Nostalgia Prose Poems | Examples
These Nostalgia Prose poems are examples of Prose poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Prose Nostalgia poems written by international poets.
People in love usually say with conviction
That they never love anyone else so deeply again
But after breaking up they can always find someone new
Who they think is their true love
Always feels lonely in a crowd and miss places for nostalgia
However, they'll never feel so scared to leave someone again.
People in love feel impulsive, passionate and insecure
They also find it hard to think straight
They feel that way because dopamine and other hormones in their bodies
Keep their minds on the person who triggered all those feelings
As a result, their brains are left
With little energy to focus on themselves.
in the 1940s many movie comedies dealt with heaven
hell, reincarnation, the devil, angels, body snatching
I get a channel called Classic Reel with my Roku
The movies shown are from the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s and 60’s
I saw three of these shows this week
the one about hell was spooky in black and white
maybe more creepy than if it had been in color
they were plausible, warm, and witty
I got reintroduced to Betty Grable, Betty Hutton
Bob Hope, Bing Cosby, and Jimmie Stewart
They were intriguing shows, amusing
I was not bored, I was intrigued
Plots much more entertaining than today’s movies
Moving on
Leaving behind those great and kind – it is about forgiving and moving forward, letting go of the bitterness in one's heart so that new doors are opened.
With every move you make, a bittersweet lesson is given. Of tapping stories – the temporary – not yet to be told.
You're told that great people are hard to find and that the one you've sought must be perfect, only for such a person to vanish as you move to the next level. And at such times, what you have in your heart is the only answer.
That road you see over there, your feat, walk it! Leaving what used to be present, friends may part but the memorial remains. In the depth and twists and turns of your lanes.
And that's why, so walk your path, brave, and true. Leaving the paramount, bidding goodbyes, for in the end, what you are going to get is the journey that shapes your heart and mind.
there was a milkman when I was a child
he brought fresh milk to our doorstep every morning
left it there in a little metal box that had the dairy name on it
there was also a bread man in the fifties
If we were lucky we might get the white cupcakes
They were uniform, frosted with sweet pink icing
we always got the bread,
but not always the cupcakes
the bread man came once a week, on Friday
Seventy years later Prime trucks will bring you
dog treats, TV sets, laundry detergent, lipstick,
hair dye, tomato juice, and anything else you could want.
My relatives would have never believed this possible
back in the day.
Welcome to the fifty’s diner
Where there are chrome stools
Black, red and white leather seats
A checkered floor
Everything matches
A soda machine is standing ready
The chef is heating up the fryer
Burgers and fries are the main stay
The waitress has filled the ketchup bottles
There are also mustard bottles, and salt and pepper shakers
Staff is ready for school to dismiss
So, the munching, and conversing can begin.
Slowly,
nostalgia
trickles into
torrents,to flood memory's
canyon
Crystal clear,vision's backward gaze .All future certainty lies in the past, often distant memories linger fleeting and ephmeral is the dream.Yesterday's hero,a today's has-been,all perspective,out of true;twenty,twenty embellishes hind-sight .Experience forgotten wastes away superficiality now has its day..
on the wind
a bell tolls
memories surface
words unerased-
the image fades
October 28th, 1965
Slumber party
Six preteen girls
They are telling ghost stories
They have tales of horror to share
No one will be sleeping tonight
I see a neon ghost in the corner
He puts his fingers in front of his lips
To shush me
I do not feel terrified
I feel intrigued, and excited
We discuss my future plans
After the others finally drop off to sleep
He might have been my guardian angel
I am unsure
All I know is,
That he made me feel safe and respected
Although I have never seen him again
I will never forget him
He is my hero
Encouraging me to visualize my future
I found it behind an old work bench, water stained and curled on the corners, looking as forgotten as an out-of-luck beggar. But like in the beggar's eyes, there was a past that was full of hope and still warm memories. My sister's college collage of collective consolations; hugs from home for the lonely days, those that come on the "in between" years when sometimes we just want to be a kid again. There were half unglued photos of home and vacations, and clips of
Fabian, Elvis, Ricky Nelson, the Beatles, the Stones, and a peace sign. Ha, in the corner, there was an old photo of me kissing her on the cheek (Mom said to) - I was seven and she was five. Funny, I didn't even think she liked me much...
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
Sheila was a princess the minute she put on the dress.
Made from blue taffeta, crisp new netting, and shiny satin.
Bodice trimmed with tiny seed pearls.
Her date fell in love with her the second he saw it.
She married him in this dress.
It was 1944, and a war was on.
No one ever felt more like a bride.
Sheila did not have daughters, she had sons.
They had sons, and their sons had sons.
It was years before a girl was born into their family.
When she arrived in 1972, she was a delight.
They all made over her. She was their princess.
She could have had any dress for prom.
She chose her grandmother’s 1944 wedding dress.
Her date fell in love with her the second he saw it.
She did not marry him, but she kept the photos.
Propped next to photos of her grandmother in the same beautiful dress.
In 1973 I had flu-like symptoms and they were not getting any better.
My husband was insisting that I go to the doctor, but a doctor is expensive.
I tried to tough it out, but I finally broke down.
My husband came home for lunch from his grocery store job.
He said, “So it is the flu, right?”
I said “No, I am having a baby.”
My husband was horrified.
He said to me “We already HAVE a baby!”
The baby was grinning at him from the highchair at the end of the table.
“I know, “I told him. “And now we are getting another one.”
He said, “How did you let that happen?”
I had no words.
Velvet paper tinctured pink,
A red rose at its crest;
The whittled feather, bathed in ink,
Set to bare its best.
A lambent candle close at hand
With dancing, flitting flare;
Where evening translates its command
And nothing stirs the air.
Words are authored, truly writ,
Where, from the soul they flow;
As on the page they snugly sit,
Affection to bestow.
Filling out each careful line,
Each one a work of art,
Hand and mind, with pen, entwine
Concerted to the heart.
And when the tender prose she'll read
And tastes the chaste romance.
She feels a shivered chill, indeed,
Deep in her breast ~ per chance?
And as the fondest words engage,
Seen through her moistened eyes:
A teardrop falls to blot the page
And stays and never dries.
Recognized her face from silent films
Not her name
Had to look her up
Born Apolonia Chalupec
Which I think is a gorgeous name
Hollywood renamed her Pola Negri
A name not half as fantastic
Or exotic or erotic and yet she was
She played two kinds of roles
Femme fatale
and tragedienne
She could do it too
Her life was filled with tragedy
Her father was sent to Siberia when she was a child
She had two marriages that lasted less than four years each
She lived to ninety, this silent film sex symbol
I would have gone back to Apolonia but not sure if she did.
Pola Negri, first European actress and singer
to be signed by Hollywood, Paramount Studio.
Hard-working iron workers from Wales are slumbering now
They have earned the comfortable rest of the dead,
For years they got up in the dark and began their work
Clanging and banging iron together, forging and welding
That is all over now, their ears are quiet, and they have peace.
It was their life for over fifty years, but now they are refreshed.
Happily lingering on their cloud beds; they have earned their sleep.
Their wedding was toted “best of this century”
They had both been born wealthy.
Neither appreciated how rare this elegance was in 1930.
Their parents had kept it from them.
There were elaborate bouquets in silver vases.
Thousands of people were starving, but this meant nothing.
Her silk gown had been flown in from Paris.
French Parisian lace and pearls adorned the bodice.
He wore a top hat, and a frock that screamed expensive.
They were oblivious to the starving children, and empty tummies.
Neither heard the cries and wails of those who were homeless.
Their wedding was toted the “best of the century”.
Obscene really