Best Yesteryear Poems
Nostalgic rumblings harken back, rattling on and on:
Where have the sweet dreams of yesteryear gone,
Why does starry night yield to nightmares of dawn
In shattered, dismantled, promised land of bygone.
First kiss was just a prologue to prized budding start
Which blossomed love passions of youthful heart,
How longingly now recall the pleadings of romance
As intimate allures of past rekindle in doting glance.
Treasured rhythms now echo a compassionate song
From albums of recollections still strumming along
In keepsake laughs enticing tempo of riverside walks
And flirtatious stories inducing seductive secret talks.
When tears grieve hopelessly, and it hurts when I cry
Fondly I recall, smile of your eyes, gazing starlit sky,
And that’s when I call your name, but hear no reply
Except for the voice of past uttering a saddened sigh.
Alas! It’s been long since our goodbyes inflicted woe,
But I still ponder, if you ever look back~ and say hello,
To wonderment of musings longing passions of yore,
Courting endearment of love, wishing there was more.
December 1, 2021
Placed 3rd: “Y” Contest, New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Yesteryear
We played hide and seek
Running around the park.
And a game called british bulldogs,
It really was a lark.
Then there was scrumping apples
And getting chased off by the man.
How we loved knock and run,
Oh, how fast we ran.
Of course there was footie
Sometimes fifteen a side.
On tv we watched the flintstones,
And laughed until we cried.
The sweetshop sold gobstoppers
Or maybe a sherbet dab,
A shiny stick of liquorice
Or an exciting lucky bag.
Our parents couldn't get us in,
How we loved to play.
There just never seemed to be
Enough hours in the day.
But our kids are technophobes,
They think we're dinosaurs.
Scoffing at our 'good old days'
Thinking we were bores.
I despair at the internet,
Technology, at a cost
Children glued to ipads,
A proper childhood lost.
I can imagine in the future
There's a point our kids will reach,
All contact will be online,
They'll have lost the power of speech.
Fresh air, and playing out
Will seem a relic from the past.
I fear there's no going back,
For the techno die is cast.
Entry for It's The End Of The Forms Series - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
5/10/2017
vaguely remembered
the span when life was normal
cherished memories of last year
of freedom we took for granted~
a lifetime now behind us
shipwrecked in this pandemic sea
time at an unbearable standstill
having us float idle in angst
helpless as driftwood
whilst many of us drown
in our bygone memories
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~COVID 2020~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Posted on April 11, 2020
Come, and lay here, on this soft grassy hill
hear stories I'll tell from yesteryear
the sun is setting... the air calm and fair
though a gentle breeze can caress your hair
listen, my dear, about the dragons you fear
allow your ears to be aware of the stories I bring
of Damsels in distress, of Knights and their King
lay your head down on the grass to listen
I'll brush the hair away from eyes that glisten
so they may stay open as each story unfolds
of ladies in love with their Knights so bold
once upon a time... there was a maiden on a hill
with light in her eyes... she lays without fear
wanting to hear stories about yesteryear
5/17/18
There's the old house again
the one you've heard so much about...
'Course it looks much smaller now
and the front yard, that was
our baseball field, has shrunk...
Why is my stomach churning
What are these tears that blind my eyes
Oh, I can't bear to think upon it again...
The mind shields the trembling heart
The heart weeps unrepentantly
Yesteryear mixed dulcet days with bitterly sour moments.
Zesty and tart as lemons, but tempered with honeyed memories.
This year, I will only journey through sweet orange orchards.
Casting my mind back many a year
To childhood days spent catching bees
Those long gone memories do bring a tear
Playing with friends in the summer breeze
A simple jam jar, air holes pierced in the lid
Laden with clover and blades of green grass
To catch a bumblebee, shear delight for a kid
Observing him carefully through the transparent glass
Like little scientists we named differing species
Terminology I can still recall to this day
What a pleasure it is to remember these
Adventure along the hills was our kind of play
It saddens me today to see young minds so numbed
Lush fields of green devoured and disappeared
To technology, children have now succumbed
Our beautiful world has been commandeered
Whilst walking upon a small meadow of green
I spotted a young boy with a glass jar in his hand
My eyes were aghast at what I’d just seen
It seems there’s still hope upon the land
I watched from afar as he examined his catch closely
Suddenly releasing him and away he did fly
With a loving smile, the boy waved him off joyfully
As I meandered off into the distance, wiping a tear from my eye
We would find a spot in our town
Any place we could just hang out
A nook we had to gladly get down
Retreating there and turning out
We tried to do something as dumb
As blame thoughts of being young
To think an end would never come
No stone unturned or song unsung
I look at the photos of yesteryear,
Gazing at the faces of people,
I once knew.
With our rifles and our gear,
Crowded together were we,
Under the winter sky.
Those haggard faces all so drear,
Still stare out at me in voices I once knew,
Calling my name.
I look still at the photos of yesteryear,
Time has passed, the voices are gone,
And the photo will one day fade.
Going through photographs of yesteryear,
makes me wonder what made you a murderer?
To the brother, who you claimed to be brother from another mother.
Going through photographs of yesteryear,
reminds me of the growing years when we (me & father) were your nurturers.
We told you to be her protector to your sister,
Not a murderer but a shoulder to her tears.
Have you not seen the color of your sister’s face when the brother of yours
and lover of hers arrived at our place everytime?
Have you not been prouder when she spoke of your bromance
endearingly in front of the so called mediocre crowd?
Going through photographs of yesteryear,
makes me wonder why we told you to be a protector to your sister,
not a murderer but a shoulder to her tears.
Why had I told her that after me and father, brother will take care of her?
Why had I not taught her to be independent than make her bend
in front of the brother who at the end shall listen to the society?
Going through photographs of yesteryear…..
Toys from Yesteryear
Sitting very quietly, looking at a blank page
Prompted me to pen a poem about toys that were all the rage
I had some wooden jigsaw blocks when I was only two
In a wooden box with a shiny brass clasp
And a picture of Winnie the Pooh
I remember at the age of six, when I was given some stickle bricks
Plastic shapes so colourful, with brushes of small plastic fingers
Making a train of red, yellow and green, the memory of it still lingers
Then at the age of seven, I remember ‘coming a cropper'
When dared by my cousins to bounce up the street
On their big and orange space-hopper
When I was eight, my favourite toy was a plastic daredevil skydiver
Many parachute jumps from the top of the stairs, that guy was a true survivor
When I was nine, the Spirograph, a drawing toy based on gears,
Was my favourite toy to play with, watching marvellous patterns appear
At ten years old I found building with Meccano lots of fun
Metal strips and gears and nuts and bolts, invented in 1901
When I was eleven the Rubik’s Cube was really all the rage
With coloured squares, six sides of nine, a puzzle for any age
At the age of twelve, Shinsai Mystery was my fave
Two eight-hinged polyhedra could be folded into many shapes
At the age of thirteen, my baby brother was born
His favourite toy was Lego, my love of building things was reborn
There are many toys of yesteryear, would take ages to mention the rest
But for me, after all these years, Lego will always be the best
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.
“What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.” — Karl Lagerfeld
Wonderful memories of yesteryear,
though long ago, are still so very clear
Trips to the seaside, a visit to the zoo,
hearing the steam train go choo choo
Riding on a donkey on the golden sand,
building sandcastles, they looked so grand
Eating pink candy floss piled up so high,
winning a small prize on the coconut shy
Going on bumper cars and the ghost train,
using my pocket money to ride on them again!
Photographs of the past from when I was a child,
the most vivid of them all, was how my hair was styled!
Memories from old photographs … as a child I had blonde curly hair !
“Y” Contest, New Poems – Poetry Contest - theme of Yesteryear chosen
Sponsored by Constance La France
11/29/21
Now at an advanced crotchety age
namely three score plus one Earth
orbitz around the nearest star,
yours truly revisits
poignant episodes foisting
launching snapchatting
one after another crisis
sidelining ability to cope
pursuing life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness
whiz hard by at light speed.
Though just a kid during third industrial revolution,
I remember feeling lost in space (age) and agog
at being on the cusp, when infrastructure
(regarding blueprint describing
information superhighway,
technological/computer transformation
would when soon after graduating
Methacton high school
(mine alma mater)
quickly usher The Fourth Industrial Revolution
a way of describing the blurring of boundaries
between the physical, digital, and biological worlds,
a fusion of advances in artificial intelligence (AI),
robotics, the Internet of Things (IoT), 3D printing,
genetic engineering, quantum computing,
and other technologies.
Just sat here pondering on yesteryear, of times long gone yet still so clear,
We thought eating out was such a delight,outside the chippy on Saturday night.
We thought restaurants were for the famous and rich, in the City so far away,
We walked everywhere to save the tuppenny fare, to spend another day.
We sat at home and listened to the radio, or played outside 'til bedtime,
We had homework, carried in a satchel, not a rolling suitcase like today.
We all ate at the table, no TV to gawk at, so we would actually talk,
We had no i pads or i phones, not invented then, tablets were swallowed when ill.
We did jobs to EARN pocket money or we went about broke and played in the grime,
We enjoyed that simplicity of life, when it seemed like a trial by ordeal at the time.
We lived and played, got hurt the odd day, we never had to call in the CPA.
We ran errands for the old folk, 'cos that's what Mum told us to do.
We sometimes were rewarded with a fresh baked cake or two.
Well I think I'll stop there afore folk think I'm getting maudlin tonight,
Writing it down keeps my mind both alert and bright. Goodnight!
© Dave Timperley February 2015