Long Nostalgically Poems
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Running fancy free into a field,
Chasing butterflies my path revealed,
My arms outstretched into the sky,
I am so happy--not caring why.
Cooled by a fragrant soft Spring breeze,
I trip and fall down to my knees,
Then wistfully gaze into the sky,
To watch the clouds drift slowly by.
Slowly my youthful mind escapes,
Into their billowy pillowy shapes,
As my youthful imagination rages,
Onto life’s unwritten pages.
I reminisce about these scenes so well,
But to them I’ve had to say farewell,
To blend with the accepted propriety
Of my adult world’s fast society.
Though I mostly do what people expect,
I sometimes upon my youth reflect,
And dream nostalgically of my life then,
Knowing I can never be that person again.
Gleeful happy joyful jubilantly wonderful exciting times
Unknowing about pandemics, upbeat feeling climbs.
Two-thousand-twenty sobering, history unprecedented.
Wishing China bat-eating fetish never invented.
Family laughter disappeared suddenly January weekend.
Hugging, kissing, contacting, unacceptable, distance recommend.
Turning USA upside downward, Covid-19 virus, dreadfully awful.
Society unbelievably vulnerable, saving family ultimate waffle.
Willingly educated medically, socially emotionally, mostly ready.
Epidemiologists attempt delivering materials timely, steady.
Many seeking antiquated untimely methods, yearning nostalgically.
Brilliant refreshingly, newfangled ideas prancing forward magically.
Answers forthcoming furiously, quickly, distrust poisoning recipe.
Many wishing timekeeper resetting calendar daybreak hippie.
Gleeful happy joyful jubilant wonderful exciting times
Unknowing about pandemic, upbeat feeling climbs.
The sea pig wandered aimlessly through the straits of Gibraltar where once upon a time she had seen the pillars of Hercules standing proudly in that so long ago forgotten age
She sighed and swam on "even more down in the dumps than she had been before .
She paused her swim and floated just inches from the surface and listened to the ugly noises of industry and over population ,
She thought back nostalgically and of that happy Ancient music that once drifted serenely from those same shore’s carried upon the incense smoke from the Human shrines dedicated to her kind .
Her age was far longer than even her living memory could comprehend accurately ,
Certainly Before the continents had broken apart and had formed the great islands ‘ of that there was no doubt
that particular memory was like yesterday to her .
The sea pigs parents ‘ ‘when she could be bothered to swim into the deepest parts of the Abyss to find them’
Reminded her constantly of the journey to this system aboard a great Ark that still orbits all the great oceans to this day ‘ shining in the nights sky.
“A reminder of our roots”
the sea pig chuckled too herself as she heard her mother’s whistling calls within her heart repeating that very sentiment.
Sadly though ‘ She and her parents were the last of their kind ‘ seventeen others had faced their demise ranging from natural disasters ,becoming land locked in inland seas or lakes due to the shifting of the continents ,
‘Tragically 'others to human under sea nuclear testing during a unfortunately timed mating ritual 'at least two others had been caught by pure chance by the Ancient whalers of this world.
‘As a consequence of this action ‘for hundreds of years to follow were then depicted on maps as sea Monsters with dire warnings of
“here be Dragons “.
How would the sea pig know of this ? I’ve no idea but she dose seemingly,
She knows her oceans are polluted ,
She knows the creatures on the shore no longer care for their habitat or the great waters that divide them ,
She also knows that one day the Ark will awaken and herald the great return .
It was in September that Poetry first came to me -
a time when summer’s embers, for me had not yet caught fire
until, that is, Poetry walked casually toward me
wearing bell bottoms and a young man’s angel face.
Visited by such exquisite grace, I felt the spark of sweet desire’s flame.
Our kisses in the night made my spirit sing; the flame leapt higher.
Yes, a night to remember is what my angel boy gifted me,
and though the fall was near, I was in the springtime of my youth.
The years have come and gone gone gone
Memories of my old flames are cinders now, softly glowing In my mind.
They cannot be revived to brightly glow again; they are the past.
After Poetry walked in all those years ago,
a few decades passed. One day I felt the urge to put pen to paper.
Recalling nostalgically the fire that once had so consumed me,
tender words flowed from me; passion was reborn!
Recreating fantasy, I became the lady who danced the unicorn,
who lived, and who still lives romance, again and again and again,
for the passion now is in my pen!
It was in September that Poetry first came to me.
I just didn’t know it then.
(Inspired by Harry’s poems- The Old Oak Tree, Oh them hot air balloons, Death is Not the End and An Agendaless Age)
I have known Harry barely two years back
Yet I felt a strange rapport with him
Even before reading his poems,
On seeing the silhouette of Harry,
In colored glass and grey hair, reflecting
Nobility and gentleness, I got overpowered.
I have always felt he was cool and level-headed
But strong like the old oak tree, ever sheltering!
A sanctuary to new poets, a guardian to everyone,
To learn and derive inspiration from.
A gentle spirit who had a word of encouragement for all.
He was not among the clump of trees
But stood aloof like the old oak tree
He wished to stay rooted to the ground
And never fancied to ride like the hot air balloon
As he knew it would soon come down to earth
He was never a votary of the ultra modern age.
He nostalgically reminiscences of an agenda- less age,
When there were no timetables and no worries
Where fences were constructed, not as barriers,
But to lean on and talk with neighbours.
Harry, with you we too believe, death is not the end.
You will not die dear poet friend
But through your poems, will live in our hearts forever.
Enjoy the bliss of being in an agenda- less age,
And roam free ‘in fresh woods and pastures new’!
May 31.2023
~ Placed First~
Tributes to Harry Horsman- An Uncontest Poetrty Contest
Sponsor- Andrea Dietrich
.
“To ponder is to wander-
midst memories and yonder.”
__by Poet
I oft ride down my dear memory lane-
recalling those that filled up special years,
to ponder, safeguard those which I retain-
that show my smiles still winning over tears.
I do remember childhood days with joy,
and, reminiscing on my family,
I recollect the ways they helped employ
to shape my life- then pass to me the key.
Nostalgically, I search in retrospect
and call to mind the gifts I leave behind
reflecting all the ways I could connect
accepting strength to foster peace of mind.
I ponder life as I look through this scope-
expand their gifts of love, with faith, and hope.
Bonfire burning merrily shooting sparks
that hop and dance in bright moonlight.
On the top is the guy smoke covers feet
as the flames lick ever higher consuming.
Catherine wheels spinning colours madly
while children's sparkles form misty shapes.
The sky lights up as rockets fly and burst
into spectacular colour with thunderous blast.
Hot baked potatoes warming up cold hands
and the glorious smell of sizzling sausages.
Guy well alight burning brightly, sparks flying
slowly now the fires die and the sky turns silent.
With happy sighs the children run home
to hot chocolate with melting marshmallows.
Their eyes gleaming and red noses shining
they clamber up to bed with excited whispers.
Tradition now, over and done for another year
tomorrow a big clean up will be needed.
For now, all rest locked in their memories
of this year and nostalgically of others past.
Your face is like a playground
with curved edges inviting
energetic laughter all around,
nostalgically exciting.
Your eyes are like a swing set,
lashes flapping with each blink.
Sometimes puddles below stay wet,
but your tears I'd love to drink.
Your brows, like two seesaws aligned
befittingly side by side
are fun to watch when I find
emotions take them for a ride.
Your smile, like a magic bridge,
connects distant friends together,
lifting high upon each ridge
as softly as a feather.
Your nose is like a double slide
architecturally created,
reflecting a warm, sun-kissed glide,
ideally located.
Your ears are like a talk tube,
hearing every whispered word
next to the tic-tac-toe cube,
to which your earrings are referred.
Your mind, like a merry-go-round
spins lively thoughts to adore.
Your face is like a playground,
with plenty to explore.
12-9-19
The cafe burnt alive as soon as you
Set your patent leather boot inside
And walked right into this unknown,
Mysterious yet familiar world
Of witty writers and pious poets
With their poetic pens.
My tantalizing timid eyes
Met your musically amused eyes,
And I heard a symphony unsung,
Strange, how can you be just a stranger,
When your eyes can speak so much danger,
Then how much your heart would want to say, stranger.
Strangers don't sing symphonies,
Nor do they linger nostalgically
Like a locket on an ashen neck.
They don't even say hello,
And there I sat with my cold heart,
Wondering like a bashful bard,
What were the chances,
Those burning glances,
And you left aloofly
With your latte
Leaving the ashes behind.
Soot everywhere,
Here and there,
On my lips where
Your eyes lingered,
On my fingertips,
Wanting to write
The desires of the
Waltzing, woozy heart.
this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects
being ma late mama's boytchik
(now, she long since deceased,
whose cremated remains of day
scattered to all points on compass)
fondly referencing
both sisters as dabchick
incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue,
especially when angry, she quickly segued
from mild expletive fiddlestick
the latter playfully aired,
when kibitzing wit bubeleh
reminiscing being dirt poor,
nonetheless zee mother
every now an again homesick
regaling the whole mishpokhe
(meaning us brood of kids)
interrupting herself
with frequent non sequiturs
discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects
as if external forcefield
jimmying a joystick
interleaving disparate threads with subsequent
tangential linkedin snippets
with feigned lovesick
chatting 'bout cockamamie
"Grandpa Moishe"
and his chaim yankel posse
(to escape hen pecking nudnik
"grandma Rebecca"),
a trenchant termagent bubba,
not averse to incorporate dreck
in the same sentence with zayda
ostracized him
scoring figurative placekick,
whence upon his schlepping back home
met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick
king atmosphere choking tearfully
"mother" recounted
farblunget anger thick
lee palpable extremely discomfiting,
particularly when ("mom's")
girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt,
where penury churned moribund thoughts
viz empty cupboards
devoid of bare necessities
a figurative apropos yardstick.