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New Memory Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Memory poems are below this new poems list.

Dear Memory by Siwela, Lucia
Smell Triggered Memory by Connell, Carol
Memory by Scythe, Vermillion
MEMORY by Enriquez, Leon
Scent of a memory by Kantor, Jeff
A Walk Down Memory Lane by Asuncion, Bernard F.
MEMORY LANE by Enriquez, Leon
Music Box Memory by lawless, John
In memory of a cat by Jumbo, Sandison
It All Fades Into a Memory by Yates, Bill

View all new Memory Poems

The Best Memory Poems

Details | Memory Poem |

Sleepless Night

Sleepless Night

***
Teardrops, bagged eyes, a way of sin
The mirror reveals a lost eternal soul
A conniving move against tonight's phantom glow
Voices circle around the insomniac moon
Like magic and beauty, "She's Gone With the Wind."

The idea of love, 
broken like yesterday's wishbone.
She is leaving today,
her arms, my shelter
her wings now immense.
Beauty --- she's gone forever! 
Never will she suffer-
Never will she return-
All I have are lost memories,
tracing what is left.
One final deep breath
tequila vice
to wash away the pain.....

At Last, Now I See!
Under the drunken stars 
I had an epiphany 
Stricken like a match
A sunken treasure 
At Last, I Knew
You did not belong in there,
you were there for the taking
Frail and sick, no longer sane.
Memories lost, no longer - her
My Mother! 

What has become of her since? 
You're a demon, who played us all
Made us cry, while she slowly withered away

The way you laid waste to her body
nipping both her legs
Fed her through a stubble

She rapidly forgot
our names'
our faces'
I hate you Alzheimer
I hate the way you took her the first time!
I hate you Death
I hate the way you claimed her final moment!
***

Sleepless nights and pillowed feathers,
Caress a precious moment around my tender skin
Pretending my mother tucked them in
Anything to help me get past my sleepless nights.


7-08-13

Details | Memory Poem |

Leaf

Floating down with grace and ease
Carried off by the Autumn breeze
Rich in hues of orange and red
Landing in the flower bed

What once was buzzing full of life
Now succumbs to the pruning knife
Staring up at the wilted rose
Another season comes to close

Looking for memories of this day
Not forgetting her fun filled stay
Lying amongst the rocks and sticks
I'm the one the little girl picks

Hurries home with the one she took
Placing it in her poetry book



8/05/2014

Details | Memory Poem |

Coffee Colored Memories

It's quiet whisper stirs my languid mind
Inviting coffee colored memories
A young man's face with future yet defined
Each vapored breath a page in history

Familiar apparitions reappear
Whose images I dare not chase away
The roads they traveled, washed out by my tears
This morning's chill a bridge to yesterday

Then as the welcome sun breaks o'er the trees
I find myself attended by a smile
Their goodbyes echo in the rustling leaves
As I walk back alone those last few miles

While standing on the porch I get a chill
Although the morning breeze has now grown still


               Sept 11 2016

Details | Memory Poem |

The Ride

The old man looked a little out of place
Astride his pony on the carousel
A smile from yesterday across his face
As if he were entranced in some strange spell

A silver knight upon a silver steed
A cowboy riding herd out on the range
The little boy inside had been set free
Between the up and down, we watched him change

And when it stopped he sat there deep in thought
He pulled the little boy in with a sigh
A memory is what his dollar bought
I'm sure the price was not what made him cry

Details | Memory Poem |

Once Upon a Purple Sunrise

Once Upon a Purple Sunrise

Pretty as a Periwinkle,
in your frilly summer frock,
the one with purple polka dots
that matched the cool of early dawn.

Haloed in hazy lavender hue,
I'll always remember you;
running bare-foot through
the corn fields still wet
with translucent drops
of fragrant morning dew.

The scent of damp, fresh grass
lingering on your waist-length, 
ebony braids, that wrestled free
of their crimson satin ribbons,
floating away in the pale blaze 
of a new day, riding on a gentle breeze.

Your childish giggles drifted
through rows of raspberries bushes,
a look of total wonder reflected
in your bright smiling hazel eyes,
innocent as the wispy grey clouds,
that awake with the surprise
of a transient glowing sunrise.

Where did you come from, 
Little Sprite, with your 
mischievous deep dimples,
cherry-stained cheeks and lips?
Even gazelles would be jealous
of your long, lithe brown legs, 
graceful as a swan's,
gliding in casual slow motion.

Carefree as a hummingbird, 
hovering in suspended animation,
you were lost in the beauty
of your own song. 
Did you forget me,
waiting for you with 
finger sandwiches and sweet tea?

But that was okay –
it was your time to wander
in an ocean of wild yellow daisies
that needed to sprout
in your youthful heart…
take root and grow
in your memory forever.


02-17-2018

Best New Poem - 2/20/18
Poem of the Week 2/25/18 

Sponsor:     Silent One
Contest:      Sunrise and Sunset
Placement:  1st

Details | Memory Poem |

White Cane

He walked down Goverment Road West
With a white cane, in shaking hand
Wearing Stevie wonder glasses
People called him the pop bottle man

With a white cane, in shaking hand
At the time he seemed old to me
People called him the pop bottle man
Searching the alleys for his treasures

At the time he seemed old to me
Frail in a menacing sorta way
Searching the alleys for his treasures
Bottles he spotted a mile away

Frail in a menacing sorta way
Us kids all stayed away from him
Bottles he spotted a mile away
I wondered why he carried a white cane

Us kids all stayed away from him
Until that day I took a chance
I wondered why he carried a white cane
Curiosity got the best of me

Until that day I took a chance
That man had been a mystery
Curiosity got the best of me
When I asked him why he smiled at me

That man had been a mystery
A lonely guy wandering the street
When I asked him why, he smiled at me
I handed him my bottle, he said thanks

A lonely guy wandering the street
Wearing Stevie wonder glasses
I handed him my bottle, he said thanks
He walked down Goverment Road West

I watch

Pop Bottle Man
Doing his blind man shuffle
When he sees a bottle 
he moves towards it with ease
Dancing with glee 
a spring in his step
More fluid than a summer breeze

He can see at twenty paces
Eyesight crystal clear
Through dark glasses 
I watch him peer
Collecting his bottles
In plastic bags
The treasure that he holds so dear

Pop Bottle Man
His cane for protection
Illusion is the game he plays
What some see as crazy
May not be the case
If you take time to study his ways

For Gautami's Sketch a  Character Contest.

I was inspired to write more after the Pantoum because of Drakes Comment.
written by Richard Lamoureux on October 23, 2014.

Details | Memory Poem |

Recalling Her

It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
fuzzy-downed peaches, yellow-tangy lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candies.

Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever-flames that blaze across her page.

My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.

Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.

*

It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.

I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.

Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.

There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing...

Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.

*

It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.

My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness...

Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.

Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.

I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.

And the smudged charcoals of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours...




in memory of my grandmother

2nd place in contest 'Anything Goes', date judged 4/12/2014
date written 11/3/2013

Details | Memory Poem |

Sand Dollar Dreams

It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves.

As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all.

It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond.

a vocal seagull
descends toward liquid skies –
reflections ripple

At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more.

The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.

a tiny starfish
drifts beneath placid water –
lost constellation

When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin?

My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky.

My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea?

Written: November 4, 2015
For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest

Details | Memory Poem |

The Bard of Gort

Springing free from glistening 
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for 
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above 
A distant lark now hangs in 
Flight.

Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal 
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls 
Into ripening bean fields 
Planted in neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.

Do now these gentle Slopes 
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed 
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the 
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted 
Thoor Ballylee.

Sweeping briskly past a tors 
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of 
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge 
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...

Now, joyfully sporting in gushing 
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a 
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.

Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland 
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit 
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.

Harken then to the feathered 
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on 
Ye!
For few men know of what he 
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths 
Forever lost within Innisfree.

Details | Memory Poem |

A Purple Ribbon

Mementos in a box, from years gone by
Thought to have been disposed of long ago
A glance, when something purple caught my eye
A ribbon from someone I used to know

I gently gave a tug like way back when
It slipped from it's confines just like before
Then instantly relived it all again
And just like her, it leaves me wanting more

But even though it was so delicate
This ribbon in it's femininity
Tied in her hair it looked so elegant
Yet strong enough to bind her memory

This ribbon with it's strength beyond compare
Ties fifty years to my first love affair   


         By Daniel Turner

Details | Memory Poem |

Watercolor Afternoon

The rain set me adrift inside a dream
My mind was on a painting miles upstream
An unforgotten "en plein" I once viewed
A light pastoral springtime interlude

Two horses, one snow white, one shiny black
Two barefoot boys in blue jeans ride bareback
Through pasture weeds bloomed orange almost red
White fluffy mountains loomed as thunderheads

A lightning bolt sends thunder through gray skies
The vivid colors blend in teary eyes
One brother's love becomes a blurry stain
In windows streaked with rivulets of rain

From inside looking out my hourglass
I watched as nature painted winter's grass
Entranced from listening to her rhythmic rune
One April watercolor afternoon
 


     by Daniel turner

Details | Memory Poem |

The Old House

Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.

Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.

The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.

Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.

The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.

I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.

Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.

The house my children grew up in.

Iambic Pentameter  
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.02.2014
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
2nd
Best of 2014  1st place

Details | Memory Poem |

A Night At The Desolate Harbor

The ship in the habor on silvery seas
Lay vacant outspread 'neath the glassy moon
Drifting in cold whispers of the night
Like a drunk man shriveled on clasping knees
In the loud echoes of the crawling winds
The brave ship nods its old head
Restless on the empty stage of the bay
When lonely stars bleed their light
On what was once earthly sublimity 
Now silence and haunt lingers there
A graveyard of bones and sadness
Beside the desolate harbor
Rustling in the cold distance
Laboring with a haunting melody
That invades me in shivers of night.

Sadness defeats 
The happy spaces of my mind
Then your sweet kiss would descend
Oh... your sweet kiss would descend
As a fragrant memory
Thawing the pain
In the frost of my heart.
My soul beckons your presence
But silence became my loyal friend
And Emptiness -
The sorrowing of my hours
That slithers through the night 
As the brave ship nods its old head
Crackling and desolate
In silvered breaking waters 
'Neath moon's limpid eyes
My hands descend
With crimson buds of April's flowers
To rest upon your tomb
Of eternal silence.

''Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.''

Details | Memory Poem |

HIDDEN MEMORIES

I reach onto the bookshelf 
Carefully removing the photograph album from the top shelf

We nestle together on the sofa
I slowly turn over the pages
Yellowing photographs that capture precious moments frozen in time

Suddenly you become animated
Hidden memories begin to return …
We laugh as you recall stories from the past

You lovingly stroke the faces of those now long gone
Wishing they were there by your side for real
Tears fill your green eyes as you reach out and gently squeeze my hand

Nostalgia Contest
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron

11~25~16

Details | Memory Poem |

A Nook and a Storybook

Oh, give me a nook and a storybook
there at my mother’s knee.
Or tucked in bed, a pillow at my head
as father reads to me.

To hear nursery rhymes - wonderful times
when Mother used my name
inside a rhyme. Oh, for childhood sublime!
Old age is not the same!

Of Cinderella and a cute fella
I used to listen to.
Romantic the tale where all ended well,
and love they said was true.

But I’d  graduate from my childlike state.
Alone I soon would read
less beautiful things, in which a prince brings
no rose; instead, a weed.

Oh, to return to before I could learn
of life’s realities!
Where endings were good I’d go if I could
reliving memories.

In that nook I’d be, my mother with me
where books I’d  learned to love.
That would be enough because it’s the stuff
fairy tales are made of!


April 26, 2016 
Now for Line Gauthier's 'ANY RHYME FORM - AN EARLY CHILDHOOD MEMORY' Poetry Contest

Details | Memory Poem |

Memories - Episode 1

It is said that eyes are the windows into ones soul
If truth be told they reflect ones innermost feelings
The girl observes her with earnest inquisitive eyes
Her most striking feature - green eyes flecked with gold.

Braided neatly is her long thick brown hair
She has a smattering of freckles on her upturned nose
Just enough to give her a somewhat cute look
But the most fascinating is her impenetrable stare

A stare, which makes her feel awkward - in this sickly blue room
Drab and clinical like most hospital rooms are
She wears a hospital gown and was brought in here they tell her
By some kindly soul who found her wandering
Not knowing who she is - nor from where she came
She doesn’t have a clue of what her name is
A girl without a past, is a girl without a future

The images she has swirling in her head
Roll in and out like the endless waves
That she would like to keep at bay
That a part of her wants to resist instead

But they merge one with the other
Like the wind and the surf
Again and again lapping the shore
Sounds trying to break through a blur

Waves of emotion wash over her
Her past memories - hers to keep - hers to hold
Like deep rooted trees - roots lodged in
Are now hidden secrets from her past?
She feels that some things can never be cast into oblivion
Yet some nets no matter how far cast out to sea
Do not bring back answers blowing in the whisper of the wind

Whispers in her ears that fade into lurking silhouettes
Into her subconscious seeming familiar faces slink back into regress

Aren’t some memories best to be forgotten?
Connected to these shadows that remain to haunt?
Will tomorrow’s sunrise bring them back?
The self-destructive memories so misbegotten

When memories from ones past are all wiped clean
How can emotions remain behind to torment?
Why does she feel an unaccountable sense?
Of déjà vu combined with futility and fear between?

Trying to trigger a response they ask a thousand questions
Making her brain hurt trying to remember Who? What? Why? Where?
She looks across at the girl, does she know things about her?
Could she tell her if she’s some mother’s daughter? Is she some man’s love?
A sensory overload of emotions drives her to anguish

The nurse gently puts the mirror back in her hand
Urging her to keep looking,
She tells her that sometimes it triggers a memory
She looks at the mirror 
The girl with the green eyes 
Looks back at her

Braided neatly is her long thick brown hair
She has a smattering of freckles on her upturned nose
Just enough to give her a somewhat cute look
She looks disenchanted - gone is her penetrating stare

Memory is not just where she left the keys
It is the essence of who she is
But the silence is still unbroken
And only stillness remains

Midnight - and she finds herself at the window
Gazing at a moon that no doubt reflects her feelings
Did she experience love in a man’s arms
Did she dance in happiness beneath the glow?

Perhaps sunrise will bring a new morning
Perhaps with it her memories
And she knows she must not give in
To fears of a fatalistic warning

Because from midnight to the morning’s sun
Is after all when new memories will begin
Unlocking a new Life and Hope renewed?
Look! A New Day has already begun!

Stay tuned for next Episode
Continued in ... 'Blind Terror' - (Memories Episode 2)

Episode list in consecutive order:
Memories - Episode 1
Blind Terror - (Memories Episode 2)
Wistful Expectations - (Memories Episode 3)
Deception - (Memories Episode 4)
Run Run As Fast As You Can - (Memories Episode 5)
Running - (Memories Episode 6)

Music Video Clip Published on Oct 21, 2016
'Memory' by Gheorghe Zamfir

Details | Memory Poem |

Remembered In Thy Full Bloom - End - A Collaboration With Robert Lindley And Teppo Gren

And now doth come my end, I see death's light, 
death doth touch my heart, now eternal love. 
My beloved, I see thee shining bright, 
I now praise death as I ascend above. 

As my life's last shadow so swiftly falls, 
pray I, this aching soul hears thy dear voice. 
Ancient echoes whisper love words, thy calls, 
now dear wife, I fly forth, your love my choice. 

In heaven‘s garden thy rose blooms in trine, 
as love’s eternal bond in sacred love 
is cast beyond the faith of God’s design, 
and prayers of truth are whispered up above.  


Notes:

This poem was written to try and find the sadness of a man lost in deep despair. His only escape are those small moments when his memories sigh his beloved to him. He is ready to welcome death so he can be with and hold his beloved again. Death will be a release.

Poem started 20. 03. 2017.
Poem finished 08. 04. 2017.
Poem posted 10. 04. 2017.


Syllable count..........400
Word count.............464
Line count ..............60


It has been both an honour and a pleasure to work on this piece with Robert and Teppo. They did make it so easy for me with their wonderful words to play off. The journey through words with my two friends was well worth the taking. 

Your Friend always....Mike.

Details | Memory Poem |

Avi, oh Avi

Oh Avi, Avi
  Sometimes, with my eyes closed
    I see you dance
      A dervish, whirling, like me
        And I wished
          Oh how I wished you would
            pirouette into my arms
              You would hold me
                How I would hold you

                  But my arms and yours
                caught girls, alluring and delicate
              Oh Avi, Avi
            When you laughed
                                          My stomach turned
                             And multi-coloured butterflies
             And small flying kites
danced into the air

     Occasionally you glanced at me
       the way I did at you
       I think you did
Oh Avi, Avi
        We were so young
                Just boys, small boys
Thinking about you still
  makes my day smile

             I wheel my chair
        With light rhythmic movements
   Dreaming about a time
  Where I still had dreams
     And you were in them
          With our tights and muscular
               Frames and our spunk
             Avi, oh Avi.

***

March 7, 2017
© Darren White

Details | Memory Poem |

Soul mates solace

When my final shadows cling on desperately
Where I fight formidable battles
to merely hold the light
I send you loving vibrations
and soul sustenance
Deep from the cathedral
of one heart to another
where today no choirs sing
nor symphonies play
Yet it is here where we meet
in spiritual solace
here to surrender 
and exchange inestimable treasures
recollecting memories 
like unopened letters
Galaxies are stretched
over chronicles of shared history
Nebula birthing stars
will be exposed
in forth-coming conversations
bringing short-lived fulfillment to you
Hungry to feast
now will be the time
to approve your blood art vision
and with my own haunting surrender
as dappled shades ink stain your chest
I will reside with you and share, mesmerised 
pens - by branding
as this will be your written reams to me
your artist's pallet or brushed canvas
no need for words
and yet creating
mysterious magical moments
Bitter-sweet the music
that dances taut guitar strings
but now blood approved
please go kick your heel up
return to your laughter
and ride on the breeze
for not all are lost
change not
for I am with you always
to love, listen and comfort as one
with you in me and I in you
as masterpiece

Details | Memory Poem |

In Memory Leonard Cohen

The End of Love

A secret grief rips apart all that was
Slaves to the sexual caresses of time
Stallions in black gallop gallantly in fields
Of spring full wishes
Thou seeith the birth of love
Naked hopes surrounded by sweet perfumes
Seduced by the gods or by demon fools


Dancing, towards our own charades we sing
Funerals consume autumn’s dead poets
The gravestone cold and gray
We hug it like a long lost friend
One may see a battle lost
The other a battle won
In November we reminisce the soldier and singers too

Didst you know I was a prostitute?
Selling my soul to the hourglass of eternity
Foolishly hoping to sleep upon her breast
Shivering as others seem to fall right at deaths door
Brimstone, black and rose

The underbelly of St Laurent
Youthful boasts as the old man in cane hobbles
Generations sailed down the main
Some seeking solace others finding fame

Vaguely the recollections appear
Visions inside dreams inside the darkest fears
The end of love is near
For the hand above is reaching
As I float to the end of time

Enchantment in the crypts
Ravens dancing as they consume our mortal
Hearts
No smiles, no sleep
Thou did knowest I’m surely certain
The dance of death
Only to be followed
By a piper
And angels violins

Rags and shrouds, kiss them all goodbye
Hallelujah



In Memory of Leonard Cohen, a fellow Montrealer, 21 September 1934 – 10 November 2016.

Details | Memory Poem |

Christmas Past


Christmas Past

A time I still remember, Christmas day
in 'fifty-three…I was age fourteen then…
and I recall those very special hours
at home, so cozy, warm with my loved ones
of many generations, happily
around the sparkling tree with old-time trim
of bubble lights, glass balls…and Christmas songs
playing softly on the record player.

Extended family…my mom and dad,
grandparents, brother, cousins, uncles, aunts…
spent happy hours…and such a blessed time
was shared as peace and love were felt by all.

It was perhaps the only year we were
together in one place for Christmas day.
I keep that time of family delight
in memories that fill my heart…for some
there on that day, so special in my thoughts,
are dearly missed, no longer here with us...
they fly with angel wings, look down from high
above in Christmas past, with joy and love…

As I…once the youngest, now the oldest
generation…carry on that spirit
and make traditions last…to someday be
my children and grandchildren’s Christmas past.


Sandra M. Haight

1st Place~
Contest: Nostalgia
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 11/28/2016

~1st Place~
Contest: Any Poem
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 12/21/2015

~1st Place~
Christmas Past, Present or Future
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Judged: 01/09/2015

Form: Blank Verse: Unrhymed, 10 syllables, 5 feet per line

Details | Memory Poem |

Doorways to Yesterday

The house slumps against overgrown yards
Where gardens wilt against the ground,
Begging for sleep beneath gray skies.
Vines move through weeds 
Like brittle fingers,
Reaching toward a sagging door 
Where paint peels like weathered skin, 
Curling in agony against the grain.
Once vibrant, now fading
Like all doorways to yesterday.

This is where memories flee,
Lying in wait like dormant ghosts 
That walk through the walls of my mind
As I walk through the door.

The hinges creak in protest,
Rusted by the rain of forgotten days.
The floors squeak in upset,
Unaccustomed to my timid feet.
The dust is stirred, the silence snaps
Like twigs used for kindling
To spark my tepid heart.
A decade becomes a moment.
A moment becomes a lifetime.

This is where memories live,
Trapped in time like restless ghosts 
That walk through walls and haunt the halls 
Of doorways to yesterday.

Though broken, they open
To swallow me whole.

Details | Memory Poem |

The Scent Of Your Soul

Listen to poem:

The scent of your soul

A caramelised breeze of fruit odours

reverberating  softly through my memory

Throwing me right back in ninth grade

where we sat side by side

Your right arm reaching slightly for my back.

Thoughts of you dwell in my mind

and your name resonates gently with my spirit

carrying me back to the shade

of purple orchids in evergreen woods.

Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig

still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup

wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee-beans

and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind.

Such revoked moments of unknown  danger 

Of fearless  dreams , and defiant  fun.

Other moments of beauty and snow angels

Of freedom and moonlights ,sunrise  and life.

I can still recall those weeks ,months ,years

till footprints marked separate  paths

and our shared candles became the past.

Ah those lazy siestas, those days...those nights...

Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate  chips of an ice -cream parlour

Melting as spongy marshmallows  and honey syrup 

Fresh as the linen of your shirt which haunts me 

like an alluring glance  of almond - shaped eyes.

This afternoon,  like other afternoons,  I walk to the library

that knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own.

That fragrance  's gone now . All that is left is a fading perfume 

of forgotten  petals, between  old books  and dusty shelves.

Nobody  here, except my silence and a rotten sliced apple , 

Vacuum- packed ,lacking both cinnamon  and spice.

Back home, the mildewed strings of a guitar await my fingertips 

to play once more ,upon the worn out chords of my heart

What willI play , What will I sing , a song that isn't ours ?

Fermented wine I pour into an empty glass

Yearning to taste the grape for what it was

before all it was turned bitter, acidic and sour.

Alone , I wonder where you might be

So far or not so distant ,listening to the mood in  my voice

on once upon a record player, Wishing on a star ?

Details | Memory Poem |

Yesterday's Joys


Where have they gone, the simple days of old?
Though filled with toil, their melody was sweet—
A blending of the common joys that hold
That special place in memory's retreat:
Warm home fires burning, families gathered close,
The day chores done, the evening shared with zest,
That tranquil peace that hovered to disclose
Life's humble ways and means were surely best.

But now the complex song of modern man
So filled with discord drowning out the good
Of basic joys inherent in life's plan,
Makes happiness a gift misunderstood.

And why must progress hush the old refrain
To play this frantic tune we so disdain?


Sandra M. Haight

~4th Place~
Premiere Contest: Contest No. 227
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 10/24/2016

Details | Memory Poem |

The Teetotaler

In Ordinary Cups

The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in the peaceful silence of a solitary nest.
From gentle easy sunrise through sheer white
to the subtle fall of accordion night.

The echoes of childish laughter tremble
across the cracked surface of plaster walls.
Random squeaks in oaken floors return 
the footfall of father, coming and going.

Long lost cat's paw prints impress carpet
dragons from Shanghai with ghostly ease,
and every loved and loving one returns
in peace, to rest beneath the tapping fingertips
upon a porcelain cup of tea from China.

11/9/10

Re-formed for Roy the Verse BELOW

The Teetotaler

The blades of winter grind into the ice, flirting
with the rosy cheek of puppy love, snow-crusted mittens
cling, like chapped skin on bitten lips; scarfs twirl; they spin.

As steam rises from the cup, reminisce, the first kiss,
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping
with the rosy cheek of puppy love; snow crusted mittens

cling. Black hair, fair skin, Irish-eyed, he cajoles a grin.
In the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping;

they spin. Assam seeps in porcelain, another cup
she pours. In an empty nest the cup clinks saucer,
in the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him.

From sunrise through fall of white, she sees the mist
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.  
She pours. In an empty nest, the cup clinks saucer.

The recollections of youthful laughter cut, tremble,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory. 

Random squeaks in the oaken floors recall returns, 
these images mist swirl from the tea-of family,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls.

A long lost cat walks shrouded through silent the scene 
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips
these images mist-swirl from the tea-of family,

Every loved and loving one returns mist-born
within a porcelain cup of tea from China;
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips.

3/21/15