Daughter Nostalgia Poems | Examples
These Daughter Nostalgia poems are examples of Nostalgia poems about Daughter. These are the best examples of Nostalgia Daughter poems written by international poets.
I ate a tangy orange today—
its honeyed nectar pulled me back,
to the orchard, where the air danced
with citrus and sunlight.
That tangy, sweet fragrance
brought back a rush of memories:
childhood days of spraying peels,
stinging our eyes, saying, “It’ll make your eyes brighter,”
each sting a playful dare.
I see my mother now,
drying the peels on the windowsill.
What spell was she crafting,
what secret magic lay hidden in those husks?
The orchard is no longer just trees,
but a portal to travel in time.
Its fruit holds the echoes of my memories,
each bite... a step closer to home.
Recapturing moments, as if gazing out of a broken glass window.
Distorted and blurry from all the tears, the hurt, the sorrow.
Lost in nostalgia,
Plagued with visions of your laugh, your love, your smile.
And all the arguments we had, now seem so juvenile.
My mother, you was, you were, and always will be.
Your love, your compassion, your efforts, are forever etched within me.
The pain of your absence lingers,
No relief despite my prayers.
My beating heart is out of rhythm,
Left struggling to find the snare.
Counting the seconds,
to minutes,
dragging the hour of the day.
Asking God daily, why did He take you away?
Leaving me shattered and broken, unsure of where the pieces belong.
Faintly, hearing whispers, encouraging me to remain strong.
As a child, I stayed hidden under your wings,
Protected and safe, nothing could harm me.
But now I’m afraid, alone, and in fear of everything.
Yearning for comfort, I seek the love only a mother can bring.
I feel God’s dispassion for my dreary circumstance.
My cries left unheard, as if there’s no relevance.
The picture on the parlor wall
Framed, not too big, and not too small
Charcoal stems, red poppies— that’s all
Some flowers— short, but others, tall
Mom found it in a poster rack
Loved it the most of the whole stack
It’d beautify the simplest shack
(Yet then my mom would want it back)
If you know who the artist is
We would like to support their biz
To hear that someone says it’s his
If we’re asked if it’s lovely?— ‘tis!
My love's reposed neath the military lawns of rows
of marble lit in moonlight's tender care.
July, the month of dreams of him-
watching bluebirds feed their fledglings under
Carolina blue skies so vast.
Maples and oaks sway in their full foliage in
a coquettish way with the courting breeze.
Strawberry water, cold to my receiving lips
and throat.
The comforting summer serenade of daytime
into twilight's cricket chorus so soothing.
I recall when we were young parents,
the newness of every morning,
our baby daughter of angelic beauty,
the leisure of the weekends with coffee
and the Sunday paper.
How she grew so swiftly, and we began to
become gray.
Our baby is forty-two, love,
and we miss your fatherly and
granddad's presence.
Strawberry water and reminiscing,
sweeter than watermelon,
on this summery eve. ~
I see the photo and I am there,
taking the picture of my friends at
happy hour on Mabel’s porch,
Penny smiling, bare feet on railing board,
Mabel holding up her cocktail glass,
Jeannie reading a book, and Sue
just grinning for the camera.
Shorts, bathing suits, coverups,
damp sun-bleached hair order of the day.
I smell coconut sunscreen,
join the chatter and laughter,
discussing who was at the beach,
water temperature, jokes
about the wind blowing sand
into the snacks, the seagull
that snatched a ham sandwich
right from Jeannie’s hand.
The nerve of that sly bird!
Friends and neighbors passing,
walking to and from the beach,
waving, stopping to chat,
sometimes joining the fun,
every day after the beach,
before dinner, with maybe crabs
or fish caught earlier in the day,
served from the kettle or grill
onto paper plates, eaten with gusto.
I’ve moved away, to Nebraska,
nearer to our daughter and family.
Someone else lives in my beloved
Victorian with its own wide porch,
across the street from Mabel’s.
Mabel is gone now, the house
sold, different people there -
louder voices, louder music. No more
Danny Boy, Mabel’s favorite.
Oh, the 1990's,
songs by Seattle grunge,
and boy band's romanticism.
Daughter was a cheerleader beauty,
blonde effervescence.
Petite strength,
with her smile of enthusiasm,
tossed up in adolescent flight..
Friday night varsity football games,
roaring bonfire for the Homecoming
in October's night of a crisp chill.
High school boyfriend faded into
nostalgia's mist of memories.
Twenty-four years have passed,
a Mom in her forties,
my grandchildren her joy.
Two decades of life's rewards,
some sorrow.
Alma mater moments-
those times are reborn,
verve. ~
I let you cut my hair.
Whether you were doing well
Or about to make a fool
Of your only daughter
Completely irrelevant
As I focused on your
Darting nervous eyes
The wrinkles in the corners
Tightening with ever pass
Of those clunky barber scissors.
I realized you had no idea
What you were doing,
But I couldn’t bring myself
To pull away from hands
That grasp frantically at love
Like it would vanish if I so much
As peered over my shoulder
At the piles of hair collecting
Between our feet.
Why can't the world be like it was when I was young
No one cleaning up dog-due dung
Kids dying right and left of polio and measles
Mumps running rampant like scorpions and beetles
Fathers employing razor belts
on recalcitrant sons and leaving welts
Mothers teaching daughters to clean and cook
poor-mouthing math and science textbooks
White folks lording it over illiterate Knee grows
Butchering Espanol -- and a few unlucky amigos
It was all so much simpler way back then
Cowboys shot Indians on the count of ten
So, why can't the world be like it was when I was young
Well, hey, I guess it is ~ English still ain't America's mother tongue...
Here is your squidger
The object is to pop a wink
Try to get it inside a cup
Or smash your opponent, go for their pink.
My grandsons looked at me as if I had sprung a head.
Come on! I urged them. Before we have to go to bed.
I think they may be too old, my daughter suggested.
You never know, until they are tested.
I had to demonstrate a time or two.
Luckily, I have been popping winks since nineteen sixty-two.
In September I plan to go Vienna’s Tiddly Winks Championship.
Annual Tiddly Winks competition, yes, because I am that hip
One time my dad bought me a yellow rose in New York City
Took a photo in front of St. Patrick's-- felt loved & pretty. :)
(written while thinking of my daughter)
Your face come daily to my mind
and I know it is for you for whom I fight
I hope you can feel deep inside
that you are all what I really mind...
One day at a time is all I can handle
my head, my toes r about to crumble
I hope all it's worth in this big tumble
I'm tired & melted like an old candle...
Schools and universities where never for me
there was so much more I wanted to see
the beautiful sunset before to sleep
the clouds, the rain, my mother, my street...
Misplaced from always is how I felt
nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care
I closed my eyes trying to understand
but the world was spinning too fast in my head...
Words and words lines and lines
One, two, three, four and five
I have no motivation nor desire
to continue this game of wasting life...
But then again I see your face
though you r sleeping and I am awake
I hope when you come I could be that place
where you can dream, where you can grow & always be yourself.
Jessica
Things we think are simple do matter
To mother, daughter, son or father.
Home is such we get this way.
It’s where we’re born and hope to stay
To live in peace and reproduce
To build our ties and introduce
Great things we put to daily use.
As time goes by and things do change
And life at home becomes so strange
Or home itself becomes unsafe,
We either die for lack of peace
Or go somewhere we hope is safe.
How hard it is to find this place!
How long it takes to end this race!
How fake it is to chase rainbows!
When home is gone, we smell no rose.
25/03/2022
Who wants to go archery shooting with me? Daddy would say.
We would be jumping up and down with glee on that Sunday.
Our mother would remind us we had to be back for Sunday School.
That’s okay, we would be. It was almost her only rule.
My twin and I would get to watch Daddy let that arrow fly!
And how we would race to get it. One would win, the other – cry.
We fought over the arrow all the way back to him, angry and upset.
I still to this day have no idea why we would both still like to do this yet.
Lavender ballerina sealed up in a box.
I feel so sad it has been so long for you, dear.
I did not remember the day I shut you in.
I felt no guilt; I was on to bigger toys – and boys.
Finding you in my mother’s attic today gave me joy.
Especially since my own six-year-old daughter is intrigued.
This used to be yours! She says with a tinge of awe.
Not realizing until now that I was ever a child.
She’s gone! Did no-one see her slip away?
Nor take her tiny hand and bid her stay?
No soul, her coy, cerulean eyes behold
None catch a glimpse of silky locks of gold?
14.10.20
An excerpt from my poem 'She's gone'
Rithimus Divisa 10 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Gregory Barden