Retirement Nostalgia Poems

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

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Details | Free verse |
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them

Copyright © Green Trees | Year Posted 2012




Details | Lyric |
Written January 8, 2013


The morning blues in a lily on the pond
Wake on the wrong side of the road
Penniless pockets play the vagabond game
Ride the tiger recently tamed

On a long road to nowhere, horizon's stain
All's my name sitting next to me
Lie down with graceful angels deep in the snow
Or on wet grass recently mowed

I've grown accustomed to the scent of your mane
Spelled chug-chuga-chug is my name
Oh why do flowers never bloom in the snow?
They never have a chance to grow

No, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore
The oaks and pines getting clearer
Much to a land unafraid to spread its wings
Listen to Woody Guthrie sing

Bacon sizzles in the rain and sunshine reigns
We've reached the line of no return
Of the big rock candy mountain we will sing
For the next week my phone won't ring

Copyright © Brandon Carter | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |
 
In my youth, I am sure I was slim, a figure both modest and trim; but now I am old, I'm frequently told my features are wrinkled and grim. As a girl, I was agile and quick, my dancing was stylish and slick; but sadly it’s gone, I just hobble on now helped with the aid of a stick. I attracted young boys by the score, un-limited lovers, galore. No more sex appeal, instead they all reel and claim I'm a dowdy old bore. In my prime, I would argue, roughshod, Demosthenes then was my god. But now I just drone, I mumble and groan and gripe like a grumpy old sod. All day I just look at the walls; the clock on the mantelpiece crawls. But is that a knock, a turn of the lock? I do hope that somebody calls. ~ For Black Eyed Susan's 'Aging' Competition.

Copyright © Charles Clive | Year Posted 2013




Details | Rhyme |
The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.

An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.

Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined

Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.

Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.

Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.

Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.

Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday

When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.

But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.

Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved

Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”

She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”

But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.

And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.

Copyright © Jack Clark | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |
The Beach of Promises


1.


Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,

strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.


2.


Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck,

walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.


3.


Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,

lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,

my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,

wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.



Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |


Sonnet, you beckon me with your allure.
Valiant ship from a distant shore
Resting, no more sojourn
Basking in glory of a distant past
Lowered mast once battered and blown
An emblem of pride and place
From boundless rushes, to a windless pace
Now laid bare of all innocence
Meekly, humbly retired

All aboard was the captain’s word
As the crew came rushing on
With hands on decks and the compass set
To carve a story not yet heard
A seafarers’ life of no regrets

While cavaliers seek their bounty
And fortune favours the brave
You set sail from old Blighty
Sending  the good and mighty 
To watery graves

Now in retirement you bask and bathe
As the tides doth ebb and flow
Rising and descending your mood does shift
Whilst along your flanks assorted remnants drift
In the silted bed of the Thames your now reside
Dancing to the rhythm of a seasonal tide
Whilst aboard, there is a tossing and a turning 
In the warmth of comfy beds
Lays the bodies of weary heads

Painted lady, red, gold and green
On my canvas you are drawn
As on the pages I do scribe
Of a beauty and a guile
Never to be erased from my memory
For your dye is truly cast,
Unforgettably.

Copyright © Reggae Magnet | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
It's early November '91, 
and I quite can't remember, 
ever, 
feeling this humbled, seeing
Magic stumble, 
off his shiny crown, 
and the little boy
Who once glared at 32, 
fixated by a dribbling
Rhythm,        so compulsive, 

    so majestic, 

so unattainable, 
by his own standards, 
that he had no choice, 
but to glare, 

It's different now, 
A leather cacophony, 
dribbling dissonance, 
laymen lay-ups, 
Leading us to believe
it was a mere illusion, 
but I believed in Magic.

(1/22/92)

Copyright © Suburban Lovechild | Year Posted 2015

Details | Blank verse |
Bearable winter 
Blanket covered cold
Attacked by white Gas   of
Fallen Snow
 
But unbearable silent
Cripples into the home
Like a snake
To live with loneliness

Get Scattered past
Comes like a shooting star
Burning and blasting 
As a thunder bolt 
To the vulnerable heart

Like a novel keeps turning pages
Last chapters of the age
Tries to be active
Like a butterfly
While the birds are vanishing
Letting to the cold

Heater in the home
Makes warm the room
Cooks once in a way
Finding the present to share it
At the evening table

Cold darken lumpish light
Turns to here and there
Trying to realize 
The nature of life

 A sigh of pain 
Or a sigh of relief
Unconsciously comes
Likewise something missed
In the life of four seasons

Udaya R. Tennakoon





Copyright © Udaya R. Tennakoon | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
What Does Maisie Smile About?

(or A Tale of 3 Ladders)

“I wonder what Maisie smiles about, 
when she stares out of her window?”asks Jane, 
the new carer at St. Mary's, is curious,
about the aged figure watching the rain

Maisie is deep in her thoughts today,
“Maisie, Maisie”, her Grandpa cries,
“these ripe apples won't pick themselves you know!”
and up the long ladder her young legs rise                                 (1st ladder)

Autumn, in the golden orchard of yesteryear,
the warm setting sun, the birds and the bees,
the grown ups, all so merry with chatter,
Maisie and friends, all playing at ease

Such happy days of Autumn sun,
of foraged blackberries and apple cake,
of sweet plum puddings and then,
apple with cheddar  in the same bake

The adults, merry now, and all a dance,
the tree house ladder calls the young throng,                           (2nd ladder)
the boys scatter 'jacks', the girls make 'cat's cradle',
then all descend to skip in time to song

This is what I reminisce about,
and my time is far from past, you see,
I hear them, calling me, up that final ladder, 
“Maisie, your young legs will soon be free!”

Not long now, as I grow so very tired,
I will shed my 'costume' of aged joints so sore,
and return again to the young girl that I really am,
and sprint up those ladder rungs once more!                            (3rd ladder)


Mrs Cheryl Darby 2015

Copyright © Cheryl Darby | Year Posted 2015

Details | Elegaic Lyric |
Cooped within ancient bodies, this inhabitant 
dwells amongst an elder net 
of crabby, crotchety, curmudgeonly claque 
of old folks, only a portion of population I met
which achey, flaky, kooky motley crue 
disgruntlement fed as peevish pet
aye be earnest asper assessment, 
but some getting ready and set
to lay down limb mitt less lives, 
even those who survived harrowing encounters as a vet.

quotidian gossipers punctuate air waves while: 
sitting, riding, quartering, puttering, operating, navigating, 
motoring around on scooters (the sole means of locomotion 

for many elderly residents), 
whose sole occupation incorporates:
yelping, yakking, whining, 
weeping, verbalizing,
uttering, thundering, squawking, 
squabbling, screeching, 
rumbling, quibbling, quarreling, 
prattling, pestering,
offending, needling, mumbling, 
maligning, leering, lampooning, 
kvetching, kibitzing, jabbering, 
irritating, insinuating, heckling, 
harping, gabbing, fulminating, 
fretting, exclaiming, emoting, 
denigrating, carping, cackling, 
begging, agitating, 
acting analogous to bad ass kids itching 
for playground foo fight during recess,  

which comparison might be apropos 
since majority of energy and time expended
complaining about nobody's business 
concerning this, that, or another tenant...
(management not exempt 
from badmouth outbursts), 
where nondenominational AARP 
qualified members congregate 
within what constituted former auditorium 
of repurposed elementary school,

hence quite some years ago 
(an honorable NON GMO gluten free 
cheerful toast made, instituting batter use 
then building standing vacant) 
a bona fide unanimous dogmatic, 
heroic, linguistic welcome sans titular viz zit head
where alumni of alluded alma mater, ivory fiery, 
classy academic solvent atomic structure
became amalgamated, appropriated, 
assigned a new life, whereat fob dost 
electronically activate innermost 
recessed sliding doors, principally, quintessentially, resoundingly availing maw formerly 
entrancing students into Schwenksville 
Elementary School, though some years ago 
repurposed with barely a trace 
constituting current subsidized 
how zing facility re: Highland Manor,

the residence of thyself and missus 
(approaching third month anniversary),
whereat I dune hot give a rats ass 
if aimless airless baseless banter, 
ceaseless chatter, dubious dabbling, 
et cetera if this solitary ruminate thinker
the subject de jure of parlayed people portraying penultimate purposelessness. 

Copyright © MATTHEW harris | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
OLD WEATHERED BIKER

Come sit by my side and stories be told
of bikes and good times on open road
Winding our way to destinations desired
under wind, rain and sun all mired
Nature reminding us of its command
take in its grandeur from hills to sand
Conversation with those who are there
living the dream with experiences to share
A beer, a laugh and a wave goodbye
we will meet again when the day is nigh

Old boots now sit with leather in strife
a revealing glimpse to a wilder life
Us replicas as dust gathers round
weathered old men riding wheels to the ground
Once young and full of passionate desire
now happy to reminisce by an open fire

Come sit by my side and I will reveal
life lived unabashed and truly real
Man and his bike forever entwined
till death do part and one left behind

Copyright © Di Shaughnessy | Year Posted 2017

Details | Ode |
A quick and easy (makeshift, albeit very temporary) 
Cheap Trick would suffice in the interim 
(which might entail many generations) 
to rock a Super Tramp off The Farm. 
Lo and behold a panacea arrived 

in form of Jethro Tull. Beastie Boys 
(more or less marauding hooligan gangs 
comprised of Arctic Monkeys) 
possessed an uncanny verve zeroing 
in on the challenge to enable Crowd

source sing. They designed, hand
crafted, and linkedin all known know
ledge about mathematics and physics. One 
contrivance edged out other equally 
farcical gizmo. Via some lack of clarification 
Badfinger referred both to the longer 
of two needles pointers plus included 

the entire mechanism. Individuals 
would no longer find themselves 
in Dire Straits getting someplace 
with markedly greater accuracy. 

Sooner or later a confluence of 
beginners dumb luck witnessed 
a Motley Crue, whereat brainstorm 
(of course in tandem with consciousness
expanding material) yielded a great 

burst of inventiveness within The 
Human League, though after end
less modifications credit for 
the handy dandy blues clues 
pocket watch allotted 
to a plethora of anonymous minds. 





Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2017