Best Nostalgiaold Poems
What I’d give to wake in the morning and hear those church bells ring
To turn on my old black and white and hear Gene Autry sing
Turn back the time to simpler days with Roy and Dale too
Wait for the Late Show and watch the antics of Bud and Lou
All the girls thought Kookie Byrnes was really hip
Driving a convertible on Seventy Seven Sunset Strip
Kryptonite was the only thing that could make Superman falter
Ramar’s friend Charlie talked to a parrot named Walter
I watched Kitty and Chester on Gunsmoke and listened to Ricky sing
There was Circus Boy, My Friend Flicka and don’t forget Sky King
There was Jeff and Lassie, Davy Crockett and the Wild Frontier
I’d watch Robin Hood and Marian in the days of Queen Guinevere
Remember The Thin Man, The Whistler and The Shadow Knows
Alfred Hitchcock and Inner Sanctum were two of my favorite shows
I remember Milton Berle, Red Skelton, Perry Como would croon
What’s my Line, Beat the Clock and Name That Tune
The Life of Riley, Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best
Palladin, Sugarfoot, and Cheyenne in the Old West
Boxing from Madison Square Garden on Friday Night
I saw it all on my old black and white.
The first time I painted the old red barn
I was twenty years old and the skies were blue.
There it sat in the middle of the hay field
Waiting to be immortalized on canvas.
The second time I painted the old red barn
I was thirty-nine and my life was in turbulence.
The fall thunderclouds predominated the picture.
The hayfield almost orange with the coming sunset.
The last time I took my easel to the field
The barn had faded to a dusty rose colour,
But the skies were blue and the clouds were fluffy.
The hay waved joyously in the breeze.
The barn and I had both aged and faded with time
But we were still blessed with the sun shining on the hay.
I have a Bentwood Rocker
It's the most cherished thing I own
It is made from the willow branches
of an ancient tree at my grandparent's home.
It embraces me on my back porch
both in the morning and at night
when a pair of cardinals come to visit me
at both the first and last day's light.
I rock in a gentle rhythm
sip my coffee and watch the clouds
and think to myself life's worth living
As I just sit and rock without a sound.
Sometimes I hum a favorite tune
and sometimes I just rock silently alone
somehow this chair seems to center me
It motion washes away life's rough edged stones.
As I sway and think of days gone gone by
of my brothers and sisters and me
climbing up among the branches
of my grandparents big old willow tree.
We used to swing on all the branches
Like the Jungle Book's Tarzans and Janes
Laughing and swingly wildly, never quiet nor mundane
Yelling out profusely, howling out all the Jungle Book slang.
We used to weave together the branches
into leafy wreaths without any thorns
improvised crowns of the greenest splendor
Just as Julius Caesar would have worn.
Sometimes we added in flowers
Daisies and dandelions were always in season
Sometimes we just sat in that old tree
Just happy to be there, for no given reason.
And so decades and decades of years have gone by
My Grandparents have long since passed on
But I think of them often as I rock in my chair
Cherished memories to always remember.
And now the winter has settled in
My cherished rocker sits covered in snow
Waiting for the days of the songbirds return
Waiting for warm days instead of the cold.
It sits silently waiting for Springs blossoms to arrive
for a day when I can rock without being froze
for an evening when relaxing in my comfortable rocker
will signal the end of one of my beloved warmer days.
Copyright Christine A Kysely December 14, 2010
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
I opened the closet and walked on in
my foot hit something that fallen from its bin.
An old pair of shoes - wrinkled and worn,
lay out on the floor reminding me of a long lost friend.
Quite a story old shoes can tell
where we've gone - a life that's been lived well.
Oh, I know that some folks
don't care about the past,
only the present - 'cause times are just too fast.
But old shoes go slow
with memories from so long ago
of times good and bad
smiles and tears
of things happy and sad.
Old shoes are like friends, they stay around
in good times and bad,
they are really quite sound.
At times we struggle in life to find
a place of happiness, peace and a companion to be kind.
Old shoes are with us every step of the way
through good times and bad
bright days and sad.
Old shoes are like good friends
you don't throw away
just tuck them back
and bring them out another day.
The breeze suddenly came upon
The deserted worn seat
Moving ever so slightly
As if we were there again…
It was a summer afternoon
You looked so pretty in your pink top
You had set lemonade for two
As my thoughts wandered and wouldn’t stop
Your hand gently touched mine
And I trembled, nervous, but so happy
We were young and so naïve
That was a time that meant so much to me
We spoke the better part of the day
Until your mom called you for evening meal
I wanted so much to stay and hoped
That you felt what I was beginning to feel
As that old porch swing is where it began
I knew I loved you when you touched my hand
I see us there right now, so wonderfully clear
I see it darling, as if you were here
Foot after foot, up your porch steps
That evening after our very first date
Hand in hand to that swing we had walked
I had no concern if it was getting late
I knew then and know now, the feelings inside
They were strong, undeniably alive
I can feel them with me here and now
I carry you always, here inside
As that old porch swing is where it began
I knew I loved you when you touched my hand
I see us there right now, so wonderfully clear
I see it darling, as if you were here
You may be gone, love, but know this true
It’s your love I relive and of which I sing
As I sit on this porch on this warm summer day
You’re right next to me on our old porch swing
Form:
April sixteenth is known as “The Record Store Day”,
The old “seven inch” vinyl type of music way!
Drop by those old Record shops and take a quick look!
Memories of old stomping grounds of a cool nook,
Join the groovy “nostalgia seventies” sway!
Some take checkers seriously, so do I.
I recorded my games without fail,
in the little park located close by.
Listen closely, you will like my tale.
Under the umbrella of an old live oak
sits a stump about chair seat high.
Not many things in this life evoke
such comforting tears to my eye.
A marble statue now, cast in memory
with so many names, a number beside.
The board inlaid, made of emory, ivory,
cast by an artisan in loving pride.
The real stump looked much the same.
I would challenge all comers of any age.
No one but me ever lost a game.
Beating me was a neighborhood rage.
The checker board sat on the stump.
I would log each name and the score.
Allowing points for each kind of jump.
Soon the board back held no more.
The oldest challenger I had was ten.
The thing was, if they won I got a hug.
They knew I wouldn’t feel so bad then.
Once hooked, from then I had the bug.
Continuing as such in similar rendition,
‘Til came a letter from an art museum.
It spoke of a piece commissioned
by a local director of an atheneum.
Excited I walked to the old stump
looking for the name of the benefactor.
As I saw the name I felt my heart jump.
That small guy with the red toy tractor.
© Oct 26 2010 Charles Henderson 7 th in
Matt's "I fell in love with a tree stump" contest
One afternoon, with nothing much to do
I found myself in a dusty old shop
Looking at the past, looking for clues
When I saw it, there on the shelf top
A hat so lovely it made my heart stop
A piece of blue felt fashioned into a cap
With black feathers that cascaded down
Down along my cheek with a subtle wrap
And a tiny net wrapping my face around
I stared in the mirror not making a sound
Transformed from a plain country girl
Into a glamorous vamp from the city
Giving life an exciting downtown whirl
It was magical; I was more than pretty
I felt sexy, gorgeous and so very witty
The hat and I had many dreams together
It was the first of my vintage collection
That blue hat with the sweet black feather
With the past just one small connection
My old blue hat, a cause for reflection
For Carol's contest....
I'd rather be here
at the grade school annual
Christmas show,
while out in the real world
a group of dirty old men
attempt to impeach
a dirty old president.
Up on the rooftop
click, click, click,
the first and second grade teachers
try to hold jelly in their hands,
and the innocents try
to remember their lines,
and contain their exuberance,
and mothers cry,
in joy and hope for
their little elves,
and fathers film the grand event.
While out in the real world,
a group of dirty old men
attempt to impeach
a dirty old president.
Ho, ho, ho,
What do you know?
And after we all
eat cookies and cider
and praise the efforts
of each others elves
and thank the teachers
for all of their efforts,
we go home to watch
despicable old men
and wish that the world
was in the hands
of second grade teachers.
It rests in peace on the old farmer’s land
A sizeable wood frame with a silo
The late farmer and his hard-working wife
Lay ‘neath tattered crosses near the barn door
Members of the Greatest Generation
Rarely visited by their grandchildren
But, oh, that barn held animals and hay
A buggy that was mounted to a horse
Taking their clan to the Lord’s house Sundays
Still sits within the red barn’s pine board walls
Reminders of a time not so long past
When the work ethic was exemplified
Viewers see it now, wonder who lived there
Farms with old red barns succumb to decay
*For Rick’s “Red Barn” Contest
When there’s just too much news
That has more wrongs than right—
I watch those old westerns
In good old black and white.
I’ll watch that Rocky Lane
Or that Johnny Mack Brown—
Tim McCoy or Buck Jones—
Ones that once were around.
Ken Maynard and Kermit—
The ones that we forgot—
They come alive on film;
Show us all what we’re not.
They’ll never come again
In daylight or the night—
They ride on in our minds
In good old black and white.
There’s still Fuzzy St. John
And big Smiley Burnette—
On scratchy cellulose
That we’ll never forget.
Lash, Dean, Steele and Wakely,
Still grace that silvered screen—
Roy, Gene and old Hoppy
Were the best that we’d seen.
And where have they all gone?
Gabby Hayes, Andy Clyde?
Yes, we can still see them,
Even though they have died.
Yes, when the world’s too much
And we can see no light—
I watch those old westerns
In good old black and white.
Fragile antiques
Old doll houses
and old love letters from the spouses
16 year old yearbooks
with old fashioned looks
Old musty smells
and cracked Christmas bells
Worn teddy bears
on 3 legged chairs
Pink fluffy mess
an ugly vintage dress
Red rusty bike
whose brand is Tike
Chipped tea cups
in boxes from UPS
Dusty record player
a plastic dragon slayer
Faded white onesies
and pink-purple ponies
Beautiful dream catchers
The tape Body Snatchers
Old cooking books
and rusty fishing hooks
Brown roller skates
in bright yellow crates
Shiny awards
your husbands old swords
Halloween costumes
and old perfumes
A blue cassette tape
a carnival stuffed ape
Things we keep
Things we reminisce
Things we'll never ever miss
Things that once made us ecstatic
Our valuables up in the attic
I stand like roses
Wilted in despair,
Lost in the station
Of life giving breath
As tragedy strikes
And strips my soul bare;
I walk as I talk
My life's living death.
Now God's will, be done,
I hope to endure,
By proffering poems
At all common marts
Or tout to the crowd
My latest sure cure
For illness acquired
From faded old tarts.
Yes I cast false pride
A way to survive,
A belly once starved
Shall sweat for a feast;
Though hard is my heart
Still beating to thrive
I walk with beauty
Not crawl with the beast.
I've carried my cross
Down dusty old roads
Crossed pastures of dung
With sharp bladed fence;
I've carried my share
Of heaviest loads
Guilelessly gifted
My own common sense.
Watched the grand falcons
In clear lofty air,
As silent they glide
Past steep mountain height;
Caught the golden tresses
Of God's braided hair;
Sanctified meadows
As eagles took flight.
Passionate vipers
Still feed me, indeed!
Yet, in my honor,
I've burst through the bars.
Tasted temptation
From sin's fertile seed;
And Loved with a love
That moved Sun and Stars
A long-standing landmark that I often visited as a tyke,
Was Bert's Country Store just a ways up Dalton Pike.
Dalton could be missed if your eyes you'd briefly close.
The population at that crossroads "town" was thirty or so, I suppose.
The inviting porch had some benches where loafers hung around.
To enter the store you stepped over Bert's snoozing hound.
Winter days you'd find the rabble huddled 'round the stove,
Where discussions of crops, good whiskey and women throve!
An old cowbell jingled upon opening the sagging screen door.
Once inside you trod upon a squeaky, bare, wooden floor.
'Twas a wonder that Bert could find anything 'midst all the clutter,
But in a trice he'd find anything for which you would utter!
Bert had no tolerance for frills or the latest fancy decor.
You'd risk tripping over barrels and rope coiled upon the floor.
The sagging shelves were stocked with canned goods and lanterns,
Wheels of cheese, muskrat traps and the latest sewing patterns.
He sometimes sold hot dogs and sodas under the counter,
As long as the county health officials he didn't encounter!
The Hoosier "town" of Dalton ain't listed on the maps as heretofore,
And, alas, Bert nor his old country store exist there anymore.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
It was a small forgotten town
With general store and a grange,
Where a small boy asked the old man:
“When’s the last time you rode the range?”
The old cowpoke just paused and grinned,
And puffed on his old briar pipe—
He thought kids these days didn’t care,
With minds all full of games and tripe.
But here was a boy that did care,
And that hung on his every word—
That wanted to be a cowboy—
Of that one fact, he was assured.
“Son, it was back in the ‘30s,
A long time fore your folks was born—
It was the last gasp of the West,
Fore towns made the range forlorn.
“A man could ride on forever
On a wide range that did not end—
Just a man, his horse and his God,
And the free wind that was his friend.
“Yes, a man knew who he was then—
About life there was no debate—
There was right and wrong and true love—
And when called he was never late.”
But Jess,” the boy asked once again,
“When’s the last time you rode the range?”
The man smiled, but held back a tear,
“When I got old and the world got strange.”