Long Nostalgiaold Poems
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Christmas was over
the cold winter winds
blew and blew
the sadness grew.
Mother had passed
A time dreaded for
ever so long.
I tried ever so hard
to be strong.
I walked into her home
where she once gathered
her most precious belongings
Wher my small bare foot steps
did once roam.
Though safe within it's walls
her belongings just
collected much dust.
It was a place I
had once learned
to trust.
Now she's gone
who will treasure
these dusty dirty things.
No where to be found
gems or diamond
or saphire rings.
I gazed around
where oh where,
do I start first.
Then into tears
I encontrollably burst.
I first approached
a tall brown dresser
mirror intact,
while polish it lacked.
I pulled open
the small drawers
I was amazed to see
many and many
old candy boxes
and handkerchifs three.
The first, a stack
get well and
old christmas cards
in tied tightly
wrapped ever so neatly.
What on earth
was she thinking
I blurted.
My most swift thoughts
came outwardly leaking.
Then I opened another
dusty dreawer to find
a smaller gold and red box.
Could it hold a diamon ring
I gasped as I
slowly opened it.
My thought did sing.
There, another
whole section
of old cards
among another green
and yellow box.
My memory burst
I'd received these
from family
when I had chicken pox.
There was one from
my maw, another from
Aunt ada, and Uncle harry.
Even one from my classmates
with the one on top from
the cute boy named Larry.
Then I strumed the
cards as a guitar
playing an familiar
old song. So many
I recogonized.
The names
were of many
persons lost
family member or even
a departed decesed friend.
I suddenly knew
just what she
had been thinking
With each card
each broken vase
a sad or happy memory
no one ever could repace.
She'd tucked away
each for obsurvance
for a future a rainy day.
I knew what she
of my life
now a missing part.
She safely kept
each memory
she held once in her heart
tied as neatly there,
as the old cards
in the lovely red candy
box All kept instore.
Each she kept snuggly
in her dresser drawer
I held them now my heart
And sit along where she too
once searched for
old memories, to recall once more.
Linda Terrell
November 14, 2009
Lying in my Grandmother's old brass bed
I watch the blades of her ceiling fan slowing turning
Around and around and around again...
From the heat of this steamy July
There is no end to my yearning.
The old vintage rosebuds on this wallpaper
Speak of its long gone days now no longer new
The paper's soft faded colors
Cast a feminine pinkish haze that mix into a golden hue
On my tan rural arms and long toned legs.
Somewhere in this old farmhouse
A fly is trapped... I can hear its incessant buzzing
Making its last ditch effort
For any type of escape
I had done that same thing so long ago.
But now I am back here in this familiar room
Lying on one of my Grandmother's quilts
Pieced with love of more than hundreds of pieces squared
Each stitch handcrafted perfection,
An ancestral prize to be loved and cherished.
Softened by the decades of delicate washings
I can smell the breezes from its last airing
I can feel my Grandmother's loving embrace
In this quilt that was so intricately made
With so much love and caring.
Each piece of the hundreds of fabrics
Each of the thousands of tiny knots
That were cut by hand and tied
Were executed with the surgical precision
Of a lifelong Quilter's eye.
Love radiates from this heirloom blanket
Created by my Grandmother's gorgeous vision.
Each block and stitch
That were placed by hand
A kaleidoscope of patterns was her mission.
It will be my lifelong reminder
Of a life that was well lived
Of my Grandmother's love and caring
A wonderful remembrance of her talents and gifts
That I too, can share someday.
And so back in her room I find myself
Lying on my Grandmother's quilt
Watching the fan blades go around and around
Reflecting on my Grandmother's past
Wondering if she ever thought about me
What it would have been like
To have left this strong old farmhouse
To have left these safe ancestral lands
For the biggest of the big cities...
And then to have decided to come back.
(January 27, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
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,
This is autumn; a time for fairs,
Where local farmers show off produce, from that land of theirs.
Livestock is also another big hit;
And some folks are enjoying the horse-drawing pit.
But in many states, as any midwesterner knows,
Many gather to watch the tractor shows.
Cases, Masseys, and Internationals can be found;
And you may see a Rumley,or perhaps a John Deere around.
Classic tractors of days gone by.
Stirring memories ,and bringing tears of longing to many eyes.
But for tractor buffs, the highlight of the day,
Is watching the old steamers put on display.
Sometimes a saw-rig, or thresher is at the fair.
Perhaps an old haybaler may even be there.
The machine is parked, and then a tractor brought in,
Having an etra drum on the side, which can be made to spin,
By engaging a clutch, and drawing the engine's power.
Both connected by a long leather belt, they go hour after hour.
As long as there is still work to be done,
A belt driven machine can be continually run.
They never get tired, since all the power they've felt,
Comes from the engine at the end of that belt!
We humans also need an external source of "drive".
Because in our own strength we could never survive!
Just like a machine, we sit unused, in the field,
Til we're belted to a tractor, and the horsepwer it yields.
God has more power than we'll ever need.
We have to have Him working through us, if we are to succeed.
And He's willing to belt-up with us for any task.
He's merely waiting for us humbly to ask.
Charlie Pelota HSLP
Form:
He looked at the old man with tobacco stains on his shirt
Then asked if times were different when he was a kid
The old man smiled and said I’ll tell you a story
About the times we had and the things we did.
Time was when we pledged our allegiance
Being patriotic didn’t make you a fool
Time was when you respected your elders
Each day God was in our public school
We had Friday night dances in the old gym
And pep rallies before the big game
A Ford was a Ford and a Chevy a Chevy
No two cars ever looked the same
We traveled around pedaling a bike
On the handlebars our glove we would drape
With eight or nine kids a game we would play
And our baseball was covered with electrical tape
We walked home after dark alone without fear
Sometimes we would go to the park
Ride the swings and merry go round, even climb trees
Carve our initials into the bark
Time was we had moral standards on TV
They played the National Anthem when day was done
Time was neighbors cared about each other
And a back porch gathering was a lot of fun
We decorated our cars in school colors before a game
We’d work on it until the sun went down
Then go to the game with carload of friends
If we won, we’d beep our horns all over town
Time was when we shopped downtown
We knew all the owners by name
Time was when the music was clean
And a smile could start a new flame.
So yes it was different, was it better or worse
They are the times I often dream of
I don’t know if they were a blessing or curse
Time was we were surrounded by love.
The Rocker’s Rhythm
It comes to mind as here I sit
And reminisce you old friend
We’ve travelled far in 40 years
Let’s see where it began.
A generous gift you came to me
A young girl with new babe.
I squirmed and boggled this first birth
But you your rocking stayed.
Countless hours we played together
Your arms were strong and stern.
Then number two had then arrived
And four arms weren’t enough.
Ear aches, colds, and belly aches
Nursing, tying shoes.
Bruises, scrapes, banged heads and nose
You rocked them safely through.
Long long nights with number three
Your faithfullness ignored.
I only wanted then to sleep
How well you did your chores.
Number four, our first boy
How can I keep them all in toys?
We sat and rocked and watched them play.
How gentle yet he is today.
What! Another mouth to feed
But oh he is so cute
Oh you dear rocker at your best
He’s rough and tough and bruised.
Cracked heads and bites, cuts and scars
Prone he was to these
We tried to rock and calm him down
And then another she.
Bright and happy yet in a rush
You better just be good
Your place in line is number six
I’d rock you if I could.
Wait just a minute I’m really pooped
I can’t believe it, seven!
OK old rocker here we go
We have to get to heaven.
You’ve served me well old rocker
Your rhythms bore the brunt.
Your open arms and welcome set
Even as I lunched.
We carried all the children
And here alone you sit
Oh wait another moment
And grandkids we will fit!
Today, I was sitting in the PX snack bar sipping a cup o' joe,
Just biding my time while my spouse was busily spending dough!
There was a host of intriguing people passing by in review.
I couldn't help but muse about them as I savored my cup o' brew.
I peered back thro' the mists of time when I was a swaggering youth,
Proudly wearing my uniform. (I was smitten with nostalgia, to tell the truth!).
Watching those young soldiers strolling by, my soul was filled with pride,
But I was jolted from my reverie, knowing that too many like them have died.
A sergeant hobbled by on crutches, no doubt wounded in the war.
So young, so very young, thought I, to have seen such morbid gore.
His son, about five years old I'd judge, marched proudly at his side.
I couldn't help but note the love and pride exhibited by his bride.
An old veteran leaned on his cane and was tenderly guided by his wife.
No doubt, he was a Greatest Generation hero who'd see his share of strife.
Gathered around a table were grey-haired veterans enjoying lunch.
Tho' I couldn't hear their banter, they traded war stories was my hunch.
A young mother and her kids scurried by - their soldier I suspect was overseas.
I'm sure her fervent prayer was, "God, bring him home safely, will you please?"
Watching the parade at Fort Carson PX is one that to me will never grow old.
Each member of the unique military fraternity has an epic tale to be told!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
What the Wind Blew in
Fixin’ to get mighty cold he said,
As he laid down an arm full of wood and straightened the cap back on his head.
Y’all makes yourselves to home whilst I puts on some coffee and cuts up that pie,
Not sure what kind of pie it is just some berries she picked by and by.
Misses, she be a heck of a good cook, taken care of me for years now,
She’ll be in shortly had to feed and milk ole Bossy, that being our old cow.
Looks like y’all may have to stay with us till this old storm blows on by,
As he stoked up the old wood stove and thinking bout that pie.
Well I got plenty of hay in the barn and ma’s been cannin all summer, so we gonna be okay,
Gotta a deer hangin in the smokehouse and plenty cut up for today.
Venison stew for supper and a pan of ma’s biskits, good eat’ins all I can say.
Where’d you say y’all wuz headed for anyway?
Ain’t no use to worryin’ bout it cause you ain’t goin no where’s tonight,
May even be two, three days hopin’ that’d be alright.
Well there comes ma, ain’t she the sweetest little ole thing,
Reckon maybe I ought to go fetch a bucket or two of water down from the spring.
Sure nice havin company, yeah I put your horse and buggy in a stall back in the barn.
Yeah I fed him a bucket of oats just hope he don’t get into the corn.
When you get ready for bed just throw you a pallet down here by the fire,
See y’all come morning, outhouse out back in case you need to inquire.
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:
I browsed thro' an old Sears-Roebuck Catalogue the other day.
The necessaries shown in its pages would be antiquities today.
It illustrated harness, horse shoes, things to tend horse's withers,
And displayed everything from anvils to fifty-one string zithers!
Ma could mail-order the latest in stylish apparel to wear:
Bloomers, corsets and petticoats with dainty, fashionable flair!
Things were more prudently displayed in those delicate Victorian days,
So ladies ankles were discreetly covered to spare the ogler's gaze!
Pa had available to him the latest and greatest in carpentry tools,
Cultivators that could be drawn by his two cantankerous mules,
Blacksmithing gadgets, manure spreaders, fishing rods and reels,
Cream separators, horse collars, axe handles and buggy wheels!
For just a little over three dollars and seventy-five cents,
Junior could be clad with jacket and matching knee-length pants.
Kids could drool over teddy bears which then were all the rage,
And marvel at the magic land of toys on each titillating page!
'Twas enlightening to view things as they were in those good old days.
I suppose back than all those things were the current craze.
Items costing pennies then, now repose on shelves in the antique store.
But, my oh my, over the decades, how the cost of them did soar!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)