Remembers Poems - Poems about Remembers

The River Remembers Sky

Written: August 14, 2025

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River answers cloud with shimmer, and cloud
with a hush that folds into silver—

a breath that rises through its forgetting,
still and wild, akin to an unspoken name.

Between echo and echo, intellection
unbuttons its syntax,

and the ancient self thins.
into filaments of looking.

Now

When the Tide Remembers!

The sea was a whisper before it was water,
cleaved through the wind.
I stepped into its silver mouth,
waves curling something pressing in
a wistful longing for a past I never knew.

Seagulls traced ethereal designs across the expanse
their wails scattered like fragments.
Somewhere underneath the foam,
the past was fossilized within sedimentary strata
waiting for my hands to delve deep enough

The rain remembers

 
The rain remembers sacred names Etched in dust and carved in flames, It weeps for those who dared to stand With calloused hearts and outstretched hand.
 
Each drop a verse the skies once wrote On burning hills, on shattered hope, But still it falls, a balm, a sign That grace returns in perfect time.

What the Hill Remembers

I have counted her footsteps 
for thirty-seven years
the same path worn 
into my slope, 
the same pause 
at the thorny ridge 
where she catches her breath 
and adjusts the 
weight on her spine.

Her daughters 
used to follow, 
small shadows 
learning the art 
of bending 
without breaking.

Now I watch 
the granddaughters 
in school uniforms, 
walking the

Rain, and the Body Remembers

The body remembers…
What the mind politely forgets.

How rain once meant survival
How cold once meant fear

How being held...
Was once the only god that mattered.

The Shore Remembers Me

The seashore knows, the path I tread.
Records my steps, when I have fled.
In prints I cast, the post-card shows,
The path I tread, the seashore knows.

Gulls see my stance, as swells flash past.
The post-card shows in prints I cast,
As wave surge clears, rushing to dance, 
As swells flash past, gulls see my stance.

Seashells snatch sighs, replaying

The River Remembers Nothing

I am a river,
surging, never still,
never bound,
within walls, 
I’ve never had,
nor cherished, nor craved.

You ask me to remember —
but where would
such memories be 
forged or stored in liquidity?
Plunge your hands
within me and
all you will find is
the glinting surge of present motion,
with nothing before or after,
nothing upstream nor downstream
only the fleeting touch of one instance.
My fate

What the Mouth Remembers

You stood like dusk before me,
quiet and burning at the edges.
I knelt, not to worship —
but to listen
to the storm beneath your stillness.

And later, when you opened
like evening —
petal by pulse,
I came not to take
but to taste what you trust.

My lips learned your language
one slow syllable at a time,
your breath catching like candlelight
in a room

On a Jukebox That Remembers Me

I met ANGIE in a bar where grief drank quiet,
where HONKY TONK WOMEN spilled perfume and regret.
She moved like WILD HORSES with nowhere left to run—
said, “I’m safer UNDER MY THUMB than out in the open.”

She kissed like a dare and left like smoke.
On RUBY TUESDAY, she vanished into rain,
murmuring, “YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT

The Rim Remembers

I drank coffee from your cup—
still warm where your mouth had pressed,
the rim embossed
with your lower lip’s faint crest.

Now rust stains every silver spoon,
fingers drum restless rhythms
on our kitchen’s worn lagoon.

In checkout lines, your laughter flickers—
a candle’s flame in strangers’ whispers.
I turn, but find no spark, no face—
just hollow aisles, silent grace.
For briefest moments,
you almost

The Decrepit Heart Remembers

I once loved
so fully,
I cracked open
beneath the weight
of someone
who now feels
like fog.

He was real—
once.
But time,
and the soft grind
of sorrow,
wore the shape
of him away.

Still,
my heart thumps,
a decrepit engine,
rattling on
with broken rhythm—
every beat
a memory
I wish I didn’t
still want.

I ache to return,
knowing the knives
that wait.
I am
a snake
coiled against fire,
slithering back
toward pain
with my eyes wide open.

Even in this
ruin,
something stirs—
a

The Tree That Remembers

They don’t ask if I remember.
They think I’m just a tree—
bark, leaves, and silence.
But I do.

I remember.

Before roads,
before fences,
before the wooden swing on my lowest branch—
I was already here,
waiting.

Not for anything in particular.
Just rooted.
Listening.

And they came.

The boy arrived first.
No shoes,
knees scraped,
eyes wide.

He ran in like he owned the field
and sat at my base,
panting as if

The Way the Body Remembers

Cliché: “Time heals all wounds.”
(Irritation: It implies passivity, ignoring the ache, the effort, the mess of healing.)

Better Version:
Healing is not the passing of time—
it is the choosing to keep walking with the limp.

Poem

They say time heals all wounds,
but time does nothing
without your hands in the dirt.
It just sits there,
ticks forward,
waits for you to move.

Healing is

When Ash Remembers Flame

Written: May 20, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
Inspired from Prince Song: When Doves Fly
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I slipped the mirror mournful cry,
Where silhouettes lick the silvery sky.
There is no name or voice left to claim—
There was just airless

No One Remembers

This world wasn’t a nicest fit for me
But I lived here for awhile
I’m a spirit of a tall leafy tree
A tree with indefinite lovely smile
I provided shade when it was hot
A shelter from rains when it poured
My meekness was noticed, so I’ve finally got
A typical fate to be cut into boards
I’ve been carved into a

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