Best Souvenirs Poems
As
I watch
the waves crash
and unfold gems
in neon blue dust
across ivory shores
silky reflections scatter
upon moon glazed tides in cadence
and flaming twin stars whirl in circles
sprinkling magic upon Poseidon’s realm
There's a turquoise song for the healing hearts
ruffling as lyrical melodies
along idyllic crests of hope
where memories float in a
bottle of souvenirs
ferrying sapphire
swells of daydreams
that ebb in
tune to
faith
When I got home from camp today,
My parents almost died.
They asked me how I got this way,
And here's what I replied:
"This little cast from heel to hip
Is nothing much at all.
Some broken shingles made me slip
From off the dining hall.
"The poison ivy's not so bad.
It missed my back and chest.
Of course, I guess I oughta add
Mosquitoes got the rest.
"I tried to eat some hick'ry nuts
And cracked a tooth or two.
And all these bruises, scabs, and cuts?
I haven't got a clue.
"I got the lump that's on my head
From diving in the lake.
I should have watched for rocks, instead
Of grabbing for the snake.
"That leaves this bandage on my chin
And these three finger sprains,
Along with lots of sunburned skin
And sniffles from the rains.
"And oh, I got a muscle cramp
And very nearly drowned.
It's some terrific summer camp,
The coolest one around."
Souvenirs of Love …
I keep them all in a locked mahogany casket
It gets harder to open with my arthritic fingers
Yet every day I turn the key and peer inside
When I lift the lid I recall such precious memories
I caress the string of pearls you gave me in Paris
The diamond necklace sparkles like my blue eyes once did
Your mother’s wedding band is nestled in its red velvet box
You had it re-sized to fit me and had mizpah engraved on the inside
A lonely tear trickles down my wrinkled cheek as I slip it on my finger
You promised that when you came back from the war
I would wear it on our wedding day…
That day never arrived
01/29/18
The meaning of Mizpah is “The Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent one from another”.
Now, Spring an echo of a crazy dance
Its music still wrapping the soul in trance.
Sweet the taste of a season of pure feel
The scent of which the deepest pain could heal.
The weather of the Heart so fine, so dear
The path of Love, with folded eyes, so clear.
Time, that weighs on my world, in words no will
Hidden powers awake and feed my quill.
Sweet Spring souvenirs freshen mad Summer
Merry flair with the chirps of a hummer.
Summer sun and heat mould a poet’s mood
Seek fresh breeze in poetic solitude.
Time to seize that soul seasons we create
Dormant wonders inside, help radiate.
Sad silence might stain nature and its flair
See, Life is Harmony within we bear.
Besma
June 12th, 2019
FROZEN SOUVENIRS (( Collaboration * Nette OnClaud ))
by~ NETTE ONLAUD
frozen with pain she woke to find daybreak
slumped on her crumpled bed again, laid back, cast
aside from god knows what, an unbecoming haven.
at least, this time, this bed was hers and hers alone,
dimly broiled by smells of yesterday gone
stale, drooping limbs to vaguely unbecoming souvenirs.
no longer wrestling fires but lighting them,
hope drained from flesh that craved for expired lotion
crush-boned dreams mocked her unbecoming senses.
she backed off tears that asked how this all happened,
plunging into her heart’s junkyard searching for answers
from wounds buried in near burial of an unbecoming night…
by~ POET D.
Gently she is weaving in and out of her own bed near the sea ledge,
faith will be drawn in the sand near the watery shores
broken down heartsick sea walls of loneliness will triumph
yet another frozen sad mood, a shadow that feels like it will last forever,
only to rest upon her own will of over flown solitude lids
her eyes are still like fireflies throughout the ebony in the dark night sky
The lengthy halls carry echoes in which silence the memorized souvenirs
dusk announcing the end of another frozen day;
there she sits in an incubator waiting to hear her name in the wind
A deeper, more intense treasure she found in her own reflections
with an open mind she is in mourn in hopes that these feelings don't last long —
a few hours or maybe a day or two she will bliss it all away
A Collaboration with *NETTE ONCLAUD
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
Soothing sliding silvered tides, fields of verdant; rolling co-inside..'
Beards of algae flow on wrecks, phosphorescence guilds the whitecap in flecks,
As a mirror shattered myriad shines, to uneven waves that crash in; times..'
Un-counted amounts of wash elapsed, endless etchings have surfs out; scratched..
I see the glimpses I hear that noise, in awe; I observe the power and poise,
Atlantic grey-green, Indian serge, pacific hued, I need to re-visit & become re-clued
The saline reeks, there are nets of fish, tootling tugs, low tide rippling in meek.'
Memories crowds... Of golden sands..' Ice cream, picnic baskets; beer and bands..'
Message of the wind
Tucked in little girl's pocket
Ready for Life's Fall
www.scripca.com
Prison Souvenirs, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s poem : Souvenirs de prison, March 1874*
(Verlaine was sentenced to serve a term of two years in prison for having shot his erstwhile lover in the arm/hand, the legendary poet Arthur Rimbaud, ten years his junior, on July 9th or 10th, 1873, in Bruxelles ; yet he was deeply in love with his wife : Mathilde, left to nurse his son in Paris. He was also sentenced to a month in prison in 1885, following a complaint by his mother and another Dave, for drunkenness. Cf. Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine : Œuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris : Robert Laffont, 1992.)
About a year now and more, I haven’t seen the butt-end
Of a newspaper. « Could the « Blue Library » be
sufficient ?
Sometimes I tell myself, despite myself : « Would you
have believed it ? »
Oh ! Well ! One can’t die for the lack of it. First of all,
it’s undigestible a bit,
A little bit too insipid, the experienced eye gets angry.
But the spirit ! Since it laughs and triumphs, lets it be !
And then again, it’s a patriotic pleasure, besides being
salubrious :
Not to want to know anything of this century turned
murderous
And not to continue to watch during this last spate of
trance
This abominable agony which plagues La France.
• There’s a reference to Verlaine’s letter to Lepelletier, dated August 22, 1874, and poems titled : Vieux Coppées.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Inklings of Love
Love is a never ending daisy chain
Lovely as damselfly sparkling with dew
Joyful as rainbows in sky after rain.
Cherish that you have a treasure so true
Celebrate that her love glitters and glows
Lovely as damselfly sparkling with dew.
In fragrance of daisies where'er she goes
Enlighten her she's your favoured flora
Celebrate that her love glitters and glows.
Tell her often you adore her aura
Sprinkle stardust when’er she pirouettes
Enlighten her she’s your favoured flora.
Admire her for her exquisite assets
Create glorious memoir souvenirs
Sprinkle stardust when’er she pirouettes.
On her bestow moonbeam, smile through the years
Love is a never ending daisy chain
Create glorious memoir souvenirs
Joyful as rainbows in sky after rain.
*+*+*
21st April 2023
Inklings Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Les Souvenirs de Noël – Translation of Joy Williams’s « Memories of Christmas » by T. Wignesan
(Joy Williams, b. 1942 in Sydney. Since she was born « fair » of skin, the authorities forcibly removed her as a baby to be placed in a children’s home, and at the age of 6 to be assimilated in a « white » institution. She later studied for a B.A. at Wollongong University in New Soth Wales.
Joy’s first born, Julie-Anne Joy, was taken from her at 10 months by the Aboriginal Protection Board. She worked for an organization called : « Link-Up » in Canberra with tentacles all over the continent whose prescribed aim was to bring together parents and children thus forcibly separated by the authorities. Joy, finally, « linked-up » with her family 42 years after enforced separation. – Info culled from K. Gilbert’s Inside Black Australia,
Penguin, 1988.) T. Wignesan, Paris, December 16, 2016.
Les Souvenirs de Noël – Translation of Joy Williams’s « Memories of Christmas » by T. Wignesan
C’est 16 heures la veille de Noël et je pense de toi.
Je m’amuse en rappelant de ce que tu as dit : Noël est pour les
enfants –
Je pleurais car je ne jamais étais un enfant.
Je vois un arbre, tout allumé des guirlandes de Noël,
J’aperçois la réflexion des lumières dans les yeux de mes enfants tandis qu’ils dansaient autour de l’arbre avec une anticipation joyeuse.
Je me demande ce qu’elle aurait pu être la vie d’un enfant.
Est-ce que mes souvenirs auraient pu être heureux au lieu de rien ?
Est-ce que mes enfants se souviendront de leur enfance ?
C’est le matin de Noël,
J’entends des cries de joie,
On m’a réveillé d’un sommeil agité et j’ai senti deux pairs de bras autour de moi,
J’éprouve le sentiment qu’on a besoin de moi.
Dieu, comme j’aime mes enfants !
J’essaye d’apprécier le Noël à travers d’eux, mais, à l’intérieur, je pleure,
Une nonne arrive avec une boîte de vivres et je me sens maladive et vidée,
Elle comprend ce que je ressens. (Mettez la boîte là, je dis.)
C’est le soir de Noël,
Je suis fatiguée.
On m’aime.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
She had another birthday
And she sat before the mirror
She contemplated her gray hair
Her wrinkles and her years
But she didn't need to fret
She shouldn't really fear
Cause her gray hairs are memories
Her wrinkles are souvenirs
Each strand of silver shows a worry
That never came to pass
Each deep line upon her face
Is there because she laughed
There have been times of trouble
And there have been times of stress
But life has really been quite good
For she's been truly blest
And so it's Happy Birthday
She is so very dear
For her gray hairs are memories
And her wrinkles are souvenirs
Silver candlesticks and other thingamabobs
Of questionable use in these modern times,
And riffraff scattered throughout in gobs
Most are reminiscent of long-ago pastimes
Of younger years spent happily gallivanting
Around the globe in search of new ventures
Now I spend entirely too much time, daunting,
Searching for my eyeglasses or my dentures
And trying to figure out how to dispose of
The knickknacks and what-nots I’ve collected
Not enough drawers I can into them shove,
On shelves they are dusty and much neglected.
I’m thinking that’s what my executors are for
So, I’ve designated a few people who will care
Who will make an inventory and open the door
For an estate sale, when I have gone over there
Time comes when my collections are scattered
To the four winds and have lost their meaning
Folks enjoyed them in my home, I was flattered,
But, now I am doing some necessary cleaning.
Written July 23, 2022
We cherish our souvenirs
echoes from the past
tales of where we've been
preventing us from making choices
as to where we can go
dust collecting dust
bones in our closets
each a memorial unto its self
yesterday's pain held captive
within a single glance
as another lonely winter approaches
the shelves have become barren
like the trees from bitter frost
my souvenirs thrown away
yet who can rid memories from the soul.
Bob Shank, Oct.17th, 2006
boxful of Scotland souvenirs at a car boot sale
a life’s possessions
in thirty or so boxes
from the back of a white Transit
knick-knacks from Scotland
a wee man with ginger hair
tam o’shanter
and a corkscrew
a picture of Ben Nevis
with all the red vibrancy
sucked out of it
by years of rising suns
through flat windows
a toilet roll holder
from Edinburgh
cartoon spider and an inscription
taken straight from Robert Bruce
“if at first you don’t succeed,
try, try again”
an empty whisky bottle
shaped like a hand bell
a small bundle of colourised postcards
in brown, green and purple
of the Scottish Highlands
a tea towel with a stubborn brown stain
of the Isle of Skye
a pint glass with a colour scene
lettered Aberd—n
and a dried bunch of heather
bound by a tartan ribbon
from the banks of Loch Ness
that bunch of heather,
forty six years picked
owned from honeymoon to death
thirty or so boxes
of worthless detritus
to rummage and ransack
on a summer Sunday morning
a life lived
in one of thirty boxes.
6.6.2011
revised 6.6.2022 6:45am
I wish to view an Oct sunrise in my hometown.
Riding a train to class and eating bread brown.
I miss wearing boots in my charming homeland.
Jackets and hats close to the September end.
Home ought to be recalled with love and pride.
Akin street tag and rendezvous by the creekside.
My hometown has bleak fame for being notorious.
Despite adversity, the town remains victorious.
I used to opine life was only in this town.
It had whatever I wanted, so I didn't frown.
Driving around town and browsing the shops.
I believe it wouldn't pass higher than these flops.
On our reunion day, happiness was in the air.
The moonlit the path with a clear peep stare.
I chose to put a down payment on a house.
Since I've broken all its walls, as a little mouse.
Fulfilling the wishes of the wealthy with trust
And solving the plight of those in need is a must.
Embracing all guests, even if they show hesitance
I would be halcyon to call this town my residence.
No city can ever be completely tamed.
Heavy fog soothed scars that were pride-inflamed.
With an elfin town road lightings warm glow.
What city has such dazzling neon flow?
Clearing the dust and recalling the memory.
How lucky we are to live in this pedigree.
One way to relax and forget the planet
Is in embracing your hometown gamut.
Every page of life is ripped out as a book.
Life doesn't repeat, so cherish each brook.
You will thank yourself later for your sacrifice.
Strive at sprinting to meet your own suffice!
As I drive across town, I notice it is shrinking.
I imagine seeing most with others, I'm thinking.
The grass may not be as green as it once got
But those souvenirs were the best; I never forgot.
Written: May 18, 2023
If Your Birthplace-Country Was A Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon