Love Nostalgia Poems | Examples
These Love Nostalgia poems are examples of Nostalgia poems about Love. These are the best examples of Nostalgia Love poems written by international poets.
Seems like yesterday I heard your voice
floating through the window,
calling me in from the street
where childhood games stretched into forever.
Seems like yesterday the seasons felt endless,
summers of bare feet on hot pavement,
winters of breath drawn white against the dark.
We thought the days would never learn how to end.
Seems like yesterday
You were by my side,
steady in the quiet moments.
your eyes full of hope,
Your laugh pulled me forward,
steady and warm.
But life twisted the path
and I lost you
somewhere along the way.
Still…
when the wind brushes the trees.
I swear I hear you…
a part of yesterday
laced into today
reminding me love never leaves,
it only changes shape.
My fiancés' stone, ten years- she lost her life
Wish that she can hear me, yet well I know
And yet, in time, she would have been my wife
I grant I couldn't bear to watch her go
Do I think I shall e'er forget her scent
The vastness of my love, has yet, fused thine
And still, the ring I bought her, was ne'er meant
For this, a life of sadness, belongs- to mine
Served thy soul, unwelcoming-sordid boon
Rose odors- from her perfume bottle, still
Keeping my memories of her in tune
Glimpses of her smiles flash, ere- she fell ill
Kept inside my armoires' safe, ten long years
Her perfume bottle, overflows- with tears
A sketchbook from back then
was stained with abstract colors
like our ten fingers
why didn't we arrange bright colors back then?
black, blue, and white
mixed together without a basis
I remember very well
how the pattern was ultimately
ruined by the darkness
while you labored
on your own sketch
and I only knew a little about that fetish
We grew like shoots
far away from the colors back then
like a line that had been etched
sometimes we disappeared
I still live with bangs on my forehead
exactly the same as back then
and you still like classic cars?
maybe we've only gone a few steps
Count 20, open eyes
ahh, that's just a coincidence
I still scold Wednesday
but you look good
with those stripes
Sometimes you give in
waiting for me to run awkwardly across
you strummed that music
making me confused
guessing your dream last night
but you were far more confused
because you didn't say anything
Do you still remember
the flaw in my eye?
While I was still writing poetry
I seemed to be starting to forget the calm
shape of your Adam's apple
when you drew black lines on our sketch.
On my dresser rests a bottle of glass
its angle still holding the light like water.
The stopper breathe when raised
and the air loads with her absence.
A breath of jasmine, faint but faithful,
returns me to the nights I waited
for the sound of her heels on the stair
her perfume arriving before her voice.
Now the bottle is nearly empty
yet one drop carries whole worlds:
laughter folded into nightfall rooms,
a touch that lingers longer than flesh.
Brittle as yesterday, constant as devotion
it reveals how a soul can remain
in the echo of fragrance alone
resting quietly where light cannot fade...
Your fur is worn thin now,
patches where love pressed too hard,
but to me you were never just a toy -
you were the voice of courage
when the dark grew too loud.
I held you like a secret shield,
breathing into your sewed ear
the worries I dared not share with my mother.
You guarded them in silence,
never speaking a word
but somehow - I always slept easier.
In daylight you became a friend
sailing ships across blankets,
chasing clouds across the plaster sky,
celebrating every victory
in make-believe wars you alone could prove
Even now,
you linger on my shelf,
a gentle witness that love
is stitched to last
beyond the years.
I look back at my dad's radio
Shuffling through the channels
Cause the signal is too weak
But my dad will wait in awe
When the presenter starts off at the top of the hour
You'd see my dad fixed in his stool
Still to get to hear the nation address
The words of hope he hopes to hear
It's been many decades now but he's still keen
He's never wavered in what the country could be
And he's served it well
Like a true statesman, he put his family first
The radio brought together the whole village
It's where the hearts converged
And drummed all through the hour
Before the drums kept beating from a distance
That radio has seen the best of the years
From the regimes that got us out of houses to cheer on
To regimes that made it possible for kids to get an education
To the one who built futuristic roads
I bought him a new radio
But it doesn't sound like the old one
But he's eager to turn it on
And not miss the news
The PO£T
Sky when with dense clouds abound,
Seeing which peacocks dance around
On tender-green-dress-bedecked a hill,
In such a stirring scene, love-bound,
Which wayfarer wistful would not feel?
_____________________________
Translation (Quintain) | 34.08.2025 | monsoon, Nature, passion, peacock, nostalgia
Note: Here is a verse (in Arya meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). Spring was dealt with in the preceding verse. The poet now paints a picture of monsoon: dark clouds surround; excited, peacocks dance; the earth is bedecked with a lush green dress; a traveller longing for conjugal bliss, feels homesick. Here is the transliteration of the verse in Sanskrit:
Upari ghanam ghana-patalam tiryak
girayo api nartita mayurah |
Kshitih api kandala dhavala
drashtim pathikah kva yapayatu || 47 ||
Sweet-scented breeze when wafts around,
A thrilled Koyal breaks into song,
On tree branches fresh sprouts abound,
On her face, love-making gone long,
Pearly sweat beads do when alight,
To whom would a scene not delight?
_______________________________
Translation (sestet*) | 33.08.2025 | spring, night, delight, nightingale, nostalgia
*Wonder, if it can be called a Sestetto Rima-- iambic meter with a rhyme scheme of ABABCC.
Note: Here is a verse (in Harini meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). The poet paints here a picture of a spring season in full spell: when fragrance wafts around, tender sprouts surround, a Koyal sings, sweat beads alight from her face from prolonged coitus, who’d not get delighted? Here is the transliteration of the Sanskrit verse:
Parimala amrtah vatah shakha nava-ankura-kotayo,
Madhura-viruta-utkantha vachah priyah pika pakshinam |
Virala surata sveda-udgara vadhu-vadana-indavah,
Prasarati madhau ratryam jatah na kasya guna-udayah || 37 ||
I can recall moments now lost in time,
Long before meeting, I knew you were mine.
This....
isn't just Beef Chuck Roast
With Peppers and Onions
And Sweet Potatoes, and Tzatziki Sauce.
It's a Big Bowl of Nostalgia.
It's a Bowl of Self Love.
It's a Bowl of My Mama's Voice
whispering, "Not too much salt, Shu Shu."
And Then
"If its one thing my girls can do...
they can cook."
It's a Big Bowl of Ancestral Pride.
It's a Bowl of History....
Inaccurately Passed Down
BUT THEN
Accurately Researched & Recorded.
It's a Bowl of Abundance....
It's a Flavored Bowl of Favor,
with a Heaping Helping of Grace.
It's.... a Blessing.
Looking back at life lived through yesteryears,
when we dwelt in the now, engaged in play,
they were fun-filled days bereft of dark fears,
as rapture in our heart grew, day by day.
Fragrance of lilies and honeysuckle,
exuded from our aura a soft glow;
we were quick to forgive, prone to chuckle,
at the foibles of friends with us in tow.
When our ego surfaced, soul felt betrayed,
garden of our mind with thoughts polluted,
so we now regret why from love we strayed,
lost in lust, pulse of innocence muted.
God granted us free will, which we misused ~
Let’s be a child again with bliss suffused
A delicate dance, a subtle sway,
Expectations woven, in a societal way.
A woman waits, with passive gaze,
For a man to lead, with financial ways.
He pays the bill, the ring, the wedding fee,
The provider role, a lifelong decree.
She expects support, for herself and her kin,
A one-way street, where love may give in.
But some women defy, these norms so grand,
Contributing equally, hand in hand.
A true test of love, a gesture so fine,
When she invests, with a loving design.
Yet, in the courts, a different tale unfolds,
Assets divided, with a legal hold.
A woman shaped, by societal might,
To contribute little, in the dark of night.
A partner, not a burden, we must seek,
Emotionally and financially, a bond unique.
Let's break the mold, and redefine love's role,
A mutual journey, with a balanced soul.
Somewhere there’s a
sunflower poking out from
the corner of a concrete
barrier, going unnoticed
by everyone except
myself.
And it makes
me wonder:
They say when
you fall in love with
an artist, you
can never die.
But what
happens when
an artist falls
in love? Do
they continue
capturing futures,
or only retrospective
moments?
Time is an old
concept—or shall
I say, odd?
Because
I see you in soft shadows
and storefront glass, in
wilted flowers I forget to
water, in poems that
end.
I used to paint what
might be, but now I
only trace the edges
of what has been.
They said that love
would make my work
eternal. But no one told
me it would make me
feel so unfinished.
Oh, and
that thing I
asked about
the artist?
You can forget about it.
I think I’m starting
to care less and less
about him.
Yes, there are times now and again
I'll look back and remember when
you were mine for a little while;
you always could make me smile.
You were my Fabio straight off the cover
of the romance novel I read over and over.
Our love was so strong, it was a natural high;
the kind that's guaranteed never to die.
But just like my book, it came to an end,
And we just couldn't get it back again.
No matter that it broke my heart,
it was too late; we had to part.
I'd never had to make it on my own;
but I soon found I liked being alone.
Though there was no more you and me,
I wasn't looking for someone to see.
I mean, come on, I couldn't replace you!
Now of course, we know that's not true.
But things aren't like they were before;
I'm not that same girl anymore.
Last time we talked, it wasn't the same;
no butterflies when you said my name.
I couldn't think of anything to say,
and I'm pretty sure you felt the same way.
Still somehow we've managed to stay friends.
At least that's something that'll never end.
And yes, dear Ronny, every once in a while,
you're still able to make me smile!
I used to dream when I was young,
I would remove all of the thorns
of the most beautiful flowers
and place them in her hair,
lovingly,
Innocence is cute, its so divine,
then you grow up not so fine,
that girl you knew as a child,
can't even remember her name,
sadly,
There's a loneliness to every soul,
eating alone in a popular food court,
they may enjoy the meal, cooked well,
but in the end, solitary doesn't taste as good,
and love declines as the demon in you climbs
and now you realize, its a tragic fairy-tale
and now the large world appears small
and insects on your skin now crawl,
The realization,
it makes you sick,
now, floating past the jetty,
the strands of her hair.....