Narrative Nostalgia Poems

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Details | Narrative |
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.
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, 
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.

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
when I get old? "

Copyright © Rachel Kovacs | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
On the south-western side of the old mission school, on the corner of 1st, where the blackberries grew a field claimed by children, was crosshatched with tracks It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with foxtails and youthful bare feet had constructed thin trails, cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles, deep in the amber of weeds and tall grass. It wasn't far beyond a patched wire fence that hemmed my Grandmother's russet old house. Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed, while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes, would race with the tumbleweeds, tossed into rows like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance A rusty old weathervane, cruised 'round, and 'round The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found But, deep in the field, was a land of our own A place we called 'Neverland', a 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 this masculine game.. I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes...... I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........ for he was much older, much wiser than me I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays of hot 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 clung 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

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
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

Contest: A Hundred In a Row
Sponsor: PD

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

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

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

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

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
They are playing that song again,
One that reminds me of you,
It is coming to me in the soft morning wind
from a place long ago, that has dimmed from the sun

The radio weaves lyrics, that curl through the air
like sandalwood incense, I once used to smell.

       "All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey
        I've been for a walk ....On a winter's day"

There is a picture I've kept, that has stayed in my mind
It once wrestled with envy, and now wrestles with time
You at twenty-one, wild and beautiful in a way
I had never been

I  only knew you then, as that hippie girl that lived next door for awhile 
Playing a flute, tambourine, and your guitar... 
A gypsy skirt, a peasant look that took one's breath
A frizz of strawberry blonde hair that streamed thick of ribbons 
and the scent of sandalwood, that floated into my yard
from your wide-opened windows
as I hung bleached-white sheets on a clothesline

I had often wished I were you, ..... flitting about, barefoot in the morning sun
But, I was teaching my toddler to tie his shoes
Both of us twenty-one,.... on two sides of a cedar fence...
a thousand light years apart

       "All the leaves are brown, and the sky is blue
        I've been for a walk......on this autumn day

        and still I wonder....
                 whatever became of you" 

Contest Judged 7/14/15
Reposted for Laura Loo's 2nd Place Contest

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
I'd almost forgotten, how fondly this little hamlet
snuggles tight against the purple hills, and how State street
divides the town into two parts, like a pizza, one half a progressive present,
and the other half, the antiquated past.   The old library building still exists,
although now home to an upscale art gallery, but, over there, on the western slice, is a geometrical shaped building that
is now called library, even though it looks more like the Star-ship Enterprise.
I drive slowly past old Gibble Park,  and across the street is the same,
weathered brick building, where I spent many early summer mornings

Suddenly, I surrender to the decade when I was seventeen, 
working a summer job, helping Mrs. Casey. 
Back then, it was the only bakery in town, and I worked  a morning shift.
I was cashier, and handed out powdered donuts, jellied scones, and giant bear claws, 
to familiar faces that never seemed worried about cholesterol, sugar, saturated fats. 
Day after day,  they sampled with satisfaction, and gossiped, and enjoyed the morning routine.

I remember, with my own naive' innocence, befriending
a quiet, middle-aged man, with glossy dark hair, Cary Grant looks, and his overly charming smile.
I thought him to be nice, and knew who he was, from his daughter, who was a school mate, from a class below me at my high school

Mrs. Casey, (with a crease in her brow)  telling me
"Look out for that one" but never quite making it clear just what she meant by such a comment 
He always came by on his way to work, ordered  a buttermilk bar, ...helped himself to a paper cup of coffee, then often talked with me, while I wiped down the glass cases, and waited on other customers. But, I was flattered by the attention, 
Unexpectedly, when the end of  summer came,  while paying me for his buttermilk bar,he smiled sadly, barely said a word, and out of his pocket, he handed me a small package. 
He quietly told me to open it when I got home,..... it was to be our little secret.
Not knowing how to respond......I said nothing.

Upon arriving home, ....alone in my room, I opened the small gift, and inside a gold cross, on a long gold chain, and a small. brilliant diamond smack-dab, 
mid-center of the cross.  I didn't know what to think, and I never told a soul.   
It has never been is still in my drawer....and though I had been warned,
somehow it makes me sad to think that some things still aren't clear.  

I was green, wet behind my ears. at the time there seemed nothing to fear, ....
all the lines were blurred, .... I had much to learn
Even now....I can't be sure.

For the Short Story Contest: Sponsored by Frank Herrera

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |

I remember the land of drums I was born
  bedded beneath great hangin' nets,
       the sound of the conch and the horn!
My blue suitcase filled with stuff,
    the red tricycle and pedal car
that made me race and made me puff!
I remember the hounds of revolution nightly howl
  on the streets of my island home...
now I reign afar in the home of my exile
  as might a king denied his throne

I remember my first day of school so bleak,
  a gingerbread house on Picton Street
     where I first kissed a sweetheart cheek!
Hearken tales of men in Sherwood...
      Nelly Stone in her rockin' chair
readin' the Adventures of Robin Hood.
The loud guttural yard turkeys' gobble and flap,
  and kids singin' their songs of joy,
I remember the year, the girl, the sounds
   in all its virtue when I was a boy
I remember the front yard we would play
  and the annex rooms we called home -
      livin' and growin' and findin' our way!
Wavin' at the Queen's royal parade
           down on Saint Clair Avenue
in the crowds followin' her motorcade.
I remember huddled around the old valve radio,
  long siestas in the hot afternoon
till late beneath a corner streetlight halo
   ravin' drunk slumped Blue Moon

I remember sticky chewy peanut brittle
  with my cold Nestle chocolate milk,
     and gorgin' my tummy little by little!
Behold Down-the-Islands dashin'
    in a boat out on Staubles Bay -
the sea spray across the bow crashin'!
Watchin' as darkness fell the high moon and tide
  shinin' on bay and jetty so bright,
when, as young eyes grew weary, I would
     rest at peace all through the night

I remember all dressed for Sunday School,
  and afternoons at the Country Club
      splashin' around in the swimmin' pool!
And at sea playin' captain and sailor
       on board a ship Panama bound
in my cabin with my toy boat and trailer!
I remember the ports and voyage of no return
  into the yonder crossin' the equator,
when old Neptune rose from the undersea
    to bless our ship and navigate her

              September 1990

Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Don’t you remember, love, how we danced that first night;
beneath the sun’s rays, toes dipping in the cooling sand, 
to the tune of our favorite song –
with me humming the best I could – 
(I sounded terrible, but you told me I sounded divine, remember?)
while falling all over myself, and your delicate feet; 
and you, trying so hard not to laugh as I made such a fool of myself!
Did you ever think we would go 
from being love-sick teenagers dancing on the beach, 
to a couple of old-timers reminiscing 
about our best years – our long ago days together? 

Sweetheart, please…
If there is any part of that teenage girl 
left within that beautiful head of yours…please; 
please, just look in my eyes as you once did…
look at me, sweetheart…
Don’t you remember? 

My love, do you hear? 
They’re playing our favorite song…

*Inspired by Izzy Gumbo's Solfege Contest
I really hope I did this right! :)

Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
Before spring came, in late February
to the blooming and jolly hills 
I ran, breathing heavily and frantically,
touching the perfumed blossoms 
of a solitary, old cherry tree;
and underneath it I sat writing poetry
that hadn't a perfect rhyme and beat! 
Weren't my skills marred by imperfections?    

Canaries and red-breasted robins
flew down and rested on my outstretched legs;
perusing my lines to spot their names,
and when they did, they flapped their wings in gladness!
I could have imagined their joyful words,.
if only they had acquired the gift of speech,
and deeper in their thoughts I would have reached:
to dispel the myth that they had no feelings...

After my short poem was completed,
I reached for my harmonica to play my favorite classic tune;
and being surprised by the paleness of the fading moon,
I dedicated that happy melody to her not to let her despair:
by waving my hand to make her farewell less sad, while I whispered,
" Silent moon, eternal companion of every poet,
what's beyond the realm of this universe?...
Tell us more of those invisible suns and planets! "

Before spring came to the dormant valley,
the mountains' peaks allowed the sun to melt their snows,
to create gushing torrents to feed its water to the dry and cracked soil,
which needed rain instead of harmful frost;
and I drank the freshest water and washed my sweaty face,
while fighting off the bees' stubborn rivalry!
That spring has come again to dress herself with incredible splendor,
and this discontent and wishful heart desires nothing more than being there!  

My theme is: Happiness In Childhood

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Suddenly a very soft and familiar voice spoke to her conscious saying “Lovely”
“Yes” she replied   
“Tomorrow you are coming back home”
“OK” she said breathing heavily
The conversation ended right at that instant 
Seven minutes later the unpredictable happens and Lovely dropped into a short comma.
A new day arrives.

Date: 01/01/1788
Ding dong, ding dong, sounds the door-bell
Lovely wakes up; open the golden windows the sun is raising
Knock, knock someone is at the golden door
She didn’t know what was going on this time
She walks all the way to the door not noticing that her house was made out of the finest
marble, and the finest gold that ever existed.
Lovely answers the door thinking is the mail man with the missing letter.
When she finally opens the door instead of the mail man was her husband with open arms and
a smile on his face.
Saying “welcome home baby” “I had been waiting for you”  


Diogenes Zuniga

Copyright © Diogenes Zuniga | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride

In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape

She saw it differently, of course 
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home

   Her age was then, what mine is now,
   It had been her home, and it had been her vow
   To come again, just one more time.  

   I was thirteen, and dragged along
   I overlooked the great attraction
   I could not see the satisfaction
   I missed the light upon her face

   She saw the youth she left behind
   Her gray eyes drinking up the sun, 
   I saw the dust, I saw the bones, 
   Where she saw beauty,  I saw none .....
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick, 
A place to shuffle my restless feet

But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now I smile,… remembering.

How it awakens in spring with sprouting grain, after brittle frost, the slush and rain
I can see how gold a wheat field grows
I shall know how a dark-framed wagon rests beside a shed, 
Quivering trees, and stiff shocks of corn
The amber of the sun-cured hay 
Milking cows, and a chicken shed
And a barn filled with horses, waiting to be fed
A lone, white farm house, with a big front porch
And how a bible rests..., next to the bed

     They had to fight to own this piece of land
     They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
     And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride

A Memory of My Grandmother's Homestead  _________________________________________________

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
It began on a high note
Dreams of a New Frontier
Those dreams were shattered in Texas
In the Fall of the same year
Christmas time was solemn
Before the storm there was the calm
We saw them escalate a war
Sending our young to Vietnam
It was a vibrant time to be alive
A good invasion hit our shore
The British sent their music
Our lives would be changed forever more
The times they were “a changing”
Was it better, was it worse
There was no time for apathy
Was it a blessing or a curse
In June came graduation
The fulfillment of our dreams
The Four Seasons sang about a Rag Doll
We were introduced to the Supremes
Now that our senior year was over
And we would go our separate ways
There remained a bond to hold us
Until our dying days
Some went off to college
Not knowing what’s in store
Almost all would serve their country
Some went off to war.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Date: 12/31/1787
Ding dong, ding dong, sounds the door-bell
She wakes up; open her window the sun is raising
Knock, knock, some one is at the door
She rushes to the door thinking is the mailman 
She is expecting a love letter from Iraq
She finally answer the door but stead of the mail man is an officer from the army, he is
well dress and carries a small box with him and inside of the box is an American flag with
three different medals.
One medal is for being a soldier of the US Army, the second medal is for being a national
hero, and the third one, is a medal of honor for dying for his country.
She goes crazy crying out for help, screaming all out that she was expecting a baby.
“I’m really sorry” the officer says
“If there anything I could do please call me” he reached his wallet and pulled out a
business card and gave it to her.
“He was a brave man” he said
The officer turned around and left the house with out hesitation.
Poor girl was drowning in her own tears; she still didn’t believe what just happen 
“Lord please help me”, “help me go through this horrible pain” she cries out.
She goes back to the bed and tries to sleep it off, but it didn’t work out, the pain was
too much just to act like nothing didn’t happen.
She finally falls as sleep after several hours of crying painfully.
She tosses and turns all night long, sweating like crazy with massive pain on her chest 
While she was having a horrible nightmare; dreaming about the death of her husband-

Copyright © Diogenes Zuniga | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
I watched them go to work each morning
A kid growing up in the coal regions
Remembering the dirt and the pride
The self respect that came from earning 
The self reliance and the sense of community
I never knew the need to knock on a door
My dad’s keys were in the ignition of the old Ford
Kids playing baseball with taped up baseballs 
Carpenter’s nail holding the bat together
And eight gloves between seventeen kids
Catcher didn’t need one
Wednesday afternoons the miners filled the bars
Sunday mornings they filled the churches
I watched them coming home each late afternoon
A kid growing up in the coal regions
Remembering the dirt and the pride
Blackened faces smiling
Another rugged hard day in, walking proud
Wrestle with the kids, family time
The important things
I watched them converging on a home
A kid growing up in the coal regions
Remembering the dirt and the pride
Mining accident, covered dishes, neighbors
One town, one neighborhood, one family
A feeling of belonging, community, our town
Clothes lines, party lines, coal mines
The dirt and the pride. TAMAQUA.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Tomorrow’s times are in these eyes of mine.
Away and far my world shall part.
The Seas shall rise from their depths of deep.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will weep.
The Sun will rise as my days still come,
The glory, the power, it is the rains with Sun.
Tomorrow’s times are in these days of mine.
Far and gone my world shall bond.
The Mountains will fall from their heights they climb.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will shine.
Tomorrow’s times are in these thoughts of mine.
Gone and here my world shall fear.
The Lands will separate the world by Sea,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will be.
Tomorrow’s times I know are mine.
Here it is that I fear I’m near.
My Land, my Seas, my Mountains of plain sight,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows shall shed their light.

®Registered: Ann Rich 1998

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Quiet Please                                                                                                                                                            

I was born and grew up on the relatively quiet side of the planet.                                   Nevertheless, there was a train line right through the heart of town.
And there were also cotton gins, tractors, and lots of farm machinery.
Obviously, we were not exactly 'noise free'; but basically, the noise I heard most were an occasional barking dog, crickets, bull frogs, and rooster crows.

After high school, I relocated to a very large northern city by a great lake.               Suddenly, all my familiar noises of crickets, frogs, and roosters were gone.         
Without warning, the sounds of combines and crop dusting planes disappeared                                       They were replaced by commuter buses, automobile horns, sirens, and garbage trucks.                

In my late 20's, I moved again to a large western city by the Bay and the Pacific. There, for 30 days, my family and I resided in a motel embraced by a street car rail line.  Also there, we were annoyed by rap and rock from loud radios, and more  sirens.  But also there, we slept sweetly by the ocean waves and fog horns; gentler noises.
03082017 PS Contest, The Noises, Shadow Hamilton

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
I remember summers past in the south 
and the sultry heat.
Iced tea and back porch confessions.

Making time with that first love.
The swing underneath  that old tree.
The radio playing softley in the background.

Thoose ways have long since died.
Replaced by a breakneck pace.
As were all to willing to forsake a conversation between 
two human beings.
It's all about one night stands and bragging rights.

It's like comparing velvet to burlap.
All harsh no mystery.
Where people would rather surf the internet
than ocean.

The passion of the kiss.
Is but a dinosaur that people 
view as some old silent film.

A blanket underneath the stars
Has been replaced by a encounter in a 
bathroom stall.

Upward we advance  as deeper  we sink within the
As the poet reflects  ink drying 
in he pen.

I recall thoose times so very slow.
To this sudden stand still.
Like a pile up on the interstate.
I no longer live I wait.

But the sunset still haunts me.
Along with the scent of the salt filled air.
that tree's swing does no longer stand.

As in dust and memories it's been taken with 
the wind.

The road echos  of another time.
For all that was free and wild.
Is slowley vanishing.

As we blindly advance.
I'll sit and watch the tide.
And be happy to be left behind.

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Early 60’s feeling my oats, slow moving wasn’t my bag
56 Chevy, foot to the floor, looking for someone to drag
He’s a Rebel on the radio, smell of gasoline was strong
Marked off a stretch of highway, exactly one mile long

I made my way to the starting line, foot getting heavy
Ford was revving up hot, but nothing beats my Chevy
There’s no feeling on earth like starting to drag
Her sweater on a stick was our checkered flag

I said I’d like to hang around but I’ve got a hot date
So while you’re driving that Ford, read my license plate
I slammed my foot to the floor and could feel the thrust
When I looked in the mirror, the Ford was eating my dust

Next Sunday morning, I was on the way to see my girl
I saw a Nash Rambler and thought I’d give him a whirl
I pulled along side him as we approached a mile long hill
Thinking that beating his butt would give me a thrill

Now I looked over at him, smiled and waved good bye
Then he waved back and I thought I would cry
There was no way it should happen the Rambler went pop
I was half way up the hill, he was over the top.

Instead of seeing my girl, I drove all around town
Trying to find the car that put my Chevy down
The fastest thing I had ever seen moving on dry land
I just wanted to find the driver for a chance to shake his hand
Sometimes I think of times we had, drag racing way back then
Though I searched for years I never saw that Nash Rambler again

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative |
Saturday afternoon with a few moments to kill
Took a ride by the park up on Dutch Hill
My mind went back to a time and place
When I wore a little boy’s smile on my face
So much had changed since those innocent days
I drifted back through the years where a child plays
I played in the sandbox and rode the swing
Climbed the monkey bars in the Early Spring
I remembered church picnics and being there after dark
Playing cowboys and Indians with my friends in the park
We rode the sliding board and climbed in the trees
Spraining our ankles and skinning our knees
Sometimes we gazed at the stars while we lied on the ground
Or tried to see how fast we could push the merry go round
We learned from each other as we grew up back then
And drifted apart as we became women and men
We played from sun up until it was dark
The best years of our lives were spent at the park

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2008

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Company stores taking most of the paycheck
Days were long and hard at the breaker
It beat being down there, rats were moving
No injuries today, good news
Body hurts, but the kids will be home from school
Stop and have a few before supper
They're growing so fast, soon the hugs will be gone
Shower in the cellar, she doesn't ask for much
Don't want all that tracked through the house
Daddy's home, their bright eyes shine
Got to take care of what matters most
It doesn't get any better, mom, give me a hug
Supper was great, need help with the dishes?
Got some change in my pocket
Might be enough for some ice dream cones
Let's go kids, we'll take a walk
Stop by Grandma's house on the way
Piggyback ride for the little guy
No money left 'til payday
Got all we need. Grab a bucket
We'll pick some blueberries on the way home.
So nice. Almost a touch of Heaven
Just taking care of what mattered most.

          Life in a small minig town. Family, friends, co-workers were what mattered 
most. I'd trade it all for yesterday.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2008

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Each year as Christmas rolls around, as I buckle under the pressure and stress of shopping for gifts for people that already  have everything, I find myself remembering that Christmas of 1954.

Dad had joined the army that year and we  moved from the East Coast of Canada to Ontario, leaving behind our extended family and the only home I had ever known in a small fishing village along the Bay of Fundy.

Now we stood gazing in horror at the rows of ugly buildings sitting on barren land in the middle of nowhere.  This was the housing provided by the army being part of the soldier's wage.

My mother was inconsolable until dad rented us a small apartment over a Chinese restaurant in downtown Barrie.  There was no remuneration by the army for forfeiting the housing, so it left dad with a very small pay-check.

Pay day was once a month and we usually ran out of money in the last week, so off we would go to the pawn shop with dad’s prized possession; his short-wave radio, won for superior marksmanship.
Being kids, we finally adjusted to our new world as we watched the Santa Claus Parade march below our living room window amid the honking horns, blaring bands and throngs of people lined along the streets as far as the eye could see as we laughed with glee.

 We had seen them on our way to school in the window of the bicycle shop; gleaming with chrome spokes and handlebars and hand grips adorned with multi-coloured streamers.  There I would stand until my feet grew numb from the cold, daydreaming of riding back to the East Coast.  I could actually see the sun glistening on the waves as I raced along the ocean on the way to grandma’s house.  More than once I had to stay after school for being late. 

 My brother thought maybe if we were really good, Santa would bring those bicycles to us.  I being the older and therefore the wiser, knew the state of the real Santa’s affairs and promptly convinced my brother I had heard from a reliable source Santa had a shortage of bicycles this year and we would just have to earn the money and buy them ourselves.

We worked it out on paper and realized if we saved our ten cents a week allowance, it would take years to pay for them, so we decided we needed to get a job. So began our first enterprise ‘Hal and Elaine’s snow Removal’.

Each day after school we would go door to door offering to shovel the snow from sidewalks and driveways for a fee of twenty- five cents.  Each day we would return home with our frozen hands clutching a quarter and our minds clutching the visions of those bicycles as we prayed for snow once again.

Mom had taken a job working from home to add to the family income.  Each night she would soak piles of leather pieces to soften and stretch over balls of twine to stitch together the  next day, the end product – a baseball. Mom stitched hour after hour, day after day until her fingers bled.

Dad would come home from Camp Borden after many hours of hard labour and army maneuvers to have supper and make us giggle and laugh with his outrageous stories of the day’s events. For several days,  he left after supper,  returning hours later with red and blue paint stains on his hands and a tired smile on his face.  No matter how many times I asked him where he had been and why he had paint on his hands, he would never tell, he simply made a game out of it by saying GUESS.

The days flew by in a blur as we shoveled up and down the streets dreaming of those bicycles that grew more solid with every quarter we put in our piggy banks.  I would go to sleep each night and ride through towns and cities and over hills and through valleys until I heard the sound of buoy bells ringing in the harbour.

I would pedal faster and faster, knowing I was almost there.  I could see my old home just down the road.  As the bells got louder, I would slowly awake to the truth as the alarm clock wound down on the night stand.  Once again I would head off for school and stand daydreaming, peering at that gleaming bicycle in the window of the bicycle shop.

Suddenly – Christmas was almost upon us and we needed to buy mom and dad a present, so we pulled the plug on the piggy bank and took our loot, a total of four dollars each to Woolworth’s.
 Oh – the glorious things we saw – shelves full of toys and household goods, glass counters with hundreds of bottles of perfume and cologne, shaving gear, tropical birds and fish and mountains and mountains of candy.  What to do – what to buy?

 We scurried from one counter to the next, overwhelmed with the endless things to choose from as we stammered and stuttered like a couple of idiots.  Finally, we decided on a bottle of ‘Lily of the Valley’ perfume and a pair of gloves for mom and ‘Old spice’ cologne and gloves for dad.

We then separated to buy presents for each other agreeing to meet at the soda fountain afterwards where we decided it was only fitting we should have a banana split and a Coke to celebrate the occasion.  

As we sat there with our lips covered in butterscotch and ice cream, the gravity of the situation began to sink in.  We had spent our entire savings and with that realization, we licked our lips and decided the bicycles would have to wait another year.

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2017

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Finally – it was Christmas Eve and we put the presents under the tree and hung our stockings at the foot of the bed.  In a few hours, those stockings would be filled with barley toys, ribbon candy and chocolates.  I could hardly wait!   As mom tucked us into bed, I looked out the window and saw it was snowing again.  It snowed all through the night as I lay in my cozy bed dreaming of that glorious bicycle again. 

 Christmas morning we awoke to the sound of the radio which was now home for Christmas after a long stay at the pawn shop as ‘Joy to the World’ rang over her airwaves.

We dashed to the living room where mom and dad stood beside two bicycles with gleaming chrome and multi-coloured streamers; not the ones from the store window, but the most beautiful bicycles I have ever seen, a red one for me and a blue one for my brother.

There I stood, my heart overflowing with joy and love as I remembered my mother’s blood stained hands and my father’s blue and red stained hands - these hands of love that changed two second-hand bicycles into the greatest gift I have ever known and taught me the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

                                                                         The End

May the magic of that Christmas from years gone by,  find you and fill your heart with joy.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
Under the microscope we are under watched by a near by species

For some reason they think we are a life form that takes it to easy

Over the years we were abducted; that was a mistake the aliens became uneasy

Unique in several ways we are human and that they see we are strange

Fooling them we act very hostile yet our mindset needs be rearrange

Opening our minds they started to look, but our minds seems to weird and derange

Upset, the aliens take our species to try to understand

Freaks of nature we seem to gather with costumes and sounds of band

Old as time they been coming to our planet and this is what they found, like us, land

Unrelenting we humans seem to focus on a different path

Feelings we have the aliens do not understand what we have

Odd we are, we are the only species in the galaxy that really know how to have a bath

Unrealizable that we do adore the stars and lights in the sky

From all our studies we look up and see the lights that make our world, we cry

Only now we reason with the aliens we are fools in our world and we sigh  

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
In the past I remember how things were so simple
When I was little my cheeks had such cute dimples
Looking back I remember how sweet I was as a child
When I think again my heart told me I was so wild
Yet, in time my simple choices was revealed as true as anyone
The reason I was the way I am today, I did things, to get done
Finishing lots of my undone ideas was so incredibly hard
So I figure my heart and choices should never hold in no bard
I never thought I would learn heart aches and pain
With such under statement I did things for no gain
I was a child who held true to what he has learned
But as we got older those kinda perspective would get me burned
When I made up my mind that people was not kind
I led myself in a confusion that I was blind
In the past I do recall that seeing is believing
So I was the one who stood their with friends leaving
Alone, I felt I did not belong, I cherish each person who knew me
I got older too see how the world works it stung me like a bee
The feeling of tingling ran through my vain
My view of the world and people who knew me was stained
Now I know they are out for their selves with no kind feelings
Life I know is just a joke because of who I hung out with seeing
Today as I look at the world it is in such shambles and astray
And rather fallow everyone I just walk away

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

and the story goes like this . . .
I walk up the dusty, dark staircase that had been my favourite place, playing with my dolls, make believe, dreaming of meeting a prince; Wanting to grow up, but that was many years ago, many heartbreaks ago, my reason today, Grandma has left this world and all in the attic is mine. The door has not been opened in years, it creaks and groans as I push, I stand in the doorway, hesitating, finding the courage to enter the dampness; The sun filters in through a small window, dust drifts and cobwebs lace the corners, the atmosphere still and silent, like death, echoing of the past as I look about. No one else wants any of this, they call it junk, only I know the treasures, passing by an old lamp, a stroller, a rocking chair, a chest of drawers and bed; Old portraits of ancestors long forgotten, dusty old things, treasures from the past, a peacefulness comes over me but I am searching for something special. And there it is pushed into a corner, an antique chest, long forgotten, it holds the vintage clothing and jewelry, and writings of the child that was me; Things I had treasured as a girl, playing dress up, pretending, making up stories, kneeling beside it, my hand touches the ornate surface brushing away dust. Slowly, I open the lid, peeking inside, everything is there as I had left it,, my eyes fill with tears, memories swirling in my head of that lonely little girl; Dressed up in Grandma's old clothes, writing stories on the attic room floor, stories that will become poems for I have found my lost treasure chest. ___________________________ July 21, 2013 Narrative Submitted to contest, Your Best Poem, sponsor, Shadow Hamilton, Second Place Submitted to contest, Any Old Poem #4, sponsor, Skat, Third Place Submitted to contest, Treasure Chest, Anthony Slausen, Fourth Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
It had been two days since Christmas
The one where the fates had granted me my fondest wish
A shiny, red, Schwinn bicycle..... a basket in the front, and a bell to ring

On that cold December night, the sky was stained by the color of alarm
My young mother leaving her warm bed at three in the morning
without tying her robe, rousing us all with calm haste

Deep red reflections seeped through the mud-splashed window screens
as she shooed us downstairs, down the raw-grained stairs, 
pushing us from behind with her two hands
out the door, and  onto the frost-slick back porch, 
into the wee hours of early light
By then, wide-eyed, we stood and watched the fire from a safe distance, 
as it consumed our garage.  And, my bike.

From the frame of the doorway, and the top step's narrow slat
she enveloped me in her folds of chenille to keep me from shivering.
The cool of her hand on my shoulders,
watching my dad in his attempt with a hose
warning him to keep safe,
while sounds of sirens wailed in the distance

When I looked up into her face, with anxious eyes
I remember her soft, reassuring voice 
"Hush now, don't cry"
"We'll find another one, just like it"

Then, I remember looking down, at her bare feet
turning blue in the cold


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
                          The Fairground
I remember the fairground when I was a child, there
was the candy Fairy Floss machines, and you could 
See them spinning the spider webs of sugar which 
Made up the sweet delight, that children loved to eat
Then There was Sideshow Alleys with its clown stall 
With the moving heads and popping the balls into it's 
Mouth, there was the shooting galleries and penny 
Toss events and many other things to play, there was a 
Ghost Train and the Dodgem Cars and Boats, where 
Bumping deliberately was not allowed, the Penny Arcade 
With Pinball games and the Claw Crane  where you tried 
To grab a prize If you where lucky, penny slots which 
Could give you a free ball and your penny back by flicking
A lever, and now the main events, the Big Dipper or
Roller Coaster, it would leave you going back for your
Stomach, the large Slippery Dips, Hall of Mirrors and
The Tunnel of Love river caves, Ferris Wheel and the
Helter Skelter where you rode down a spiral on a mat 
But the one thing that stands out in the Fairground 
Was the giant Carousel, a beautiful hand crafted 
Turntable loaded with beautifully crafted wooden
Horses, which where all hand painted, children would
Always want to ride this iconic ride and if you where
Able to grab the brass ring, you would get another
Ride absolutely free, yes the Fairground was an event
In itself, as children would always want to go there
All of the time and even the adults would ask  their
Children to go, because inside every adult lived 
Another little child, they all loved the Fairground. 

Copyright © John Ginesi | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
                                             There was a time
                                             Transcending times
                                          Remembering a time
                                           In a town like yours
                                              A life like mine
                                            In a world for all
                                           It seemed so simple 
                                                Mother Earth 
                                              Larger than life
                                              green fragrant
                                                azur sky's
                                              Rivers running 
                                              Anglers hoping
                                            oceans bellowing 
                                            Everything was
                                                than life
                                              Your love
                                               Our family 
                                             Our friendship
                                             A time of plenty 
                                              So it seemed
                                             Has the world
                                             Maybe we have
                                             Perhaps is just a 
                                                 Or is 



                                               All rights reserved
                                                   A camacho jr. 


Copyright © Tonytocaa Camacho | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Winding around the curve of the road
the brilliant blue of the morning sky had faded
and seemed it had been left out too long in the sun......
Something,...... some new kind of threshold, waited in the November chill
We didn't know yet, just what it was, but the memory 
would be imprisoned by our young, and eager eyes
for decades, to come

We had arrived........
with an alive sense of enthusiasm and a vivid anticipation

We left our children in the car, for a few minutes
until we saw the perfect yard.....that seemed to go for miles
the hills surrounded.....and a battered, eye-sore house, somehow had found us

I remember the house half timbered
with white paint peeling on the southern side
We had been expecting nothing much,
nothing more than a weekend's new adventure
not realizing we were entering the future
while the grey haired woman, who met us there, 
produced a key, and unlocked  the door.
We looked out behind us, 
where our children were already running up and down the grassy slope
"Twin Pine Real Estate" ,  scrolled across the door of the woman's car parked next to ours

If hesitation and....common-sense had overruled
The story would end here...

I do recall.....we said it all......
"Ramshackle dump" ! ? "Good bone structure"
"Good inspiration"  "They'll think we're crazy"
"With sweat and guts......."IF ....AND....or  BUT!"
"Elbow grease"........"Dedication"     "Celebrations"

We fell head over heels........we'll... beg, borrow, steal!

We hollered out to call the children
and then brought them in.   They shared the wish, 
to own a place to call our own, a home, some land, a mountain view
our grand ideas of property....of priority, of possibility, of probability, ..of family.....
Everyone would work, everyone would reap,  
A house we loved.........a dream to keep
and years have come, and years have gone...... the place that we still call home

9/16/14  A Special Memory Contest: sponsored by Regina Riddle

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014