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.
I just realised
I never said goodbye
I never thought
About you again
Never did you cross my mind
Just gone
Like a thought
Caught on that wind
What brought you back
Back to the fore
Richard Clapton
He came on the radio
It was like
You whispered to me
Way back from the 70’s
How nostalgic
How dorky
I had to laugh
At you
To start
Then when
I thought more
I wanted to cry
How the world was worth fighting for
Back then
How we use to live
In the lucky country
Everything was further away
Further still today
Everything has changed
But
Nothing has changed
Except
Whether it’s worth
Still fighting for
I wish
I wish I could go back
And just sit with you
Talk about anything
Anything you want
Maybe sow seeds
That would stop you
Doing all those dumb things
Sow seeds of courage
So, they might make you
Do the right things
Just put my arm around you
Around your shoulders
And tell you
Just to love yourself
That can’t happen
I know
Once you left
You just kept going
Like you were running
You never looked back
At
Myself
In the 70’s
As I traverse the bleakness of the wasteland,
my footsteps crush the cinnamon ground.
Dry and brittle soil turns to desolate dust,
swirls on the wings of the autumn wind.
Some blows away from me despondent,
some I collect in my weathered urn,
and spread on the secluded skeletal roots
of a blooming rose sapling, I rear with care.
The contours of its curling petals unfurling,
trace the trying tracks of the transient time,
turn to tortuous lane of the fading memory.
The dust storm slashing the listless life,
rushes from the edge of the twilight zone.
The surge sweeps away the falling petals,
and as they rustle, I hear them sigh…
‘hold us before we disappear’.
The last dust of longing drifts nowhere,
through the residual rays of the setting sun,
soaking the shards of the shattered dreams,
morphs into dislodged petals of pain,
flying away from the sapling of the rose,
leaving the plant bare in the de-floral frame,
I try to keep displayed as long as I can
in the nostalgic niche of my yearning.
Through the golden sunset beams,
I see the last petal of rose fall sequined,
catch it before it flies away, hold it close to heart,
until it turns into a seed of sanguinity,
slipping through my fatigued fingers,
fall on the soil where the sapling of rose stands.
In spring the petal returns to the beguiled bud,
blossoming for me as the rose of rhapsody.
The charcoal cloud miasmic,
melts in the ashen scorched sky,
summer drizzle descends
with the fascinating flotilla
that floats in the arid air.
The seeping spectrum
of the setting scarlet sun
sparkles on the slanting splash
of the rain drops,
soaking the singed malachite meadow,
exudes pervasive petrichor,
saturating the blazing ambiance.
From the moistened crack
of the desiccated soil
sprouts an olivine sapling
after waiting a long while,
spreads tender emerald leaves,
cradling a cute bud,
glistened by the touch
of the rhapsodic rain,
the pink petals unfurl,
draped with twilight tinge.
They dance in summer breeze
with the radiant rain drops,
turning into pearls,
reflecting the rainbow hues.
With the falling sultry dusk
the sprinkling sky sinks,
wavers with the cadence
of the serenading rain drops,
cascading with soft musical torrent
on the misty pane
of my dripping window.
The rain of nostalgic joy,
that beguiled the lost youth
returns innately inspired
to morph into meandering rows
in the ballet of dancing rills,
I feel roll with silent symphony
in the euphoric sanctum of my soul.
I hear my mesmerized heart
sing the rain song,
captivating for a while
the memory of the melodic youth,
that wanders in the rhythm of splatter
with the downpour of delight
beyond the arch of rainbow ecstasy
in the clement days
of raining in summer.
Midst nostalgic bliss yon reminiscence fervor
my mind does savor young love-thrills from heart's abyss
as throw-back endeavor re-creates love story I can't miss...
though we must choose academic aegis over infatuation's favor.
You and I forged our partnership with promises of "forever-we-are-one" creed
and constant letters of endearment midst caring deed brightened our relationship
yet, our parents' lead and family's breed prevailed along their wise workmanship...
so we yielded to their stewardship, assured of "let's wait for right time indeed."
Our separation with cooling-off strain was inevitable
since struggles so undeniable burst along agonizing pain
yet goals of attainable stature stood upon priorities' terrain...
driving us with faith's gain to conquer teen-age feelings fiercely insurmountable.
Now, I am thankful that it was and is best that we have separated ways
as we pursued our individual race toward triumphant crest
each at our own pace, both of us freely soared upward maturity zest...
allowing us to see each other blest; you with your family; me in God's ministerial grace.
If the sun married the rain - It would become a rainbow (quote by poet)
This aquamarine aquarium is a prismatic prison,
reflecting a reality of a pseudo persona
and I've become tired from pretending
behind this veil of pantomime portrayal
just like the mind of 'Kurt Cobain.'
I hunger for harmony,
desiring for juniper and jasmine,
to weave and wrap their tendrils, tenderly
around an alchemy of angst,
but my shroud is a burdensome blanket,
like a softly spoken voice in a nocturnal nightclub.
I shiver in the sunshine, soaking from secretive
somber storm clouds, creating an autumnal aroma,
so I'm wondering why it's raining in summer,
weeping on fading misty rainbows,
prompting me to pour like a tropical monsoon,
reflecting it's spectrum shadows like
red poppies under a crimson nostalgic November,
orange embers from a dying bonfire,
yellow pages of a forgotten book,
green moss covering a timeworn tombstone,
blue jay upon wilting royal forget-me-nots,
indigo horizons slipping into midnight and a
violet velveteen silhouette in a dimly lit basement.
In windswept moors all I wish for,
is for you to allow me to rest upon your blossom,
like a raindrop - even if it's synthetic.
I'm forlorn in a fathomless fate,
where the Grim Reaper sits on
his throne as the king of kismet.
He was once was an unseen predator,
but now, with enchanting enthusiasm,
he's playing the organ in my hymn of death
Its musical pattern keeps repeating in my head,
like recurring nightmares.
But when turquoise tides return at dusk,
I hope to wash upon your bronze shore,
shimmering like a trail of neon planktons.
I can't keep blaming the pain,
so let it pour... And let me live.
In the darkness of the night, when the stars weave their destinies,
And the moon bathes its face in silver lakes,
Eternal thoughts float, like everlasting shadows,
In the deep sanctuary of the heart, sadness dons its cloak.
I do not mean to be nostalgic about suffering,
But in the heart of the night, pain is the divine alchemist,
Oh, those who do not feel the tremor of loss and longing,
Will never fully penetrate the enigmatic realms of their own nature.
Beneath the branches of the mystical tree of life,
The thirst to know the infinite is born within us,
From the cracks of the soul, wings of light grow,
And tears turn into crystals of divine essence.
In the mirror of suffering, refined truths are revealed,
From the ashes of internal fires, we are reborn like phoenix birds,
For those who cannot walk through the abyss of pain,
Remain trapped in labyrinths of illusions and voices blown by the wind.
Thus, suffering becomes our solemn mage,
A ritualistic dance under the infinite, clear and mysterious sky,
In the echo of suffering, we discover ancient essences,
On the initiatic path, with shadowed and sacred steps.
Through the mists of suffering, we find who we are,
Lost sparks in the cosmic night, we become stars,
Guided through labyrinths, we learn to shine,
The mystique of sadness is the flame that lights our path to transcendence.
Ignorance is bliss or so they say
But I was enlightened in a colorful way
In a silent conversation with our old friend
The sun told me this at yesterdays' end
He was glowing dark red in an angry display
For the constant pollution while we worked and played
Blended red and yellow showing orange disgust
A colorful sign of his negative distrust
Then passionate red for the love he shares
An approving gesture he thinks we still care
His friendship was kissed with a touch of pink
Reminding us all to stop and think
A moody dark purple of sadness and gloom
Fair warning try harder or we'll all be doomed
Then splashes light purple for days gone by
Feeling nostalgic for clear blue skies
As his dark blue of power turned to black
Leaving hope for tomorrow that he'd be back
Now that I've told you of all I have learned
Don't you think we should all be more seriously concerned
If you don't believe me and still wear a frown
Then tomorrow just listen as the sun goes down
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
The proposal would be outlined using a strategic written document.
"Trotts Folly" the business needed an achievement passement and
analysis, so that those who would serve on the board of chairmen
could vote on. The name likely reflects the romanticized, nostalgic,
and popular era it was developed in.;"The Trotts Folly Classic" an
event without details provides insight to what is expected.. Lender will use
the finacail plan to do analysis, a view of past performances and projections.
They told a story of several guy's at a party getting there Woman friends to tie Pigfeet bones into the word love you. It made the unmarried angry, it made the unwanted jealous it made some just plain mad.
"The best thing I can say about me is that I am utterly what you see." by author of this poem
Utterly in love with writing I have been
since my muse first visited and I picked up her pen.
Utterly adoring of family and friends I am.
Though far from most of them, I call to chat as often as I can.
Utterly content am I to also be alone.
I have a lot of interests I engage in on my own.
I’m utterly in awe of books, for like a favorite friend,
a good book I will stay with until the very end.
I’m utterly delighted by small pleasures such as food.
Popcorn and movies put me in a happy mood.
I’m utterly nostalgic when I’m thinking of
my kin and friends deceased for whom I have great love.
I’m utterly impressed by those who have great wit
but not so pleased, when given not a thing to do, I am forced to sit.
I’m utterly annoyed too by people who are mean
and small-minded people who with jealousy are green.
Most utterly I’m sickened by horrific crimes.
Murder, rape, domestic violence: the number of them climbs.
Utterly overwhelmed by woe I sometimes feel.
For things once on my bucket list I no more have great zeal.
However, I stay utterly thankful to the Lord
knowing when I die, my health will be restored.
I utterly admire folks who show a happy face
like those with burdens helping others, living life with grace.
Utterly with hope I live. I need not dwell on strife
with all the wondrous things that I was blessed with in my life
Who Owns a Poem?
Could I call a poem – a poem
if I titled it as such
or would this egocentricity
cause the poets to turn on me?
Words - shifting sands - rolling stones
shadows cast by meatless bones
memory’s nostalgic noose
tormenting the bottled goose.
Three shelled game – poet as pea
always writing – never free
ink stained apron – wordplay runes
clandestine nom de plumes.
The pen sits mute atop the truth
expressed beneath its tip
manipulated poetic pawn
lost amid a coming dawn
Thrusting blindly at the night
stalking shadows in the light
scratching words in sand, on stone
for his poems he cannot own.
©6/17/2017
submitted to – The Creative Collective Anthology Series – Poetry Contest