Long Nostalgic Poems
Long Nostalgic Poems. Below are the most popular long Nostalgic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nostalgic poems by poem length and keyword.
When she was in the second grade
the clouds were ivory castles in the sky
& bugs were for collecting instead of stomping
& fireflies were lighthouses for bees,
her wizened maths and grammar teacher, who forgot
that sticks are swords, sharp as imagination
& the feeling of hitting river rocks with a baseball bat
& couches were battleships on hardwood oceans,
told her that you couldn’t stand on clouds
& that you can’t eat ants even if they taste like lemons
& that ‘being a house cat’ wasn’t a real career choice
Sometimes I feel we’d be a little better off
if we just sent kids outside instead of school.
Who knows? If we did I could be writing this
from my royal room in a castle in the sky
or collecting bruises from blades of elm and oak
drifting in nostalgic currents from lighthouse to
lighthouse as I reach for another handful of ants
Spurting colors in a sunset sky,
The look of absolute wonder in the eye
As the last of the sun descends,
The lingering light tickling trembling waves
Embraces in a thrashing storm,
Nighttime sharpening the senses,
An apology accentuating sincerity,
Sighs of relief parting the lips
The sound of trust on the tongue,
The joining of hands in times of fear,
Sorrow in a child's hopeful eyes
Anger aimed to protect
Nostalgic memories relived,
Warm blankets over shivering limbs
The vast movement of the moon,
Growing light approaching fullness
2.5.2020
Note: What are your weak spots?
I become nostalgic
longingly when reminisce good old cheerful times
dive in quick
Romantic dreams
Fresh, hopeful, innocent dimes
Joy Screams
Why now
Unpleasant climes
Bow
I become nostalgic
Fresh, hopeful, innocent dimes
Bow
Note:
Format of the New form of Rhyme named MlNICHU is as follows:
1. Total 12 lines (4 stanzas of 3 lines each)
2. Rhyme scheme: Aba, cBc, dbD, ABD.
3. 4th stanza consists of repeat of 1st line of stanza1, 2nd line of stanza 2, and 3rd line of stanza 3.
4. Poem should stick to a chosen theme through all stanzas. A twist can be introduced in third stanza, if required by the theme, to make it more interesting.
5. Syllable count :
Stanza 1: 6,12,3
Stanza 2: 4,8,2
Stanza 3: 2,4,1
Stanza 4: 6,8,1.
Never can dreaded oppressive oblivion
Order the blotting out of parents’ legacy poured into
Soul and heart of mine with memories so precious
Testifying faithful fellowship, forever triumphant
Affirming love, affectionately prevalent amidst nostalgia
Lingering in family bonds, beyond the temporal
Glowing against departure toward eternity --- bringing
Influence upon goodness’ impact, smiting “missing you” ennui
Cheering by God’s grace* along home-sweet-home lyric.
*Psalm 84:11 For the LORD God is a sun and shield: the LORD will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.
December 3, 2020
3rd place, "ANY NEW ACROSTIC ABOUT NOSTALGIA" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier; judged on 1/9/2021.
Hello, September!
We meet ~
with crimson-tinged golden-fringed excitement,
let's rendezvous with an enthralling rhapsody anew!!
paths are strewn with puce,
tangerine, cerise, orange leaves...
swirling, twirling, whirling intoxicated under the sapphire sky -
luring us gambol in a fairyland of colours!
fall’s magical show!
sheer beauty of red and gold leaves swooshing about ~
watch the clouds dizzily dreamy in a champagne light,
watch with nostalgic wistfulness canada geese returning -
a graceful fascinating formation in the sky!
butterflies seductively kissing
bewitching flowers under a luminous sun,
watch robin enticingly singing
luscious summer’s farewell song !
a decoupage of kaleidoscopic hues -
red, golden, amber leaves waltzing down ~
triumphant summer leaves letting
mysterious autumn dazzle the world !
Hello September!
September 14, 2021
THIRD PLACE
For " Hello September" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
A Brian Strand Freed Verse Poetry Contest
Chyann Rose, the elegant and beautiful rose
That grows in the wilderness beneath the trees,
Its memories floats high over all our country roads,
Fluttering its leaves, dancing elegantly in the breeze.
Sweeping along in the cool thoughtful margin of the day
Thousands of people will see her at a tender glance,
Her colours tinkle in the inward eye along the way,
And make a theatre to bring our heart great romance.
Other flowers try to outwit her sparkling waves
They stand to gaze but look bewildered and amazed.
In the vacant glazed that flash across the eyes,
A continuous line of stars the ambiance embraced.
That wealth of beauty which grows along the grassy verge
And fragrance spread her breath under green boughs,
That seemed as if they laugh with the wind that surge
Looking so gay, floating in the distant on parade meadows.
The host of roses stretch along in rows of endless lines
Vases arranged in bouquet of beautiful flowers to impart,
Refined art, remain the sacred chimes, for special times
Every rose has a meaning opening windows to your heart.
We stop by to watch pools of bright colours fill up the garden,
Between the snowy day and every bleak and darken evening,
Dowry flakes harness the promises nature had taken,
Makes the unprintable portrait of something more lasting.
Unbowed in death, beyond the place of wreath and tears,
Looms the Rose of Chyann sprawled in comforting shade,
And yet find illusive fate a master of the menacing years,
In matters of faith roses clutch every circumstance unafraid.
Unknown thrills of deepening bliss dip into the sun- wings rays,
And trade the trodden age unglazed with her soft breeze
Passing through stages where the former stagnant air stays,
Having a better robe for fragrance to wear in the path of ease.
The Rose of Chyann enchant my heart with pleasure fills
Abundant moods of inward solitude and matrimonial bliss,
In such a sprightly company there life mystery wishfully dwells
To stay immaculately nostalgic in the mind of happiness.
Lucy Locket lived amidst Lakeland Hills, where jay serenaded morning;
Like plum rainbows celebrate sunshine, with never any silent warning.
Lucy was merely twenty years old, like a peach rose, dusted with dew;
And she was also a dutiful teacher, unveiling what children never knew.
Lucy liked to sew and to garden, like green nature, roving everywhere,
Recalling lavish, sunset skies we used to view, in the colors of vanity fair.
Kitty Fisher was Lucy's best friend, amidst many, for she was popular;
Like finches are popular in floriated summer, creating gladness, ocular.
Fancy emerald nature wore fun, fantasy makeup, in its faceted colors;
And unfaltering family flattered fall with visits, beloved like no others.
Kitty lived in the house of very ordinary, like cherry redbirds singing;
Where silver moments comprised golden hours, jeweled time ringing.
Summer snapdragons grew quite lovely, on her sparkling street of sun;
And scarlet maples smiled colors, until the smoky season left, sudden.
Nepalese neighbors narrated tales of sweet nation, at mulberry night,
When nectarous, naval oranges hung ripely, under moon, satiny white.
Purple ranunculus blooms resembled roses, when sunrise echoed dusk;
And 'Marimo Moss Balls' played water polo, while jasmine trailed musk.
Giant water lilies ruled placid lakes, giving rise to titanic, pink blooms;
As golden sun and calm moon vie for dominion, inside separate rooms.
Lucy and Kitty went to a lecture, in a lavish, lavender evening of larks.
The lively, literary topic was much enjoyed, like the sun's dying sparks.
Afterwards, Kitty and Lucy parted, each to their own welcoming home;
Like a green bird of turquoise skies, oft makes its nostalgic way, alone.
Later, Lucy discovered her pocket was missing, its location so unknown,
Like red streaks of gold time, ever fleeing, past a blue, marble milestone.
Next day dawned golden, and Lucy's pocket, she found on her doorstep.
Golden coins were tied to its ribbon. And at Kitty's note, her heart leapt!
For it was Lucy's sparkling, glad birthday, as devoted friends remember;
And Kitty had made it one of her best, like hued leaf nights of November.
'Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
Kitty Fisher found it;
Not a penny was there in it,
Only ribbon round it.'
Forest fairies changing colors,
autumn's patchwork pattern weaving
in the foggy morning stillness
before winter's barren grieving,
up the river on the damp air,
up hollows through the shadowed vales
sounds the mournful, sobbing whistle:
once more memory rides the rails.
Childhood song for railroad watchers -
a tinge of hobo in my veins,
longing for the lonesome whistle
like a lost child for his name.
Life began beside the railway,
an open door to fantasy;
my dreamer's soul soaked in the flavor
hearing that whistle witchery.
Hungry tramps in search of breakfast
found our doorstep every time;
hobo network communication
marked mama's eggs and bacon "fine."
Bleary eyes and beards all stubble
made child imaginations fly
and the tales with which we clothed them
were wilder still than hobo lies.
Oh, for the days when trains were magic:
iron dragons breathing smoke and fire,
lashing long tails through the valleys
with monstrous strength that never tired.
Oh, the secrets that were hidden
behind the doors of plain boxcars;
feel the untamed urge to mount them
and plunder treasure from afar.
Delight was ours beyond measure
to waken on those special days,
finding, in the night, the dragon
had brought the circus train our way.
See the bearded lady waving
and catch the fat man's twinkling eye,
smell the coal smoke's pungent flavor
beneath our magic big top sky.
Grown up am I; steam train magic
comes swirling by once in a while
to view autumn's fleeting pageant
and make train lovers like me smile.
Nostalgic, rhythmic beating,
staccato yelps and sobbing wails
make my soul a mental hobo;
once more memory rides the rails.
Copyright, 2000
Faye Lanham Gibson
I was a famous conductor, and performing beautiful music was my joy,
As diamond sunshine, to pervade darkness, finds any means to employ.
Music had long been a part of me, in that I sang long before conducting,
Like the famed adult bluebird choirs, lead the songs they are instructing.
My much loved work kept me busy. Still, I loved every precious moment,
As wild, crazy, summer colors dash afar, with no cries of encroachment.
But I had a personal favorite song, which I loved more than any other,
As anyone recalling their great loves, find their thoughts turn to mother!
This song had held special meaning for me, for what felt like long ages,
And I never tired of hearing it, as blooms will never have enough vases.
I thought of the melody as 'my song,' for in my heart, it was mine alone,
Like multicolored autumn leaves flying, when green summer is disowned.
It was then marigold days of sultry July, and dark purple martins soared,
Like finding you have heartfelt passion, for someone you once abhorred.
I had just entered a restaurant, when I heard that stirring song playing,
Like chattering, mischievous monkeys, swing forever in treetops, saying.
Then like always, I was transported, back down nostalgic memory lane,
Just as orange birds recur every springtime, singing the melodies again.
As I was returning home that evening, the full moon was in the treetops,
Whispering with those flashing stars, as a part of the nightly peace talks.
As I went up the front porch steps, the fragrance of lilacs was tangible,
As on the streets of scarlet summer, where wild blooms are fashionable!
The moment I entered my house, my heart song began its playing again,
As a sultry summer that's come lately, only to meet the vivid fall refrain.
Though I was enraptured by extravagant music, and music was my life,
Still, it was odd that it could play itself, the moment this person arrived!
It seemed that the song I'd loved so long, had come to love me as well,
And had determined to follow me always, like fragrances casting spells.
My heart song is still pursuing, through mellow days and jasmine nights,
As owl stares at a moon of rapture, and bees are off on honeyed flights.
That song of precious sweet memories, greets me every room of my life,
Like a red rose that blooms for you only, even where wild blooms are rife!
Melting the dawn with eyes
Soulful eyes roaming – piercing the light,
Promising the night, erased from sight,
Soon bleeding its shadows through the rising
Sun’s beautiful, healing touch, kissing
Away the night – awakening the gentling
Colors of a morning sun, silencing the laughter
The laughter of the moon, the stars winking
Chuckling at the craziness of a nocturnal
Memory hosted by the flowing wonder, the
Wonder of a heart who believes, believes
Beyond any doubt, that this is the way…
The way to find out where beautiful brings
Its richest promises to life, stirring grace
Amidst the cravings of a stardust dusk, paradise
Thawing the icicle promises from their shadowy
Graves, haunted by the autumn who calls quietly,
In memories, nostalgic outweighing the melancholy
Flames of victory starving the hard hearted
Burning away the furious mysteries, the anonymous
Words who sing hope and shine with poetic prose,
Secrets pour from the hearts who hear her,
Love’s silent tears, glowing on the edges of a heartbeat,
Feeding the delicate faiths, the feelings, the grace
Raining like the downpour in summer’s heat,
Blessing away the sweaty hush and testifying to the
Joy that comes from knowing love far more alive,
Far more satisfying than any love on earth
This love comes to those who hear the dawn rising
With souls who discover the meaning of grace
In the fiery furnace of doubt and hear the music
The meaningful waves of harmony flooding the heart
With gentle that believes – His love is the only truth,
The only way, the only need for the heart who truly sees…
His love is everything I need!