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.
We thought the road would open
like a polite door.
Instead, it asked for rent—
blood, patience, unfinished sleep.
We learned to carry silence
the way workers carry iron:
close to the spine,
without complaint.
Some walked beside us
for a season of weather,
then vanished at the next turning,
leaving their warmth in the air.
Fortune, that moody landlord,
changed the locks overnight.
Still, the caravan moved.
Still, our shoes remembered forward.
There were losses
that taught us shape,
and distances
that taught us name.
Life was never easy.
Only our youth was certain it would be.
Once upon a time, I was created by an 18th century jeweler,
but I do not remember his name because of course I am very old;
for a while, I lay on a satin cushion in a high style store,
although just made of glass and silver, I was still quite expensive.
Then, one bright day a nice gentlemen came in to buy a gift,
he explained to the clerk it was a birthday present for his new wife;
he was shown many pieces until they came to me,
and he exclaimed, oh yes, this is perfect, I will take it, please.
His wife adored me, oh I love the flowers in sparkling glass,
of pink and diamonds, I am going to put it on my new hat;
and there I stayed for years and years till she at last died,
I lay on a closet shelve gathering dust until her daughter found me.
She cleaned me gently and pinned me to her wool jacket,
and I got tons of compliments when we went out shopping together;
she never forgot me and touched me often with great love,
then, she died suddenly . . . and I was given to a charity store.
It was a terrible place, and I just lingered there sad and alone,
until a girl with raven hair picked me up and said oh how pretty;
she took me home- now I live on her dresser . . . . loved.
__________________________
April 13, 2018
Poetry/Personification/The Old Brooch
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1012-723-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Bring To Life
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
Fourth Place
The tattered Cabbage Rose peeled
Elegant décor of decades past, the wallpaper offered
only a hint of its former beauty
Its faded pinks and murky greens belied
the glorious blush of its zenith
As I stared from the perch of my uneven mattress,
I pondered the old Chester Inn
I thought about the lives it had touched
and I could almost hear the chatter of children
readying a day at the beach
or the clinking of crystal, a romantic toast
Its halls, still dressed in gray sculptured carpet,
told their story too, carried along on a musty
seaside breeze
An early twentieth century relic, the Inn was
bidding farewell, no longer able to compete
in a modern world
Its dated charm lost on new generations
As I considered that waning Cabbage Rose,
I contemplated the course of life for us all,
its cycles, its sequels
and as I drew my last sigh of crisp, salty air,
I said goodbye to room fourteen
While watching the stars way up high,
my thoughts drift to another time,
sleeping beneath a clear summer sky,
four sisters all in childhood's prime.
My thoughts drift to another time,
another place where innocence was bred,
four sisters all in childhood's prime,
talking and giggling as we climbed into bed.
Another place where innocence was bred,
when the night was dark and the stars shown bright,
talking and giggling as we climbed into bed,
counting the shooting stars in the sky at night.
When the night was dark and the stars shown bright,
after a long and exhausting day at play,
counting the shooting stars in the sky at night,
all our cares just up and flew away.
After a long and exhausting day at play,
sleeping beneath a clear summer sky,
all our cares just up and flew away,
while watching the stars way up high.
Dew glistens, whimsical, over gentle dawn
hues fade beyond the background of sparkly nights
silent moments breath light on the nourished lawn
creeks flow gently, harmonizing with bobwhites
wind’s soft voice overflows with a melting song
reflections of timeless joy a poet writes
shadows erase the still of winter so strong
her dreams burning wild in the brilliance of hope
knowing that this grace of Spring is never wrong
storybook worlds rise as fostered seeds elope
musical chairs played between the heart and soul
thunder and lightening don’t know how to cope
the glory of Springtime concludes with a stroll
through those hearts who know God’s grace will make them whole
Before the screens arrived in rows,
before the glowing, restless light,
the old library I loved was built
of paper worlds and quiet delight.
It greeted me with weathered shelves
and pages softened by the years,
a scent of dust and faded ink
that somehow calmed my childish fears.
The sunlight pooled through dusty panes,
and settled softly on the floor,
and silence lingered in the air
like a hymn I'd somehow heard before.
No one asked me who I was.
No one cared if I was shy.
I could wander through the aisles
and never need to explain why.
For I was quiet by my nature,
content to linger on my own,
and in those stacks of waiting books
I found a place that felt like home.
The books themselves seemed living things,
with clothbound backs and gilded seams,
their worn-out corners telling tales
of lives once lived and countless dreams.
I loved the weight within my hands,
the whisper when a page would turn,
the roughened paper beneath my thumb,
and all the things a book could learn.
The libraries of now still hum
with different rhythms than before.
They hold a thousand useful tools
and open every kind of door.
Yet when my memory wanders back,
it is not technology I see.
It is the scent of aging pages
and the quiet that once sheltered me.
Even now I search old thrift shops,
hoping somewhere I may find
a weathered book whose faded scent
can carry me through space and time.
For sometimes home is not a house,
nor any landmark on a map.
Sometimes it lives in memories
the passing years cannot unwrap.
And often peace is found again
in stories waiting on a shelf,
between old pages, worn and loved,
I find a little of myself.
The old library asked for nothing,
yet offered solace without demand,
and loved a quiet little girl
exactly as she chose to stand.
In the cosmic ballet, where celestial lights gleam,
I whispered your name, in a voice soft as steam.
The moon's tender cradle, a swing for our feet,
We danced through the heavens, in rhythm so sweet.
Summer nights unfurled, your essence a bloom,
As we waltzed in the dark, dispelling the gloom.
Memory's dance floor, where our souls took flight,
A serenade of stars, in the velvet night.
I'm whirling in nebulas, where love's pulses meet,
Aching for your caress, in the cosmos' repeat.
Nostalgia, our shroud, in the ether's embrace,
In this starry vision, my heart finds its place.
Frames on the cosmos' wall, tales etched in light,
Chuckles that linger, in the quiet of night.
We pirouetted under the celestial spray,
Each droplet a beat, washing sorrows away.
I'm twirling in the heavens, where the heartbeats blend,
Craving your warmth, on this boundless ascend.
Nostalgia enfolds us, a zephyr's soft sweep,
In this woven dream, serenity I keep.
Let's waltz one more time, 'neath the candyfloss sky,
With each dream that shatters, I still hear your sigh.
We'll pursue the twilight, as hues intertwine,
In the night's hammock, you're forever mine.
I'm gliding through the galaxies, where heartbeats entwine,
Yearning for your touch, on this journey divine.
Nostalgia, our constant, a breeze so serene,
In this crafted dreamscape, my spirit finds its sheen.
So we'll drift through the remembrances, not quite undone,
Dancing in dreams, our race yet to be run.
In the cradle of stars, I'll murmur your name,
Through eternity's dance, we'll play our sweet game.
Here I come to save the day!
That means that Mighty Mouse is on his way!
This theme song delighted us in the sixties, we knew what to expect
Our Super hero began flying toward us, starting out as tiny speck.
When he got closer, we began to cheer and shout.
We knew someone was going to get the wrath of his clout.
He took us to exotic locals like Switzerland, Holland and Italy.
Sometimes he would bring prehistoric times into our TV.
No matter where Mighty Mouse went, he saved the day.
With this super mouse, villains did not dare try to play.
He pounded and pummeled them and trussed them up too.
Watching these bullies get what they deserved never made me blue.
In the sixties I went to university
where I experienced much diversity
For example, among fraternities
mine went from ‘Kegs-a-Tappin’
to ‘Pills-a-Poppin’
~ LSD, we were a-droppin’
Athletics were a big deal too
freshman year we were football champs
senior year, listened to Led Zeppelin’s mega-amps
Then there was good old politickin’
After Kent State life was great
Semester cancelled, May 14 the date…
To let us work for our 'favorite candidate'
Mine wore 6-inch heels, raised my pulse rate…
Oh, I learned a whole lot in school
~ mostly, how to break the rules
A BACKWARD GLANCE
Alongside a Chiltern chalkstream
I lay me down to dream,
of country paths,stiles and steep slopes,
those days,long ago,filled with hope;
I dreamed of days of summer sun
when my life had just begun,
climbing trees,cricket on the green,
the first time I made the school team;
Football with coats and tennis ball,
bonfire night fireworks in the Fall,
carol singing through silent streets,
paper chains and Christmas treats.
Crystal clear,vision's backward gaze
brought forth from nostalgia's haze.
Many instant delights can never last
All future certainty lies in the past,
Often distant memories linger so
Nostalgia's balance sways to and fro;
Fleeting and ephmeral is the dream
Yesterday's hero,a today's has-been,
Rose-tinted glasses with short-sighted views
Can distort all perspective,out of true;
Twenty,twenty embellishes hind-sight
But cannot guarantee,a future bright,
Experience forgotten wastes away
As superficiality has its day.
The wheel of life endlessly turns again
Grinding mistakes with perpetual pain.
The imaginary musings of my mind,
experience past & present lingers long,
dusted off,re-opened,viewed from time to time,
retrospective perspective changes all;
Maturity's long-sightedness squints aghast,
then savours the mellowness of memory;
A tear,a smile washes nostalgia's face;
Today will be yesterday,gathering dust,
then filed,microfiched,all too soon forgotten
'til an event unlocks the museum again.
Dull
colours,
long buried-
this sepia
day
Our
childhood
memories-
a forest of
dreams
see
snows of
yesteryear
drifting in my mind.
score
and ten-
looking back,
one day at a time.
TANKA
Spring is cricket on the green
Summer is picnics in the park
Autumn is conkers from the crescent
And in Winter slides on ice
across the schoolyard
Crystalline 57 Nostalgia
The stream where pooh sticks once were raced
now flows into memory's embrace
THE WAKE
Slowly,
nostalgia
trickles into
torrents,to flood memory's
canyon.