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Best Memory Poems | Poetry

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New Memory Poems

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

MEMORY by Enriquez, Leon
Sweet Memory by Weiss, Sandra
Friends Are A Good Memory by Schuetz, Gwen
Ran Into Elvis Jesus and Your Memory at Walmart by Burdon, Judge
HOW DO YOU PAINT A MEMORY by Yerman, Jim
Memory Hacked by Behm, Kurt Philip
Just a memory by Romans, Gloria
MEMORY by Enriquez, Leon
Memory by Oussifi, Shawn
Yesterday's Memory by Parker, Frederic

View all new Memory Poems

The Best Memory Poems

Details | Memory Poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013


Details | Memory Poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2014


Details | Memory Poem | Create an image from this 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



Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016


Details | Memory Poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2017


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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 


Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2018


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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.





Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014


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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


Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2013


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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


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2015


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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.


Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016


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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


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016


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Sleepwalking


I long to fold my eyes and softly creep

                    Beside the brook of fancy, as it flows ...

          To tumble off my trundle bed and sleep,

                              And dip the stardust with my drowsy toes.



Within the world of reverie and dreams,

                    I cast my cares, like nets, upon the sea,

          So woven as the moon, within its beams ...

                              Imagination's breadth, now comes to be.



With all the dreamy pathways that I stroll,

                    The routes are always varied, always new,

          And still, each destination brings its toll,

                              As all my sojourns find their way ... to you.



But I would ne'er deny my heart that ache ...

                    If only you'd come with me ... when I wake.




Submitted on August 24, 2018
For the "Most Comments Received Poem 2018" Poetry Contest
July Morning, Judge & Sponsor



Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2018


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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
Through 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


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2018


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When I Dream Deep

As the mornings sun - begins to shine 
And memories of yesterday - I leave behind 
I get to see - another rising sun 
And store more memories - when the day is done
 
Thoughts in my mind- Which I hold true 
My life - what I've been through 
All those nights - when I dreamed deep 
My all-nighter's - I couldn't sleep
 
Remembering thoughts - from new, from old 
Good times, bad times - I still hold 
But tomorrow's sun - again will rise 
I may not see it - with my own eyes
 
For if I don't - and I... not awake 
I hope the sun - is yours to take 
To let you dream - into the night 
Savour memories - see the light
 
That will rise again - with tomorrow's sun 
And leave you memories - when the day is done 
Your thoughts in mind - that you hold true 
Your life - what you've been through
 
But if you don't - your eyes...not awake 
I hope the sun - is mine to take 
So that I can remember you - memories I'll keep 
All those nights - when I dream deep


Copyright © charles messina | Year Posted 2018


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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


Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014


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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.''


Copyright © Mustapha Mohammed | Year Posted 2014


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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


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016


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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


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016


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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


Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017


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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.


Copyright © Vladislav Raven | Year Posted 2017


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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 *****
             Avi, oh Avi.

***

March 7, 2017
© Darren White


Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017


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A Beautiful Day

Bright eyes,
blue skies,
it's a beautiful day!

"Let's go, Mama!" her cheer,
down the tall slide, no fear.
Twisting, bumping, "this is fun"
one more bend then it's done.
from the bottom goofy laughter.
One more go, another after.

"Come on, Mama!" she tugs
off to the swings after hugs.
back and forth, smiles soar
keep on going, swing some more!
Chain rattles with gaining speed,
she kicks her legs with excited need.
"Look at me Mama, I'm going high!
Look Mama, look Mama, I caught the sky!"

"There Mama, let's play in the sand"
off the swing in a quick demand.
Castle made with stick flags on top,
another bucket and we don't stop.
Laying back she buries her toes
and wiggles when sand gets in her nose.
Shake it off she says "I'm hungry"
it's time for a picnic, her and me.

Days like this, so fun and sweet.
Mama and daughter, summer heat.
True smiles of discovery
always to be cherished... my girl and me.
 

Blue skies,
Bright eyes,
it's a beautiful day!



Copyright © Casarah Nance | Year Posted 2018


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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


Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013


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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.



Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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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 ~10th Place~ Contest: Remember Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton Judged: 09/06/2018 ~1st Place~ Contest: Poem NA'd June-July 2017 Sponsor: Janice Canerdy Judged: 09/02/2017 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


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2014


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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.


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013