Nostalgia Verse Poems | Examples
These Nostalgia Verse poems are examples of Verse poems about Nostalgia. These are the best examples of Verse Nostalgia poems written by international poets.
There will aways be ruins
Love and pain are tangible
theres scars to be felt by our fingertips , maps to our sacred innermost places
the altars we built there
There will always be ruins, remnants of life
Pictures become vessels to transport those left behind ,small houses for memories
A time before the collapse
Where we all become drunk on Nostalgia
There will always be ruins
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.
today I believe
is the best
day of my life,
built of hills
man-made
like a dream
my new bicycle
flies down over
the bumps of greens,
of front yards,
flattening
the flowers,
with crystals
in my eyes,
And for lunch
is a party
with all the kids,
at Hungry Jacks,
with ice-cream cake
and make-a-wish candles,
yummy junk food burgers
and salty as pretzel chips.
A memory forever engrained
until the day that I die...
A “For Sale” sign
stands out front
where once a parish
notice board stood
for a hundred years.
Inside, the pews are gone.
A stark, stripped back space
echoes an absence
occupied now by only wisps
of dust drifting through a shaft
of sunlight, a buzzing blowfly
and a spiders web spun
across a window
as if strung to snare
the frayed wings
of the last
escaping prayer.
in the sixties we girls wore our hair like poodles
teased it up in a poofy way curled and high
stuck a small velvet bow right in front
two inches above our noses
and thought we looked rather posh
not understanding we looked like fancy poodles
Faded Poet's Voice
Dr Ranjit Futta
My friend's poetic voice
Now in a distant home.
The lines that danced once
With rhythm and rhymes,
Echoes of memories,lost in time.
In cyberspace, a void is found
The poet's words are being lost.
Without a sound
My friend's creations by the walking time have
gone astray,
A poetic soul lost in disarray
And the words now become sloglans.
The poet's voice
Leaves now emptiness
That cannot be bound.
His words evoking in me
A sense of nostalgia,
pointing to the fragility of
Digital existence and enduring
The power of art.
When I was a young girl,
I had a soft cuddly teddy,
he was my friend,
and I adored him.
After my sister died I needed him,
he was my comfort each night,
so soft and cuddly ... and he had a scent !
Then, one day he was gone,
our house was on fire,
we lost everything,
I lost everything,
Of course, I was given another teddy,
but, it was just not the same,
not as soft or cuddly ... and he had no scent !
The candle trembles in the draft
shadows stretching like whispered secrets.
A single heartbeat fractures the dark
and stars lean closer to listen.
Even the silence carries it still:
we once had our light.
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.
DUSTY OLD BOX OF MEMORIES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The attic is a time capsule when time stops and nostalgia lives. Inside, the very air hangs heavy, thick with a musty scent and the weight of upspoken stories. Amongst the jumbled collection of forgotten treasures, a dusty old box of memories remains untouched, draped in a shroud of white dust like winter’s first snowfall. Although reluctant to open the attic door and venture forth, I wonder if perhaps the box holds more value than I’m willing to admit.
memories like wisps of gray smoke
dance upon the wind's breath
fleeting moments caught
frozen frames of love and pain
moments lived, now lost in time
untold stories sleep
yet their essence remains
haunting whispers in my mind
a bittersweet refrain
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...
Caffeine vapor billows
blowing with the raindrops
the ceiling says
my body wanders
to a part of nowhere
glowing like a warm air
as if it were true
The reflection of the latte under the yellow light
the foam forms a crescent
like the curve of your smiling eyes
Petrichor tonight is so foreign
because only the gentle wind
between your body is familiar to me
I begin to enjoy the thunder
thundering beats
rhythmically
with the same beats
like an album cliché at my fingertips
jumping from time to time
Raindrops intertwined with nostalgia
melancholic rhythm
irony and romance
instantly combined
now flowing away
My teddy bear is antique
He has lived a long life
and is a bit worn
Despite its appearance
there is never any doubt
on who owns him
I got it from my grandmother
when I was born
The cradle of nostalgia
unforgettable memories
He has been with me all my life
and is my best friend
The teddy bear is made of soft
and lovely fabric
that feels wonderful to hug and cuddle
My cuddly teddy bear has been
absolutely invaluable through thick and thin
It is my emotional anchor
when anxiety or sad thoughts appear
A soft toy ? - ... significantly much more
Tea bags and wet dog, crossword ink on fingertips.
Chocolate biscuit wrappers, garden pond algae.
Hairspray that held those curly grey locks in place. Regal.
Scents mixed and shaken,
ground and stirred – a dusting of her
that wafts through air like a time
machine, shuttling me back to a
bowling alley, a country show digging
up worms. A couch that belched
stories when sat on. Vegetable broth.
I’d bottle it. I’d use it sparingly.
Red carpet occasions only.
Or for our backyard patio boardgames.
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