Long Bygone times Poems
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August-5- 2026
Contest- The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
~PLACED FIRST~
"A poet sees things which others seem to ignore and stores up his thoughts and impressions in the casket of verse, treasuring them as valuables that Time can't steal"~ By Poet
Alone, when I sit in my room in pensive mood,
Thoughts flit across my mind in endless succession.
They erupt out slicing time and space,
And flow in disarray, in a jumbled mass.
Then my facile pen starts moving quickly,
Gathering my thoughts in reflective refrain.
Like waves beating madly across the shoreline,
Emotions flow out, my mind no longer can contain.
On flipping through the pages of my life,
Deep nostalgia overwhelms me.
Like falling petals, as years hastily pass,
I long for the past when my days were quite glossy.
My mind wanders to distant memories dear,
And I wish to preserve what time has stolen.
So, I scribble my thoughts on the sheet in hand
To traverse through bygone times over again.
In my silence, I hear footsteps of the past
And see my dear ones as shadows fading out.
My parents who are no more there to care,
Gleam before, leaving my eyes misty.
I am on a sacred mission~
To stitch together broken memories and moments
And build a bridge between past and present.
My poems, l hope will serve as a window
That I can open and close at will.
Only in silence l can behold scenes,
That others miss out in diverse distractions.
The more I grow silent, the more I can see and hear.
I get ensnared by the breathtaking view of a sunset
The serenade of nocturnal birds,
The beauty of blooms and meadows wide and green,
The vastness of the sapphire sky -
Where rainbows arch after a drizzle
Or stars twinkle at a cloudless night.
Rills as they murmur and cataracts as they roar,
Fall on my ears as dulcet music of the cosmic band.
I wish to recall such sights and sounds
That once I looked on with a casual glance,
And fell like grains of sand funneled through the hour glass,
Later forsaken with no effort to keep or brush them up.
I wish to preserve them in poetry’s fragile art~
A craft sharpened and perfected in pensive mood.
So, time wouldn’t steal them away from my memory.
I strive to make my verses a mirror reflecting life.
She marks another birthday
by planting a flowering annual in a pot,
a forget-me-not for her forgetful mind.
Nowadays she primes herself
using visuals to clarify memories.
If at dawn, a pale moon lingers long enough
to marry a rising sun, she will dance alone,
a slow crazy dance, up in her high tower,
from there she can look across the rooftops
imagining routes and paths taken
the dwellings and bygone times, the loves,
that bloomed and wilted in that city
where she lived out her story.
Wide boulevards and dank back alleys
are stitched into a lacework of recollections;
some structures no longer there
return as landscapes printed on tissue paper.
She sees herself as a girl, a younger woman,
never as she is now.
If a bloom wilts before the years end,
she will sit by her upper window
looking for the morning sun to ignite
the pale moon of her eyes.
Then only does she dance -
her slow potted flower dance.
Amid the deceit and pain of this modern era,
one will be born
who shall embody bygone times and ways;
he will want naught more than an uncomplicated life,
to do what he must and be what he can.
Always shall he look backward
to notions of the past,
like the gallantry of the chivalric knights of old;
in his own way thus he will be looking forward,
ever seeking a return to such goodly tenets.
Yet think not of him as a peerless warrior,
a brilliant mind or a charming lover,
for a failure he shall be -
mistakes, his accustomed routine;
regret, his vigilant companion.
Not alone will this wanderer travel;
for one will also be born
who shall see through his disguise of joy,
reach the agony underneath the surface
and whisk it off with nary a trace.
She shall be the most exquisite being
to exist outside of the heavenly realm;
yet never will he convince her
of the undeniable truth of such claims;
forever she will view herself unfavorably.
Stubborn to the last, he will profess his unworthiness -
surely one such as he, a pariah and buffoon
deserves not a creature such as she,
yet both of them shall depend upon and cherish
this love of the ages.
I dream of simpler days
Of chivalry and blooming skirts
Of Innocence
When poetry flowed from the heart
And the love felt there was true
When joy was real…
Take my hand and lead me into the past,
Your past
Let me dream with you
walk in your memories
re-live your experiences
Hand in hand,
Show me the very sun, that lights up your sky
That voice, that smile, that twinkle in your eye
I know that look … Ascending into better bygone times
I love that look, I am ready
Teach me your wisdom
Tell me your tales, advise me
Let me walk that mile with you in your shoes
Let me bask in the glory of Your Life’s Legacy
-'poetry as legacy' poetry contest-
Your arms locked around me with caution
The rhythm of the dance ... love
it has all the ingredients
All the momens I will share with you
You take me to places I have never been
When the wind whispering in the trees
it is your words I hear
A life together that can withstand both heat and cold
Teach us the ability to forgive
and humility even to be forgiven
Invisible threads, scents and memories of bygone times
All longings that humans have carried for generations
Stay with me to the morning and hold me closer
Inexorably longing for love
towards dawn and sunrise
15.12.2014
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Sitting attentively on a rickety park bench
My thoughts are as deep as an ocean trench
People scurrying aimlessly about their daily lives
In time, they’ll fade too, among the archives
I notice a young family, a dog and a cat
After drawing a last breath, what awaits after that?
Billions departed throughout the lineage of man
Bygone times, forgotten lives; been quite the span.
What is the meaning of life in this place?
Why have some never shared a loving embrace?
How many souls have meandered here?
Each with their own struggles to persevere
Who shall soar to heaven and who shall not?
Will some scorch in hellfire in flames molten hot?
Are we amid a spiritual war for our soul?
The weight of such questions takes its toll
I pray that together; we can make it in the end
To a realm without fear, we’ll blissfully ascend
The righteous, the tainted, and all in between
In a land of eternal peace, pure and serene
Men are desires, untold stories,
Women are secrets, adorned in dreams,
Two different universes, searching for each other in the night,
Traversing each other's mystery, bewitched and hunters in a subtle chase.
They are the kings of the unknown, which they uncover step by step,
Architects of silences that shelter the world’s secrets,
While they, weavers of dreams plated with gold and pure scent,
Find in the closed eye of longing, unnamed paradises.
The body can forget shapes and kisses, forget caresses,
Leaves behind skin echoes, outlines that fade away,
But the soul always retains the scent of true love,
Remembers the shiver of the first love, does not surrender those cherished to oblivion.
It knows and celebrates the storm of bygone times,
Reminisces under the starlight of passionate embraces,
Love is a spectrum that does not age, nor does it set,
It stays deeply crusted in corners of the soul, that cannot be erased.
Such is the tangle between body and soul, between memory and dreaming,
Men weave their desires into the map of great secrets,
Women pack their secrets in the garment of desire, of waiting,
And in this ethereal dance, poems are written endlessly, forever incomplete.
Because the body can forget, it may move on,
But the soul preserves love like a shining star,
It never forgets whom it has loved, it keeps them close, does not recede,
And in dreams and in silence, it forever bears them, through days and nights of searching.
Walking amongst the shadows
In the heart of the night
A fall rain, in summer heat
Caresses thoughts of bygone times
In the heart of the night
It’s a full moon, shining upon my face
I walk into the mists of rain
I become a mask, so you see not the pain
I whisper to anyone close
This is the last chance to dance
In the heart of the night
If you were here, hug me tight
The dawn is approaching
And a life time of waiting
City streets wet with rain
In the heart of the night
In the south, of Belles so nice
I am reminded of you
In the heart of the night
New Orleans is full of light
I have waited so long
For love to knock me down
Changing seasons bring me the blues
In the cool fall rains
I dream of you
In the heart of the night
Inspired by a Canadian band, feel free to guess!!!
Trying to recapture a time that's passed
is like trying to slow the flow of a river
with nothing but your hands;
it's an impossible task.
For many of my generation,
our youth seemed less hectic,
with fewer social and political problems.
But time tends to skip over bad experiences,
highlighting more favorable recollections,
filtered through an emotional sieve.
What was true of those good old days,
is that we viewed them through the eyes of youth.
And as we age, we mentally dig up
treasured gems time buried in our past
and enthusiastically restore their shine in our minds.
But they are less a representation
of an era lost to time,
and more a reflection
on our days of innocence.
The allure of revisiting bygone times,
is akin to buying a cup of cold lemonade
from the local stand set up by the neighborhood kids;
somewhat tart, and yet refreshing,
with a sweet aftertaste.
Do you hear that?
Someone passing by? Or a knock you say?
Or probably a tired, lone flower - lost,
Landing on the rooftop?
Do you hear that?
Another one! A third! A fourth!
Like a series of off-key beats, coming together
To make the perfect symphony.
Do you hear that?
Them hitting the roof, breaking into a million pieces,
Each rolling down the concrete,
Past the glass window?
The window that I was forced to keep closed.
“They will dirty the carpet”, she had said.
How ironical - it might leave blemishes of its purity,
On the carpet that has seen far and beyond.
Do you see them?
Racing down the glass, eager to reach its own demise.
Breathless anticipation for who will find its freedom among the sea of millions,
And who will give in to the temptation of losing itself in another.
Do you see them?
Heaving one last sigh, before plunging into the unknown.
Slow them down, for they might lose themselves in this vast uncertainty!
No, don’t stop! For they might lose this final race of survival!
Do you see them?
Their hesitant steps carrying a million questions, the long trails leaving behind a million more.
Only to be reassured by the next,
Rolling down and wiping away the traces of its forerunner.
They’ve come bearing news of a hopeful tomorrow,
Wiping away the remnants of despairing bygone times.
They’ve come long and far - from beyond the infinite,
And to the infinite they shall return.