Long With nostalgia Poems
Long With nostalgia Poems. Below are the most popular long With nostalgia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long With nostalgia poems by poem length and keyword.
Fragments of forgotten dreams
Where air hums with nostalgia
And dusk a quiet sliver of silver
Across the breath of autumn
My ear listens to a shell
The sea might return my embrace
The waves repeat what I cannot embrace
Memory's rhythm stitching into dreams
Waves whisper inside the shell
A language of longing and nostalgia
Seasoned deep with autumn
Pale and worn as silver
Moonlight drifts over the silver
The night a yielding embrace
All fades and settles into autumn
The shoreline threaded with dreams
Each step layers of nostalgia
Like echoes in the shell
Time curls a delicate shell
Holding something silver
Breathing out quiet nostalgia
The spaces we no longer embrace
I return, compelled by dreams
Like leaves of autumn
The wind recites of autumn
Through chambers of the shell
I am carried into dreams
Loss is burnished into silver
Absence feels like an embrace
Softening sorrow into nostalgia
I linger in nostalgia
Tracing the decay of late autumn
Looking for what remains to embrace
In the fragile spiral of a shell
Its surface glimmering with silver
That leads me through dreams
The shell cradles dreams and nostalgia
Its silver silence echos autumn
I learn again to embrace
Lying in bed..
In my deathbed
Don't have much time..
I am filled..
with nostalgia..
Memories of which I will always cherish..
Within my deepest thoughts
I imagine I am a child again
the child inside me..
Such joyful memories ..
Memories of running so freely in the grass..
Holding hands with my playmates..
Sharing secrets
Laughter..
The innocence of it all..
Years progressing..
From childhood..
To adolescent
To adulthood..
Being a curious teen..
Having major crushes ..
My first kiss
My first love..
Living as an adult..
Major responsibilities occurs..
Finding the love of my life..
Marrying the love of my life
Having children..
Living a blessed life..
Years progress..
Often wondering..
How my body is frail..
How these wrinkles..
Gave me character
How my health deteriorated..
Within a blink of an eye..
Now I have reached my final stage..
Sadly I am..
Slowing waiting for my own demise..
How shall it feel ?
Shall I embrace the unknown ?
My beautiful family is gone..
They all have made their final departure..
Before myself..
I have lived a long and full life..
I feel alone now..
Alone in my deathbed..
Awaiting my transition..
Perhaps when one door closes..
Another door opens..
Going from one state of being
To another..
Energy cannot be destroyed..
It only changes form..
I do not fear death..
It is dying I fear..
Fear of the old door..
Entering into a new door..
Which is fear of the unknown..
Mom bought records of the classic Disney films; each song
was played again and then again; we all sang along.
Mad Hatter singing he was late, Snow White singing too,
and seven whistling dwarves kept us from feeling blue.
Yes, those were our “Wonder Years” with my family.
Also we watched musicals as re-runs on TV.
Fiddler on the Roof ; The Sound of Music - pure delight!
West Side Story thrilled me with “Maria” and “Tonight.”
I began collecting records; my first idol’s name
was Herman. With his Hermits, he enjoyed brief fame.
Older kids were listening to whatever gave a shock:
Dylan, Hendrix, Joplin, Stones, or psychedelic rock.
I preferred the “bubblegum” - Grass Roots, Tommy Roe,
and all the Top Forty Hits on my radio.
Also there were songs of novelty, a different sort,
“A Boy Named Sue” and that “Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport!”
Some songs linger with nostalgia: gems like “Close to You”
or “Johnny Angel.” Those recall special boys I knew.
In the 1970’s, it was clear I was
A fan of pop rock music, simply just because!
I love songs with beat that make me want to sing or dance,
but sometimes I’m inclined to hear soft songs of romance!
Though I'm busy now with many other things, I strive
to hear what’s new on TV music shows or when I drive.
But what’s the music of my soul? In all honesty,
I must say my early years most affected me!
The Prophecy:
An ordinary December morning
extraordinary hopes in white,
streets adorned with snowflakes
embellished in red crystal dreams.
She boarded her cab to airport,
awaited holidays had arrived.
From carousels of Tokyo city
to sledges in the Alps, a while.
Roads blocked in snowfall,
eh, just a glitch in the matrix.
An hour early was a wise decision
she couldn't miss her flight,
home calling season it was.
But oh the flight was delayed
by seven hours for clear weather.
'It'd be a roller coaster ride',
her roommate had read a horoscope.
The tiresome day had just begun.
The Adventure:
A birdie spreading new wings
exploring corners of terminal,
unexpected fascination at stalls
infant desires of relaxation.
Strangers seemed welcoming
a town thriving with journeys
she traveled for 10 hours
without moving geographically.
At last announcements made
she boarded with nostalgia,
the journey to her homeland
began with a gleaming dusk,
golden sunset kissing adieu
to sequins of ocean waves.
She read a verse or two
then dozed off with clouds.
A feather travelling afar
in alluring worldly delight.
The Glitch in the Matrix:
Until they had to pause,
just an intermediate stop
where she stepped out to stroll
retracing steps to board again
caught in freezing showers.
Warm at night, she shivered
longing for her cushioned bed.
A long interesting day though
she wouldn't want it again.
With lilac morning whispers
it was time for her homeland.
Outside was a soothing warmth
veiled in white familiar gleam.
She finally cuddled in her bed
with mother's handmade meal.
Woke up to a cup of coffee
and checked for calls on phone.
Gosh! It was still yesterday
dreaded to repeat she'd forgotten,
her body had traveled in past
Alas! It was a different time zone.
~A True Story
September 2, 2020
All In A Day Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Ah, the rustic charm of our old uncovered bridges
built in a century not quite on the verge of major industrialization -
back in a time when connections were vital
for fledgling communities just starting to survive and later, to thrive.
They spanned an entire era with a semblance
of simplicity and romance, providing shelter
in a world still moving slowly yet steadily toward progress.
It was not long before they’d be left behind.
Today we travel across vast expanses of bridges – uncovered ones
from which the world we view flies past us
through the windows of speeding automobiles
and virtually from screens of phones and computers.
No longer are we isolated from the world.
Today’s bridges span global communities
in a society where everyone on the planet is privy
to almost everything happening everywhere!
Today’s bridges, forged of steel, are longer and stronger.
We take them for granted, feeling secure in our convenient technologies
as we communicate and travel at faster rates
than ever dreamed possible two centuries ago.
Alas, once the last remnants of such things as
old-fashioned covered wooden bridges are obliterated,
they will be as ancient Egyptian artifacts viewed on Google
with less and less interest shown by each new generation, and
the yet unborn poets of tomorrow will one day write with nostalgia
of today’s uncovered bridges of steel.
Aug. 27, 2017 for the "Covered Bridges" Contest of Craig Cornish
Blackberry bushes barricade the background
of your immature stature.
Braided chestnut hair rests gently
on weakly shoulders
as your hazel eyes beam a child's rippling wonder.
Bee-glazed berry juice permeates your smiling cheeks.
The taste streams alive as I gaze upon you
with your burgundy splashed denim jumper,
which belongs in an art museum,
but remains in my heart.
Your quarter full pail fills with sunshine brined time.
In search of the best, you request my help
to reach the hierarchy of treats,
those that brush the sun's ripening wonder first.
A perfumery of sweet harvest freshness
tickles my nasal cavity with nostalgia.
Your imprinting hand hugs mine as
my prime pickings are exchanged for smiles.
I can almost hear your laughter,
scattering impulsively throughout my longing.
In this photograph, for only a moment,
I can almost bring you back.
2/25/2020
This chilly morning in Hartford
Ensconced in the ambiance of
Freedom in God’s own country
I woke up with a start
Lost in the labyrinth of emotions
Wondering what the future
Held for my beloved country
Currently languishing and content
In her age long delusion of grandeur
When all I see in my dream Is a behemoth
Laboriously climbing a ladder
Precariously placed on the wrong
Side of her trajectory
What a tragedy of a country!
Perpetually lost in self destruction
An election to move the country forward
Has been won and lost
But the giant of Africa
Keeps looking back with nostalgia
To turn to a pillar of salt
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)
Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic
visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien
unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude
an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near virgin
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger
marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over
to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent
the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy
free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,
snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows
whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of
psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among
in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark
closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked
from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.
I found myself standing in the old church, near the entrance. It had been over thirty years since I last set foot there, and now, twice in one year, I was back. Country churches have a unique warmth, small yet deeply personal. Friendship, I realized, is much like a small church.
I was there to say goodbye to my loved ones, my mother and my godmother. The moment was filled with nostalgia and a surreal sense of disbelief. I kept asking myself, “Why take her?” It was heartening to see familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years, though time had changed us all. At sixty-seven, I too felt the weight of those years.
Returning to St. Matthews, my childhood church, brought a smile to my face. So many memories flooded back. We offered our prayers, seeking strength and ease. The year 2024, despite its sorrows, brought my family together. It was wonderful to see everyone, from the youngest to the oldest.
I didn’t visit the beautiful beach on the island; it felt like too much all at once. Today, my lower back aches, but I cherish the warm memories of July 2024.
This one is going to hurt.
That is why it has taken me so long to write it,
Because a part of me still loves you
And thought you would call or write me.
I know you need your time;
You have your process, and I respect it.
But today, today, I was ready.
I opened the drawers.
I picked up your sweaters,
This time not to smell it,
But to fold it nicely and carefully place it in a box,
The first of many items, ready to go,
Because I am ready to let go.
Let go of the hope that we could still be.
I said my goodbyes to you slowly, thoughtfully,
Letting every memory of every outing and every snuggle
Flood my brain.
And with every packed trouser, shirt, and pair of socks,
I was able to smile and embrace
Every memory with nostalgia and gratitude.
You were with me through some of the toughest times in my life;
We uplifted, loved, and encouraged one another for four years,
And we loved through the laughter and the tears.
As I pack your things, I no longer have fear.
Yes, we have grown apart,
But the memory of us will forever live in my heart.
I am grateful for the time we shared,
And am proud of who we are.
Maybe in another life, we would have married and stayed merry,
But in this one, I am filling boxes with your things.
In this one,
I can only cherish the moments we had
As I say goodbye and wish you love, luck, and happiness.
Happiness, I, too, know I will find.
But know that a part of me will forever love you,
And although my heart is heavy, today, I know I am ready.
Yes, it did hurt,
But in the process, it also healed.
And the box is now sealed.