remember not every day will always be so sunny
Don't make rash decisions try and at first contemplate
And yet again yeah it's that same old age philosophy

Another avenue taken though one would still desolate
Because your feeling lost and now you are so unhappy
Ending up in such bad way, that you are in a right state
Still looking for absolution, but if it were that elementary


But waiting in anticipation then just realising your too late
If you had ceased the moment, what could or may not be
Like that of an encounter like if you meet your soul mate
Was it just coincidence again one questions the irony

A mental image in your head a picture that you always paint
letting chance take its toll  but not what you expected really
Again one being told at times perhaps its better to just wait
I guess that’s the element of surprise, apart of the mystery

 Kind of like a part two to fate 98 and a bad case of nostalgia
with this im trying to close a chapter but also question
which I always have is there such a thing as fate 
you know if i went down this road or this avenue
would things have been differed[nt  perhaps if things were mapped-
out there would be no element of surprise
Perhaps just me being brought up again with so many mixed messages
uncertainty of everything it were like the movies a meets b an along comes c
and every thing is hunky dory  but yeah its not reality inspired by other writes
and soup members written nov 2012,,,,,,,FATE,,,,,,,,,,,,,DESTINY,,,,,,,,,,,,CHANCE 

Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

-- after having written 500,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,002 poems

Eye understand the purging processsSsss,
the simplicity of catharsis -
heated caterwauls wailing in alleys
with porch lights shot through by moths of powdered blame, regret

and guilt. Continuously, I read the poems of others:

"Poor me! Poor, poor pathetic me,
my heart is going to wither away!
Because of YOU! Because of YOU!
I hate you now,
you spineless whore.
Why did you leave me shattered
upon the harsh surface of broken dreams?"

"Slam! Slam! Slam! I have a big gun, you'd better run!"

Japanese Whispers - "Lost in a forest           -           all alone."

"All together now, let's sing Kambojah."

Oh, I feel the pain, feel the nightmares
unfolding in the minds of others,
a clairvoyant, empathetic twister I am;
I don't wear a tin-foil helmet.

and the dreams, the beautiful dreams of light

The words fill me,
vowels and consonants bridge murkiness
with an astounding clarity.
simple moments touch me deeply.

Of smothered hope
rekindled hope
sunken coffins
bats and belfrys
rainbows arcing                --               introspection flowing across the nostalgia of 
porch-swings, dripping peaches, the scent of a newborn baby, the existentialism 
of bee-headed bishops, forbidden touches, slippery, secretive pantings.

After having written 500,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,002 poems,
I became tired of writing for/about myself in a certain way.
I lost my way,
desiring the vain-glory of spotlights,
far too entrenched in devices,
and the: I-am-so-cool-I-am-too-cool-to-be-warm-crowd.
Curdlings of avant-garde souring my morning coffee,
the hollow musings of lost souls reaching out of sugar-cubes,
reaching for something more
than their silly, inane routines of simply surviving. Simply surviving.
I understand.

I read poems
as gifts for my soul.
But for me, it isn't quite as easy to reciprocate,
for I am a rhombohedral, hexagonal ____________.

It was only after being able to reach deep inside myself,
pulling out a purity of intention,
to finally, finally write poems for another           -        as gifts
with no expectations or strings attached,
that I was able to give back,
to fully express how deeply the words have touched me all along....

Long poem by Caleb Smith | Details |

Black Lake

Time passes
and I have to remind myself that it does so every day. It seems impossible sometimes to get above the fog of my own memory and into the space where images meet feelings to become nostalgia.

I found myself standing before the Black Lake Woods where I first went hunting with my father. They have since been logged out, and the lake has dried down to a mud-hole. Seeing them now gives me a feeling of angry despair. I imagine it as a feeling akin to seeing a loved one naked and hurt on the ground, and being unable to help.

Standing here now, looking at the ghosts of giants, I'm taken back to a particular hunting trip with my dad. I was seven, and we were hunting squirrel. My dad carried his old 16 gauge, a gun that had belonged to his father ... a beast of a gun. The woods were alive in falls grasp, vibrant in the crisp song of a cool morning. To the west, the river ran like a quiet sentinal ... spanning the length of all the dreams that fathers have for their sons, and sons have of their fathers. If there is one image I will always remember of him, it would be him standing in the Black Lake Woods. He is still ... silent. His gun rests in the crook of an arm and his face is turned up to the trees. His mouth, slightly open, seems to be almost tasting the air. A shaft of light, breaking over the levee, slices across his face and turns the few gray hairs in his stubble into silver. There were many times when I was afraid of this man, but in moments like these, I was in awe of him. Now I can see just how much I am like him. How many times have I stood in just that way, with my own son behind me, watching me hunt? I think that was the day when I truly fell in love with the woods. It was the day that I went in and never really came out again. Sometimes, when the woods circle around me and my vision is cleared, I get glimpses of that little boy, walking the trees behind his father.

The events of that morning, long ago as it seems, partly created the man that I have become, and partly destroyed the boy I was before. Therefore, forever comforting my disquiet and vexing it too ... in the haunting harmony of the Black Lake Woods ...

...but that is another story

Long poem by Christie Moses | Details |

(Multitudinous) Silence

There are many sounds of


   Arrayed with 
                    multi hues

             The Silence of 
you ponder words of brilliance
       that have a multi faceted 

        The sound of Silence 
             can be heard 
echoing the corners of your mind,


             are words
         spoken in anger,
         best taken back, 
    that cannot be retracted. 

        The sound of Silence 
       when tension floats 
         with heavy hands
      to choke and claw you 
             from within.
How to break that glaciers ice?
         Silence reverberates 
             inside a room,
       when romance dwindles,
        and their spoken word
          interests no longer.
  Broken hearts, wounded souls
          A sadness in this one

  The sounds of a fabulous Silence, 
                that follows
          the end of a song, 
      that reminds you of a time
    when you heart was not bruised. 
              The sound of 

           The sound of Silence
     that occupies space inside a mind
   with no thought, 
                 no feelings, 
                              no curiosity.
       the best sound of Silence,
         is that poetic refrain, 
                inside of us
As we stand, bathing within words
           written by friends.
Together, united, a poetry world.
               That Silence 
                speaks so

Long Poems