Long Nostalgia Poems
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A bit of nostalgia, in 1979, my senior year of High School, our English class published a small book of poetry. I was pleasantly surprised that my poem was one of the ones selected to be included. The book was called "Reflections" and included student drawings as well. Unknown to me, my older sister kept my copy of that book and returned it to me recently via my younger sister. The following is the poem I wrote to be printed in the book. I was 18. This is the only poem I've written that still exists prior to my posting on PS. It is posted exactly as it was printed.
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Over the hills
The flowers grow,
And deep into the senses blow,
The breezes of calm yet illustrious flows
Of streams of thoughts on the coming low
Of winter and the fallen snow.
Yet this air, so still and sweet,
With clouds which so sullenly reach
To every hidden earthly retreat,
Merely to bring forth and to greet
Thoughts of the soft and gentle feet
Of spring in my mind.
?/?/1979
I left you in the corner of my mind
with teenage memories of my puberty.
I put thoughts of you in a box in the
attic of my recall, along with others from
that time, and there you lay,
settled, gathering dust.
Gathering dust.
I wrapped each memory carefully,
as one would a cut glass; delicate,
trying to keep the stems intact.
Desperate to retain the perfection
yet scared it wouldn't last, and there you stayed,
settled, gathering dust.
Gathering dust.
Years have rusted the recollection;
Once vivid colours of reminiscence
faded in perception, yet you sat
patiently in the corner of my mind,
jostled by accumulating life experiences,
settled, gathering dust.
Gathering dust.
Like some old painting waiting
for restoration, you bided your time.
Then one day in the attic you spoke
my name; you called me from your corner
and into my present came a familiarity;
a recognisable voice perforating the now with then
and it was yesterday again -
I unfold the tarnished tissue paper which
has wrapped the ornate cut glass
memory for so long; carefully, piece
by tattered piece, and there it is,
glistening in glorious perfection;
vibrant still, safely stored,
stem intact.
Opening the dusty leather bound album
Lots of memories come flooding back
Dad had a lot more hair back then!
Proud parents when our son was born
How he’s grown into a delightful young man
Outings to the park with his little friends
Turning the pages I start to get quite teary
Old faces of loved ones no longer with us
Good friends and relations who have passed
Rich reminders of happy times in days gone by
Amazing events captured, frozen in time
Pages turned bring tears and laughter
How precious are all these moments
Snap some pictures today for you to share
ANY NEW ACROSTIC ABOUT NOSTALGIA Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
12/21/12
When I was a child witches were the demonic devils in faerie tales.
I was terrified of the old lady up the block who looked like Margaret Hamilton.
Witches, witchcraft and witchery were to be feared, and I was frightened.
Harvey Comics changed it up when they introduced us to Wendy Witch.
Wendy was kind and compassionate, she wanted to make friends.
She was a soft-hearted upstander who stood up for other people.
This was a new witch, a witch I wanted to know better.
She changed things up in my head, and I looked up witchcraft.
Witchcraft is not Satan’s workshop, it is gardening, it is herbs, it is awareness.
“To no one do harm” is the witch’s creed.
Who were these men who wanted us to fear witches?
Possibly jealous men who did not know how to garden.
I thank Harvey Comics for my mind shift regarding witches.
And Wendy Witch of course!
So quickly now
The fading years,
So brief somehow
The past appears.
So here we find
Nostalgia sting,
So there the mind
Can barely string.
So clearly brief
The passage here,
So telling grief
Can falter spheres.
So mark the mess
That time forgets,
So dump the trash
Of old regrets.
So here we sit
And think old thoughts,
So jest and wit
Can purge sad noughts.
So by and by
The times we know,
So sigh greets sigh
The fading glow.
So soon the end
Comes to conclude,
So brief this trend
That life includes.
So dare to live
The comic fest,
So learn to give
Grace happy jest.
Leon Enriquez
13 November 2014
Singapore
The space is smaller
than what was measured by memory,
the stained glass windows much less
vibrant compared to what glowed
brightly in the light of back then.
The pews have been worn down
to bare wood by sliding bums
and where arms have rested
or fidgeted in prayer. I genuflect,
prompted by some remnant of habit,
out of a sense of respect,
then take a seat.
Peeling paint sheets the walls
not in wear, but in neglect. In places
an amber sheen coats where candle
smoke has left a nicotine like stain
after decades of petitions.
I wonder how many were fulfilled.
The brass candle rack has a two
stubs that sit like the last
remaining teeth in empty gums.
The white marble altar that once
seemed to soar to a height scraping
the very hem of heaven now could be
scaled by a modest ladder.
Six years old,
I stood before it in terror. Hidden away
within its chambers behind golden doors
there was a God who could send me
to hell. I had nowhere to hide.
Surely, no God would want
to be here now in such a place.
Everything in this building speaks
of an absence, a sad vacancy
that was once filled with a weighted
presence whether real or imagined.
There are no flowers to sweeten the air
or whispered prayers
from a visiting soul to sanctify the quiet.
And yet there are relics here,
echoes that bypass the ear,
shadows that seem to reach up
out of the silence like extended hands
pulling at my mind. I am not sure
whether it is the clutch
of the drowning wanting to be saved
or the other way around.
Old men in waistcoats
Sitting in the warm sun
Chatting of those days
When they were young
Comrades in arms at
The Cold War’s height
Fighting off sleep through
Each long shift’s night.
Each hour seeming longer
As dawn broke the sky
Each long second endless
To each tired, aching eye.
The moment of relief at
At each shift’s end
Precious sleeping hours
To help tired minds mend.
Enjoying each hour until
That inevitable when
Once again it’s their turn
For the night shift again.
Old men in waistcoats
Reliving days of youth
Of a very different world
And a very different truth.
Each reunion ends with
A ritual moment to think
And toast those gone with
The Absent Friends’ drink.
They renew their pledge,
Same time next year,
Each maybe wondering
That’s if I’m still here.
I hate Harriet Oleson because she was a *****.
Somebody should've had that awful woman lynched.
She makes me so mad that the veins in my forehead start to throb.
That woman was greedy, mean and she was the world's biggest snob.
She had a spoiled brat for a daughter who was named Nellie.
But when Laura Ingalls threw hay on her, she became smelly.
If I had been MR. Oleson, I would've gotten a divorce.
His wife was so ugly, she had the face of a horse.
If I could've gotten my hands on MRS. Oleson, I would've gave her a good shake.
Every time she looked in mirrors, they were bound to break.
The Ingalls were very good people and they were also very nice.
But I wish MRS. Oleson would've had to shave her head because of lice.
Let's bring it back; let's go back
To that sweet, old thing we now lack
Make it great again, go back again
Let's start right away; let's begin
Back to organic maple syrup over Mama's hot, buttermilk flapjacks
And Daddy's Saturday morning tutorials on how to change the oil and how to use a scissor jack
A return to strangers saying 'hello' to strangers in passing
Souls offering sincere pleasantries that are warm and long-lasting
Let's take a trip back to Mayberry
With some good old-fashioned Andy, Aunt Bee, and Barney
Back to decency, respect, kindness, and hospitality
A good, wholesome place; a good space of love and integrity
Let's go back far away from the masks and the distant, cold stares
Back to sharing a sandwich at lunch and car ride shares
For too long, we've sat lonely in a sunken place
Such a cold, dark, and constricted space
Let's go back, let's revisit, let's taste that lost sweetness
That wholesome, rich thing that's bustling with goodness
Aves above, meadow below, secret catacomb
Scattered labyrinth accommodates as garland
Armour of thorns reborn as cordial yellow crown
Mother comfort apricot offers pleasures wafted
Mauve curled demure uncovered, velvet vortex
Birthday cake cream mingles fruit tingle hues
Morning crisp evaporation uplifts exulting heads
Flushed faces exhale, held in grateful hands
Nostalgia sends invite to nuptial rain haven
Doily draped tea table sips rosehip heavenly
29th April 2023
Contest: Rose Meadow
Sponsor: Julia Ward