Best Nostalgiabeautiful Poems
Anna Redmond put her own death in the Irish Independent as a mischief - or maybe ‘a cry
for help’. She married into Mr. Webster’s hotel and worked there slave-like. Her beautiful
young face, her red hair streaming, cheekily curling, her laughter eyes sad - her husband,
boyishly drinking all the profits. They said she suffered from her nerves! They said no
wonder Tommy drank the way he did! They always referred to her as she – she was a bit
wild, she didn’t fit in, he could have done better for himself – no wonder he hit her. Her red
hair dulled in a mental hospital. Anna Redmond, full of promise, beautiful and lively had her
youthful exuberance quelled by life’s circumstances.
Trembling heavy eyelids
drifting down,
To the beat of an epic,
a soothing sound.
The night has demanded its stay
in ebony echoes,
casting a thunderous storm
amidst the mystery of midnight.
This again? Yes, yes, it’s true,
the rain will drown even you.
Soft spoken statements
sit silently in my mind,
I’ve dreamt of you in your youth,
from a time long behind.
Long before we’ve met and
long before you knew life to exist.
Long before your brooding stare
turned to a hurried kiss.
My lips stood still,
they did but shiver
and against my will,
my thoughts then quivered.
Your glance was quite brief,
it shook in shock then looked away.
That was it!
I was left, despaired, dismayed.
Another dream proceeded,
like a hallucination of shiny ice,
a beautiful allusion of a poem.
In this ethereal world,
ghosts haunt on crooked advice.
There in the midst of gloom,
a fair beautiful woman
cried crystals through the doom
of lost love and time.
I tried to console her with words,
yet my tongue fumbled
and the sound became a mere chime
of a rolling rumble.
Her eyes were blank,
she did not blink
from the sky she drank
and dissolved, I think.
Night after nebulous night,
when the consciousness is at rest
darkness prevails my sight
and challenges reality to the test.
If I shall never see you again,
perhaps the time shall one day cease,
upon a poet’s mournful lament,
in your stare, I will release.
I shall let it be known,
like the sway of a gypsy’s hip,
the dancer with her preciseness,
the sensual turn of her lip.
She knows she’s entrancing
as her soft body is dancing
to the men eagerly glancing
at the exotic beauty advancing...
beauty is biased.
She could sit in that chair for hours
Just rocking the day away
How many kids has she rocked asleep
To its hypnotizing sway
The stories she told held us captive
It's where she read the bible each night
She's always say a prayer with us
Before telling us all to sleep tight
That's where she did her knitting
While quietly humming a hymn
Watching the beautiful sunsets
As the evening skies grew dim
But today that chair sits empty
For my grandmother has passed away
There's no more beautiful sunsets
Or listening while she'd pray
Life for me, has not been the same
For she is no longer there
And how I miss, the good times we had
Around my grandmother's, rocking chair
Beautiful, beautiful days,
beautiful days of youth,
when we were so carefree,
days passing us by,
without thinking of time.
One moment we were
in our youth in those
beautiful days of long past,
school days seemed
to last forever.
Beautiful days of youth,
a faded age that
left us without a trace,
searching for lost time,
disappeared like a vapor.
Beautiful days of youth,
will store what's left in my memory,
beautiful, beautiful days,
in my heart and soul,
will always cherish those days.
wrote 8-29-07