Poetry Nostalgia Poems

These Poetry Nostalgia poems are examples of Poetry poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Poetry Nostalgia poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Light Poetry |
The sun and moon conceived a star shooting through time and space born within the ocean delivered upon its waves while Beethoven's sonatas softly played nightly gales whispered those tunes to all the seashells beach sand passed through coral reefs as soles of lovers feet tread buried in beach fires deep begging the earth most humbly to draw a breath but over the cliff the hurricane's wind blew until death from those turbulent ocean waters came a sailor's truth watching a passing ship with broken sails and ghostly crew waiting as death cast it's ending shadow old, yet new sending those born in ocean waves back to the waters blue in birth and death none shall overcome casting us away to where everything was once created in it's hidden depths and there began an understanding between birth and death, a truce
Inspired by: John F. Kennedy." We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch - we are going back from whence we came." 9112007

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012




Details | Prose Poetry |
                      If I forget you, would you remember me?
                       If I still love you, would you still love me?
                      
                      If I fall when old, would you lift me up?
                       If I sleep, would you sleep by me?
                      
                          If I run away, would you follow me?
                       But If I stay, would you stay with me?
                     
                        If I see you, would you recognize me?
                               I know you would Not.
                        
                           That is why, I wish I would whisper 
                               And not hear myself. 
                         
                                   I wish I could cry 
                                   not feel my tears
                                    nor feel my fears.
                               Tonight, my final Farewell.
                  
                                     Therese Bacha
                                     24 August 2014

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
            Wood Carving


He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.


John G. Lawless
9/27/2014

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014




Details | Light Poetry |
Where Are The Words …
I Am Looking For Words …
… That Will Give Meaning
To Meeting You, This Evening

And What Can I Say ? …
What I Long To Say …
Instead of, Good To See You Friend
And Oh, How Have You Been ?

… Such Polite Conversation
Is Safe Presentation
Nothing More … So Much Less
I Need Hunger- Honestness

Packed With A Passion
Full-Out Conflagration
Instead of A Shy, Dulcet Tone
I Wanna Torch-Talk You, To The Bone !

Use Words, To Sear You To Your Soul
Singe, Deep Inside Your Soul
Soft and Husky In Confessions
Words, That Demand Actions

Emotive, Elusive, Essential
Elocution of The Quintessential
Romanticism Expressed …
The Pleasure Of Your Face, Eagerness

In Bold Explorations, Evolved
From Virgin-Feelings of First Love
That Make It Seem … Like Last Night
Invoking Future Visions, So Bright !

Oh, Where Are The Words ? …
I Am At A Loss For Words …
So Many Things, I Want To Let You Know …
Instead of Just Saying … ‘ Hello ’…


              For:  Ismael Nieves 
Who Has Such A Passionate Style To His Poems
(and Also, The Little Joke of Big Words Between Us …
Hope You Enjoy This One Kiddo - Smile)

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
I wished as a child upon a star
For Christmas to never be very far

Then I wished for a lovers kiss
I dreamed that love would never fall amiss

I wish at times I was not so smart
Wisdom brings disappointment after dark

I wish at times I was not always right
Happiness you see, is about letting love take flight
			
I truly wish one day to be wrong
So that you girl, will cry for me and sing me my song

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars 

A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life

I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years

I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed

We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word

God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God



 

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
Late Summer sun on golden sands
Throws shadows from the cliffs and rocks
And the patiently-waiting donkeys stand
Near the aptly-named Refreshment Box.

Tea and coffee, squash and ice-cream,
Packs of biscuits and home made cake,
Sea salt spray and the seagulls’ scream
And sand castles that children make.

Nothing has changed much over time
Except for the friends no longer seen,
The friends when life was in its prime
Now lost in the years in between.

Copyright © Elisabeth Sheaffer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
March

Sweet, bitter March,
last year tears haven’t dried out up 
till now and yet you
are already at the door,
knocking lightly!

Sadness is still flapping over my head like
a frantic goose, what have you brought with you
to silence its primordial honking?!

I can see your hunched silhouette against the wall
Of my waiting, standing awash with shame,
wringing your empty hands desperately!

O' March , anniversary of tears and smiles,
Memories are pacing around nostalgically, sniffing
the withered roses, leafing through the pages of books
trying to put the haphazard leftovers of a once
beautiful image into shape…

The hurricane that accompanied you once
has subdued, leaving behind a nerve-tearing silence and
a deracinated life!

Don’t wonder; rootless hopes are still roving
over the corpse of a long dead dream, taking
strength from the ever pulsating stars…

March, March , embracer of birth and death,
the breath of eternity has abandoned
your rosy-cheeked child..
The resonance of its happy giggles are
haunting the vacant hours of night, sending me
reeling of longing!

Its face emerges from among the clouds of years, an angelic
Vision imprinted on the face of a mourning moon!

Copyright © shams alsaidi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
This's the world of dreams  and 
reveries
Where I think ev'ry that reels,
After a thousands times,
would as same beliefs things 
besought me,
Is it a mere dream? 

Copyright © kelechi Emeaba | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |

feet slither through  their languid walks
on  damp benches along the rotunda ...
an old couple grips the stem of their
parasol ,hugging the breath of dusky wisps,
as if the gray of their tresses 
holds the seams of hours watching 
an evening turn inky blue...

a winding tour of vintage cafes whiffs
of  deep scent of robusta coffee and omelette...
hand in hand,  they recall a first rendezvous
near this  boulevard where dewy ferns
and  candlelight sift the grinds of rain, 
so silky in a glint of bus lights reflecting 
the same tranquility of this waning night... 

and yet, the crystal mist wafts
on the sarong of air clutching
a lightly varnished umbrella:  a petal- dome 
that covers not the drizzles of life
on snapshots rendering  brushes of kisses ... 
but of fingers cuddling the parasol of love so kind, so kind
in the near  twilight’s walk  when remains
of age takes a fateful chance.



MARCH 2017 PREMIER CONTEST: Brian Strand
Repost 3/17/2017

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |
Anger, pain and dramatic stress 
The 3 things that I possess
Me, Reggie is okay at times
I sometimes choose to confide in my rhymes
I express my feelings through a pen
Just like some women get satisfaction through men.
This isn’t a poem because this is a thought
I have thoughts moving so fast, just too fast to be caught.
I hate being stressed
Just like I hate being possessed
I don’t mean to sound evil and mean
But I am different from the other people you have seen.
This is not a poem…this is a thought
I have thoughts moving so fast that they can’t be caught.
I have it good to some…others have it good to me
Some don’t realize how hard it is to be
A poet…it’s hard writin’ poetry with a lot of feeling
You feel forced to write something appealing
You break down cause cus’ you feel an obligation
To write good poetry that there breaks your concentration
I found a solution that my mind’s fighting
Maybe I should stop all the poetry and all the writing
These are fast ideas too fast to be caught
This isn’t a poem this is just a thought

Copyright © Reginald Sellers | Year Posted 2005

Details | Prose Poetry |
Sometimes I can't believe it
It all happened so fast
Real life is truly here
Just who is that looking at me in the mirror?
How come these bills are addressed to my name?
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And I'm all grown up

Sometimes I miss the days
When your crush had cooties, not STDs
And afternoons were spent climbing trees
And it's hard to grasp our age
Who's that man calling you "his wife"?
How come that little girl just called you Dad?
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And we're all grown up

Sometimes the kids today
Make me feel so old when they say
They've never heard of Kurt Cobain
But I know that we're better
Cause we could fix our Nintendo in just one blow
And we all figured this out sans Twitter
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And I'm all grown up

I remember the stupid things
Pogs and Goosebump books
Playlists were mixtapes on cassettes
And Friday nights meant TGIF on ABC
Nickelodeon was our only obsession
Friend requests were made in person
And they still showed music videos on MTV
It's like I went to sleep and woke up
And it's a different world - Nothing's the same
Cause we're all grown up

Copyright © Shannon O'Brien | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |
"As I watch the blue skies
 Suddenly turned into gray
 Darkness easily surrounds 
 Their clouds, covered in haze.

 The rain will fall again, I say
 A nature's moment I dismay
 Raindrops will soon touch the ground
 The sad feeling, again I'll be hound.

 Splattering rain, the sound that haunts
 Sweet and sad memories of the man
 Taunting me to remember once again
 The love once lost, never be back again

 Every drop of rain that falls, I pain
 Each drop it falls, my heart is in vain
 "Try to listen" to the rain, he once said
 'Tis like a last goodbye, could not hear I said. 

 The sound of the crying heart, I still hear
 The sound of a weeping soul, I can hear
 The silent tears that they weep,
 The silent scream that echos so deep.

 Listen to every drop of rain
 To it's agony, vain, pain, 
 Listen to the rain as it falls, maybe
 There is your love, every drop after all...xoxo

Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
She, Of The Cosmic Essence
Aware Of A Power
Aware Of A Presence
And Aware Of The Need For Our
Desire To Rise Higher
… and Higher
To Our Optimum Height
Patricia … You Are Like The Alaskan Lights
Those Northern Flares and Colors In Cold Night 
Floating Dreams, So Mesmerizing
Patricia, Brings It To Her Poetic Themes
Such Are The Verses She Shares To View
And Reading Them, She's Showing You
Her Cosmic Essence Insight
Oh Patricia, You’re An Alaskan Light …
So, Keep Reaching, Keep Speaking … and Write !


For The Girl, Who Shared A Comfy, Snug Book Read
On One Of Her Snowy Days … (Via Her Poem- ‘Autumn’s Passing’ 
Also - Your Poem ‘Journey’ is One)
See … It Brought Back Some Wonderful Memories To Me …

                   Your Poet-Friend,
         
                           The  MoonBee

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Blank verse |
Here’s what I’m thinking now 
at the end of the world: 

There are no atheists in foxholes— 
no theists in politics. 
If knowledge is power, 
and power corrupts, 
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? 

Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

There’s a poetry reading tonight 
whence I’I'll chide other poets 
who don’t sit alone. 
I won’t bring up death 
but I might have to breathe, 
even into a mike 
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo 
maybe even a wince or two. 

Just maybe I’I'll talk about love 
and how following your heart is like following a dog— 
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). 
But how many times have I used that line 
since the story I wrote about you, 
a witty and sexy and fictional you? 
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. 

I won’t recite it from memory 
because I don’t think about you that much anymore, 
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer 
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, 
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? 

I don’t remember your eyes 
except they are blue. 
And I don’t remember you, 
not even when I smell cucumber and apple, 
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed 
or when you walk through the door 
happy to see me; 
even then I don’t remember you. 
Does it matter that I don’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

How about a few one-liners 
for the end of days?— 

Depression is self-awareness, 
which you’d know if you were; 
I need Ritalin to listen to you, 
Lithium to hug you, 
Viagra to feel you, 
and Valium to sleep. 

All you need 
is me standing there, waiting at home 
with turns of phrase and word plays 
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand 
but want to buy as much as I can 
and how I love celebrity gossip 
and detest poetry slams 
and find rhyming trite 
except when I am. 

Hypocrites can still be right, 
which you do understand 
because you nod at my nonsense 
about fighting the man. 

But now, at the end of all things— 
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, 
and you’re just sitting there, smiling 
asking me to pass the bread.

Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010

Details | Rhyme |
Playing with marbles in the mud, 
Drinking nectar out of every flower bud,
The neighbour’s boy was my bosom friend,
Like fruit and milk, did we blend!
Golden skies, hair flying in the wind,
Sandcastles we would build and bind,
My wishes and hopes on the shooting star pinned,
Sucking on lollies when knees got skinned!
Scaling heights was his passion true,
I would try to follow, but turn blue,
Songs and campfires my heart remembers,
Warming ourselves by the glowing embers.
I wish I could turn The Hourglass,
Back in time I could pass,
To be a child again for one more hour,
I wish it was in my power!

(18th September 2015)

Poetry Contest - Titles
Sponsor - Pendleton Arkwright
Titles of my first 5 poems on Poetry Soup - Passion, The Hourglass, Friend, My wishes, Glowing embers

Copyright © Ajitha Sharma | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
I spent the year of 1959                                                                                                                 In England with Al                                                                                                                          And the world was mine then                                                                                                                  Al's world anyway                                                                                                                           He taught me that  one English penny was twice as big as an american one                                  And things like that are important when your ten                                                                           When your ten you believe in King Arthur and the Lady of the lake                                                 And you believe in people like Al too                                                                                                   Because they always know what to say and when to say it                                                                                                  Now the year is 1969 and I am two times ten                                                                                                     Never to be just ten again                                                                                                            Because now I've learned that even kings have moments of weakness                                      Tables crack in two                                                                                                                         Ladies cry when you leave them                                                                                                   And small boys do too

Copyright © Michael Ainsley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Imagism |
       
Once agone moments in time she was poetry in motion, 'til she pirouetted herself onto dusty versed shelves midst old clouded rhymes & recollected love notes yet, there lingered echoes glistening 'tween strands of web's interlacing design, meshing her finessed past within gossamer's complexed entanglements beyond labyrinths of anciently grand symphonies she dances, still ~ silently in her head flirting with destiny albeit, not quite as opulently

Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
I Watched A Man, Named, ‘ Rain ‘
Pounding Across The Plains
Running with Cascading Joy
Like a Wet, Happy, Little Boy …

I Found A Man, Named, ‘ Fire ‘
Blaze in Life, A Lightning Desire
His Bold Passion – Consuming Power
Sent Smoke Signals, to My Tower

I Observed A Man, Named, ‘ Ice ‘
Tho’ Frost-Natured, He Did Entice
‘ … Come Hold Me, if You Dare …
And Find Out, if Cold-Can-Care …’

… I Beheld A Man, Named, ‘ Breeze ‘
And Begged Him, ‘Touch Me Please …
Gentle, like a Lover’s Kiss
Whisper to Me, Things I Wished…’

… and Sitting Content, on This Hillside
Listen Now… as I Confide …
‘ Rain and Fire … Ice and Breeze ’
Don’t You Know … You Are All Of These . . .

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |
Can’t sleep
My night fades into 
The bright numbers
Of a digital clock

I make coffee
Which at this time of night
Feels good
As it slowly rolls down my throat

Beginning with a single thought
Ten thousand follow
Thoughts 
That make no sense at all

All the while
I stare at the brightness
Of a digital clock
And suddenly realize

The number eight
Is brighter
Than any other number
In the darkness

Copyright © CJ Krieger | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme |
"Everything is gonna be alright".
A simple writing stared at me from wall.
Somebody drew it. Why, for whom? Don't know.
And what they meant by it, if anything at all.
.
A busy day, its noise - tried push me out.
I had to rush, fulfill, complete and run around.
How many times we're busy making someone happy.
Forgetting us, allowing be somebody's puppy.
.
Forget it all. I stood and watched, amused by simple phrase.
And getting warm inside remembering old days
Few silly words became highlight of day.
Brought smile, optimism. Continue? You may.
.
A pause in life. Relax, refresh, review.
Continue wiser - now happiness in view.
How cool it is to write and throw rope,
To those of us who needs a boost of hope.

Copyright © Russell Grushco | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
… I Awoke to  A Classical, Pearl Ensemble
A String Quartet’ Upon My Pillow
Your Bass, Echoed – like an Ocean-Rumble
‘… I Love You …’ Plucked the Polished Mellow-Cello’

and the Flawless Violins and The Viola – Flow
Rushed to my Wavy Shore – Aglow
Displayed and Spilled, like a Whirlpool- Vibrato …
… Your Cultured Concert, left me … Staccato’

… I Awoke to A Classical, Pearl Ensemble
A String Quartet’ Upon My Pillow
and as Each Iridescent Drop, Solo-Sheen-Tumbled
… My Own Heartstrings, did Crescendo... Maestro

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
valse,valet a,highland fling
viola,fiddle,music string;
minuet,pavane rondeau
tripping lightly to & fro.

flirty dancing,fancy free
quick-step and ladies excuse-me;
fox trot and last waltz slow,
holding close,as passions grow.

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |
I LOVE her. 
I LOVE her & she lovED me. 
She lovED the way my soul was free. 
She laughed at me, she laughed with me, my body weeps, when my soul's asleep. 
Her tongue tickles my navel, I pull her closer so she can ride me on the table. ..
. But we fall off the table & into the ground.
 Deep, deep down, where Alice was found. 
We walk together thru the tunnel
My love is there & so I'm stable. 
But is she there or am I able, to manipulate truths & see what's not even here.
Cuz I'm so close, but if I'm so near 
why can I still hear my body weeping?
I can not see bc my eyes are sleeping. 
But of course, I must be dreaming 
I guess it's just a peek at the higher state of being.

Copyright © Cheyenne Moses | Year Posted 2015

Details | Acrostic |
     Cumbered with a load of care,
     Not knowing with whom to share,
     Struggling to cover my fears,
     While my guilt and shame draw my demise near,
     Abandoned by everyone even my dearest peers,
     And at this point God tends to be very rare,
     Life indeed has never been fair,
     For my pain and torture has always caught me unprepared,
     But every day I bow to my Maker and make a prayer,
     As I believe one day this troubled life will see a different layer,
     
     

Copyright © Maxwell Chege | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
I walk up the dark, creaky attic stairs and open the door,
this is where I used to play and even slept so long, long ago.
Everything is covered with dust and is parchment gray,
and as I enter, dust borne dust particles swirl.
The entire attic is faded, pale and muted and has the musty smell,
          of dust.

Yet, it all seems exactly as I had left it, and
although the contents are time-worn under the veil of grime,
it is mine-  for grandma has died and nobody wants any of this stuff.
But, I know the treasures that lay beneath the years of neglect,
          and dust.

The attic enchants me-  just as it had,
when I was a child.  Oh, the memories in the silent dust !
Over there in a corner is an old chest,
and near the window a rocking chair, a dresser and brass bed.
Yes, time-stained but beautiful to me, not ruined-  just old
          and dusty.

___________________________ 
Re-write-  March 21, 2017


Verse/In The Silent Dust
Copyright Protected, ID 955992


Written for the contest, Dust
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton

Fourth Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
He was small and portly but their leader
didn't want anyone in the club being a cheater
with everyones full attention while seated
he reiterated his drastic thoughts and feelings,

Explaining to his buddies to steer clear
of the feminine gender some held dear
saying they were just a pain in the neck
so just to ignore them he told them was best,

The meeting was adjourned and Spanky closed the door
straightening his "Women Haters Club" sign once more
with Alfalfa feeling confident he wouldn't cave in
till Darla started flirting with him once again….



5-16-17

Copyright © cheryl hoffman | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |
Dear Sir, my innocence is gone now, no more fear 
Do you love to **** me again, I am always here. 
I wonder when you taught me how to use a pen, 
I was so into you but my ****** was in pain! 
I was crying; I was too immature to understand
I was turning only 13, I couldn't feel what happened. 
but I promise I never forget what you taught me at the end. 
I begged you to stop and looked into your eyes, 
there was a reflection of a cruel world, that’s  what I deserved!
Don't be afraid, mommy never knows what you did, 
Nobody knows that you made me bleed. 
Dear sir, my innocence is gone with all my tears,
as I had no safe place to hide myself from fears.
Nobody saw anything as your world was so blind! 
having hidden hatred inside, a virgin died. 
Dear sir, time cannot erase your memories, 
time doesn't heal all wounds, that you marked, 
yes, you took my innocence that will be always on my mind.
My innocent world was shattered by your touch
Hope no one ever has to experience such
For all the pain, all the cruelty, thank you very much!

Copyright © Farhana Akter | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
I caress the blooms of the lilac bush and breathe their sweet fragrant breath. Here in my garden where spring has risen from the melting heart of winter’s death. And when a gentle breeze  kisses my face, I am simply blown away, to that magical place, where you wait for me, along the Fundy Bay.

Bare foot, I skip down a Granite paved road, flanked with ditches where morning glories grow, as I move  through a mist of ocean brine, streaked with rainbows that melt in the morning sunshine and drip from the blooms of a every Sea Salt rose.

 The house - its asphalt shingles, sparkling in many shades of grey - stands firmly  on its hardwood pillars buried deep down in the clay,  the same clay I mould  into a tiny earthen vase, that joins the jars of  pollywogs and dandelion garlands, all lined up on the old root- cellar doors, where I play. 

 And in a cloud of purple perfusion, again, I breathe the breath from the lilac bush that grows there, beside the brook, as those white lace curtains flutter out the kitchen window, and  beat against the window frame -  fanning the heat from those fresh baked apple pies - as another tear falls from my eye.


Then,  from a distant pine, I hear the  white throated sparrow singing, her melancholy tune and the clap of the screen door as I step into that room, a child again breathing the breath from a lilac bloom. 


“Mom….. ……………. I’m home!”

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
They all got on my bus
The old folk had a night out
The cinema it would be
50 shades of grey
Going to see
50 shades of grey


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015