Art Nostalgia Poems

In those days we had to make do and mend.
Milk bottles we would rinse out and return.
Kellogg’s cartons we collect for children
to cut and paste...

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On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there 
with his...

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I stare at the nostalgic art
It is straight out of the fifties
When women were dying thei hair
Turquois to match their turquoise car and luggage
Or pink...

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"Old photographs have something that is beautiful
and timeless, like works of art."

            ...

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Close up is when you see the cracks,
the lines etched, scratched onto canvas.
An oil painting that survived a fire.

Close up is when you see the...

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There was a time
when we waited eagerly
for the mailman -
when mail deliveries 
            had...

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People of the Night 
Atlantic House Tavern

Street lights glow on aged stone walls, 
Follow life’s beat, the old tavern calls. 
Silhouettes framed in soft window...

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‘So many moons ago..’
In Each tale we visit a new style of castle.
The villages or rivers, they lead us through a quest; 
All so very...

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My flag is not black n white with a blue streak 
My flag is not a field of white stars n scars of machine guns
My...

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Calm, cool mornings
Blessed with sunlight’s whisper,
Birds crooning softly in the distance,
Breathless dewdrops sliding hastily over
A petal, treasuring the promise of rain,
Hesitating then pouring down from...

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The tapestry of the indigo sky,
weaved with the strips of silver cloud, 
merges with the still sea in the blues.
The dislodged boulders strewn as dry...

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Say bye-bye to these:
    "Hold, please." (Hold what?)
    Typewriter Repairman Ads
    "Dial this number..." (What's 'dial?')...

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frog came in hot off a mountain top
buzzing the clouds; would he ever stop?
so colorful! we exclaimed as he got near.
He was full of vim,...

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slow, sweltering, solemn days 
the winter turns the skies cloud-grey at four o'clock now

recently, i've found myself missing how it was. 
they say nostalgia is...

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The butterfly counts months not memories,
Of the springs and autumn that passed away.
Emancipation from all mortal bonds,
Memories afflicted only with inscrutable fond.

Draped with lamentation of...

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