Today, for thirteen minutes,
It was 1954
And I found myself in Paris,
Mesmerized and wanting more.
Watching people, mostly children,
Interacting in a park
Was a pleasure to observe,
Thanks to a film by Shirley Clarke.
From the clothing (nothing denim!)
To the rides and carousel,
Life was captured in such detail,
By the faces you could tell
That the park was someplace special
Since an ordinary day
Brought so much to each expression
That each person did display.
A puppet show, my favorite part,
Caught joy and fear and glee,
The reactions of the children
Such a privilege to see.
I could have been among them
Had I been a child in France,
But today I was transported;
MOMA* let me have my chance.
*Museum of Modern Art, New York City
hotpants and short shots were a big deal
families sat together to share each dinner meal
telephones were attached by cords to a wall
rickrack decorated dresses when I was small
respect was a given, people looked out for each other
we especially knew to defer to our father and mother
the good ole days are something I dream of often
the spankings were harsh, parents did not soften
Our school days are far behind us now, so sadly,
Yet our shared lives I still praise so gladly.
The moments in our past I will always cherish;
You gave me endless smiles that will never perish.
The memory of your embrace and kindest words
Still fills the air like the morning song of birds.
You always shone with power, grace, and true ability,
Living your life with more abundance than nobility.
I think of innocent days when we just played—
Two little girls giggling, unbothered in the shade.
Atop your bunk bed, anchor women on the screen,
We read the nightly news and imagined every scene.
Those childhood headlines sparked a creative flame,
And taught my heart to love the poetry I now frame.
You enrich your destiny with so much love now,
Stepping into a new journey with a marital vow.
I am eternally grateful to be here as your friend,
Blessed by a beautiful connection with no end.
My days are a golden canvas where true devotion shines,
Reflected in a loyal bond that beautifully entwines.
Novelist pinnacle
Love and War
Situations and circumstances
Chapters upon chapters embrace
Diabolical thoughts
Words illustrating themselves
Sentences acquainting
For whom, what and why
Journeying into adventure
Emotions interlock
Actions through responses
The Sun that never sets
Nighjts that are uncertain
Heart with thorns
Storms that bring clarity
Eyes observed
Mind settling deep into thought
What tomorrow brings
Novelist blend
Motion of Ernest Hemingway.
When I lay on my deathbed,
counting my last heartbeats,
I want you to be the last person,
whom I meet.
We'll share our laugh and our sorrow ,
where I quietly hope to live till tomorrow.
Thousands of flashback flooding in front of my eyes,
yet I only want to relive the moment I have spent with you twice.
In the end I hope ,
you'll cherish me forever the way I do,
and love me until the next time we meet,
cause I am laying on my deathbed counting my few heartbeats.
The summer air cools
And the first crickets chirp
In the descending dusk
As dry grass and gravel
Crunch beneath my sneakers
Perched on a stump
A great horned owl
Swivels his head back to look at me
Startling me from scattered thoughts
Of celebrities, financial woes
And childhood nostalgia
We lock eyes for a moment
And before I can reach for my phone
He flies away over the ravine
Leaving me to wonder what
Divinely owlish thoughts
I startled him from in return.
Carnival lights swim in circles like snakes guarding a secret,
machinery fog hovers question marks over heads of teen lovers.
Scents take me back to you. Pink sugar. Screams echo a thrill.
Lips touch and throats constrict inside tunnels of first love shadows,
merry-go-round parents cross fingers in hopes that the spinning
night air will tire a child. An omnipotent loudspeaker calls a win.
There is a particular kind of hunger
That learns to live without being fed.
And perhaps the cruelest mercy:
Even the compass bends towards the star it cannot touch,
And mine has never learned another north.
So I let the longing stay,
Knowing I was never meant to find my way out
From wandering beneath the same unreachable sky,
For I feared
That home, once found would wrench the way to you.
/Boom Bap Reverie
Crates cracked open in dusk-lit basements/
Needles tracing dust on grooves of gold, Soul samples looped—forgotten statements resurrected from wax, stories retold/
Basslines thump like city heartbeats, Hi-hats flicker, snare drums snap, old school wisdom in concrete streets, Cyphers ignite in a boom bap trap/
Chopped horns echo in subway tunnels, Scratch of vinyl, a DJ’s prayer, Freestyle poets, words like funnels pouring truth in the midnight air/
Apollo Brown dreams in sepia tones, Soul-worn records, crate diggers’ pride, Underground kingdom, built on bones of legends who never died/
So, spin that hour of rare instrumental. Let nostalgia ride the groove in every sample/ Hip Hop's past is still on fire/, and hip hop’s spirit finds its truth/
Years ago, when my friends and I were just boys;
A nearby place provided such simple joys.
To us, it was one of the best local ‘finds’;
“Let’s go to the creek,” never far from our minds.
We usually rode bikes, although sometimes we’d run;
To be first to arrive was part of the fun.
Visiting each favorite spot with made-up names;
Racing leaf and twig boats, playing other games.
Covering stones with mud, shouting “Bombs away!”
Vying for biggest ‘explosion’ of the day.
Pretending that large rocks were islands mid stream;
For hours we’d play in a quasi day dream.
Imagining that millimeters were miles;
Jumping from the creek’s banks to ‘fly’ to warm isles.
When dusk called us home as it did way too fast;
We knew today’s trip here would not be our last.
Leaves dance around the maple, complaining
Grumbling that autumn’s breath is too near
And, I remember times that don’t need explaining
Leaping in piles of crunchy leaves, without fear
Melodies, graceful as a prayer in the soul
Glorifying the Creator of this gentle fall
Winds and rain couldn’t stop – we felt whole
Because of the wonder in that autumn’s call
We soared through the air toward the pile,
Mountains of leaves buried us in their scent
This is what it means to be a child with a smile
Playing in leaves with autumn’s quiet consent
It felt like a psalm was being read by this day
Our hearts knew the melody of such grace
This is the meaning of heaven sent, I pray
That everyone discovers autumn’s sweet embrace
On the hills, and in the valleys, there are leaves
Just waiting for a child’s laughter and mirth
It only takes this memory and my soul believes
Nature offers solace to the children on earth
Lavender clung to Grammy like a familiar blessing,
a soft aura rising from her walk-in closet~
that kingdom of faux furs and pearlized buttons
where dresses hung like quiet stories waiting to be told.
I sat beside her at her dressing table,
watching the slow choreography of her bronze-brown hair
as she brushed it into its practiced sweep,
each stroke a reminder of the elegance she carried
long after her hand-model days had faded from magazines.
She tore two sheets of paper poudre,
handing one to me as if passing down a secret rite.
“Gently,” she said, and I followed her movements,
feeling the powder lift whatever childhood dust remained
from my ten-year-old cheeks, leaving them soft, matte, new.
Foundation, rouge, a whisper of plum on her lips~
then her porcelain hands folded mine inside them,
their warmth steady, their touch feather light.
“You’re a lady now,” she said; in that moment, I believed her~
believed I was becoming her lady-in-waiting,
one beautiful enough to be part of her gracious royalty.
There are days when my capacity for anguish runs thin
I can’t grok suffering as deeply as once I did,
In those carefree days of work and timelessness
Lacking the necessary sense of direction to ask
Is this place where I find myself truly mine?
I’d gladly rehash now this desultory vision
To fill the desperate need of balance and calmness
But it always occurs too late to be changed.
Who can tell why the autumn brings this anxiety
In a hindsight, what looks like a budget movie, poorly directed
As if I’m passing some young guy
On a shady street, in a lunch hour
In whom I would never recognize myself
With whom I don't have a word to share.
leaf-peeping pastime panorama
the deeper the colors, the better the view
superior to any artificial diorama
a lovely excuse to spend time with you
wrinkled leaves fallen from trees
stare long enough, you will see faces
my heart of hearts truly believes
each loved one leaves memory traces
I write to remember...I write to forget
The two lines haven’t intersected yet
I write to remember the nights that remain
Soft echoes of laughter that cut through the rain
I write to forget every shadow and debt
Old stories that linger with quiet regret
I write to remember the nights we once kept
Soft corners of time where the world almost slept
I write to forget every echo and threat
The stories that bruise but haven’t healed yet
I write to remember...I write to forget
A rhythm of holding and losing in silhouette
Nostalgia Categories
Definition | What is Nostalgia in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
longing, sentimentality, remorse, yearning, homesickness, reminiscence, schmaltz, wistfulness, pining, fond memories, hearts and flowers, tear jerker,