Long Ticket stub Poems
Long Ticket stub Poems. Below are the most popular long Ticket stub by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ticket stub poems by poem length and keyword.
Quote:"True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories."--
Florence King
In the quiet folds of memory's embrace,
Where whispers of the past find their place,
There lies a fragment, ephemeral, yet profound,
A cherished relic in life's intricate mound.
Old aerogrammes, yellowed with age's flight,
Postage stamps, memories in paper light.
In their fleeting touch, a nostalgic sight,
Ephemeral relics, lost in time's might.
Or perhaps it's a ticket stub, worn and frayed,
From a concert where melodies forever played.
In the echo of music, I find solace sweet,
As notes of joy and sorrow gracefully meet.
There's a photograph, yellowed with age,
Capturing a moment, frozen on life's stage.
Smiles preserved in sepia, a snapshot in time,
A treasure trove of emotions, bittersweet and sublime.
These ephemeral fragments, fleeting and frail,
Are threads in the tapestry of life's tale.
Though transient they seem, they hold memories dear,
Anchoring us to moments, both far and near.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This poem was written in response to an assignment in my online poetry class: “Why does an ordinary life feel like a failure in today's world?”
Because Instagram is a museum,
and we are the unpaid janitors
of our own lives~
mopping up the spillage
of seemingly
unremarkable mornings.
Because someone’s balcony
is always brighter,
their coffee more artful,
their sadness more cinematic.
Our sadness arrives
in discount sweatpants,
unphotogenic.
Because the algorithm whispers:
You could be the main character,
but the plot demands
a montage, a twist,
a soundtrack swelling
as you jog toward redemption.
You are still tying your shoes.
Because the word ordinary
has been hijacked and laundered
into something suspicious~
like a plain envelope
in an age of glitter bombs.
Because we forget
how the spine of a day
is built from quiet commas,
not exclamation marks.
How the heart keeps
its most sacred receipts
in the pocket of an old coat~
a ticket stub,
a note that says come home soon,
the way the light looked
when it was enough.
She gave the man her ticket stub
To see the 'Doors' perform
She always liked to hear them sing
'Riders on the Storm'
She got lost in the melody
As the music took her higher
The rhythms ignited her passion
As they played 'Light my Fire'
She loved lead singer Jim Morrison
His poetry kept the music alive
The band then took her for a musical ride
With 'Moonlight Drive'
Then the music reached a fever pitch
As rhythms began to spew
She went wild when she heard
'Hello I Love You'
Then the concert ended....the music, died,
Some weeks later, she heard the news....she cried
Jim Morrison had given the Reaper his ticket stub
And joined the infamous '27 club'
He went away on a Crystal Ship with silver wings
Sailing on waves of guitars strings
In the distance, dark clouds began to form
And Jim soon became, a 'Rider on the Storm'.....
4-28-19
Writers On The Storm Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We bury our ghosts in shoeboxes~
photographs curling at the edges,
a ticket stub from a train
that no longer runs.
Remember how the air smelled
when we were twelve?
Like cut grass and gasoline,
Remember the tin-can laughter
of bicycles tipping into dusk.
Now the past is a bruise
we press just to feel
the sweet ache of color~
your mother’s voice
stitched into the static
of an old answering machine,
the way the porch light
swayed in a storm,
casting shadows that danced
like the people we thought
we’d become.
Does time heal or does
it just layer the wound
with softer things:
the weight of a cat
long since buried,
the exact blue of a sweater
you outgrew by spring.
We kneel in the attic,
sifting through what’s left~
not relics, but proof
that we were here once,
loud and unafraid,
before the world
whittled us into silence.
I jumped on the train, feeling bad.
It cost me all the money I had.
Is that seat empty, tell me bub?
I asked, clutching my ticket stub.
I knew not where it was going.
The man across from me looked knowing.
Will it take me to a safe haven?
Through the window, I saw a raven.
The man marked down one more tally
as the train bogged down in a valley.
The low sun cast a shadow dark
as I was forced to disembark.
The knowing man, he would not talk,
but I was going to have to walk.
I felt I would not be afraid,
as I looked to the sky and prayed -
and breathed my last earthly breath,
in the valley's shadow of death.
NORA
Carefree-spirited, wild at heart she sped down the steep streets of San Fransisco
Racing heart torn to pieces pounding from her chest, even after a bottle of Cisco
Wiping copious tears, but the dam burst, the outpouring she won’t control
Deep was their love, despair had broken her and stolen her spirited-soul
No stopping the storms of thoughts, she cries out to the sky, we were a pair
The night you didn’t see her, but she saw you with her, was too much to bear
Off to her lover’s concert gig that night at the club, numb to the world
No need for a ticket stub, she’s cool, Nora is the guy in the band’s girl
She parks her motorcycle and removes something from the saddle bag
In a hurry to carry out her goal, tonight is the night, there’s no time to lag
Distraught, destroyed, defeated, and numb she strolls on through a crowd
Pushes her way to the stage, edging closer in front of him, the music is loud
Left hand reaches into jacket pocket, she places gun to head
My beautiful cousin, at only nineteen she fell to the floor dead
At my age it was so painful, I kept it inside, nowhere to run, hiding my strife
I didn’t want to burden my mother over a broken heart, so I took my own life.
They took a leisurely stroll amidst the gardens of the Ferndale Park
Nora’s auburn braided hair resembled the clustering of cedar tree bark.
With their smooth silky lustering texture, flickering golden highlights.
As sunlight filtered through the branches, twigs and leaves, it ignites.
Aunt Olivia and Nora walked away hand in hand up the busy dirt trail.
It’s not the last time I’d see Nora, but this memory makes me wail.
See that vessel back there
Just claimed by the storm
The whole crew is expired
Some had not yet been born
There’s no sense parsing gestures
Or mincing words this day
Times like these, the best you can do
Is bundle up and walk away
I know you’ve heard the story
The news rolls on and on
The pulse of irritation
Grips you some time around dawn
And your fingers are like drumsticks
But there is no tune to play
Moments like these, you seal up your beat
And start to walk away
The curtain has been lowering
For quite a while by now
Generations pass in grief
As the eras will allow
It all blurs into one façade
One miniature shadow play
Shows like these, you grab your coat
And your ticket stub and walk away
I don’t know if I’ll make much sense
I’m pretty sure I won’t
On the fields of isolation,
Some break the fence and some don’t
I hope your crop grows sky-high
May fertile winds go your way
As for the rest of us in the bowl of dust,
Let us pack up and walk away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The envelope’s edges are crinkled and battered,
like a leaf forgotten underfoot~
its seal remains tight, unbroken.
Inside, the ink bleeds into hesitant rivers,
words dissolving into what might have been
I miss you or come home.
The postmark? Just a blur now~
could’ve been spring,
could’ve been some random Tuesday.
That’s when it slipped out of sight,
getting tangled up in someone else’s story.
Now it hides in a drawer
tucked away with other unused things:
a ticket stub to nowhere,
a key that fits no lock,
and the quiet weight
of all the words
that never left one's throat.
What is a letter
but a breath trapped in paper?
What is silence
but the echo of a name
no longer said aloud.
The envelope waits.
The words wait.
And the hand that might have opened it
is dust.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I found an old shoebox today~
not where I left it,
but where time had pushed it,
into the corner where dust gathers
like unspoken apologies.
Inside:
a ticket stub bleached pale by sun,
the ghost of a rollercoaster’s scream,
Mother’s hairpin, crooked as a question mark,
and the scent of rain on hot pavement
before the storm hit.
Funny, how the things I keep
are never the things I meant to hold.
The shoebox is lighter now,
but my hands remember the weight
of all the afternoons I didn’t save.
I close the lid.
The past doesn’t fit anymore.
They got too high to come back down
And journeyed beyond the sky
Too many pills can make you drown
And we are left asking, why?
Her big song was "Piece of my Heart"
Which was a big hit on the charts
But Janice Joplin took a trip
With a one way ticket on a needle's tip
Hendrix knew how to play a guitar
Strumming away, rocking the stars
But he took that 'stairway to heaven'
When he was just twenty seven
Many more were like " Riders of the Storm"
A song Jim Morrison used to perform
But he too turned in his ticket stub
And joined the ever deadly, 27 club
8-27-2022
The 27 Club Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco