With Nostalgia Poems | Examples

Caffeine vapor

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

Africa

Africa,
I reconcile your genius with nostalgia,
perfervidity and relic lust;

your age with the whiteness
of a virgin void of earliness;

and your life with the tenderness
of the yolk of God.

Where do you dwell?

The Future of Poetry

ideas that drip 
with nostalgia 
pungent like rust

Youth

Something that is
          wasted at times
                    not intentionally

But through the
          course of events
                    It consists of

Great energy and strength
          good things and
                    periods of contemplation

Relationships and bonds
          are joyously formed
                    that last lifetimes

It is a time
          of happiness, no worries
                    nor cares

You have many friends
          Some of them
                    now deceased

And you look back
          at that time
                    with nostalgia

Grace in the Storm

Oh beautiful days I’ve had,
Filled with sunshine and blooming flowers.
Some, with rain and a cool breeze,
That smelled like paradise.

And bad days I’ve had,
Filled with nostalgia and lament,
Some arrived with loud noise
And a void that felt almost unhealable.

But the best of days were those
When my faith was unbreakable,
When no sorrow could spoil my joy,
When I pardoned the wrongs done to me.

When grace filled my heart,
And I gave hugs away freely.
So let tomorrow come,
And I shall embrace it.

Proute Hill Church

I found myself standing in the old church, near the entrance. It had been over thirty years since I last set foot there, and now, twice in one year, I was back. Country churches have a unique warmth, small yet deeply personal. Friendship, I realized, is much like a small church.

I was there to say goodbye to my loved ones, my mother and my godmother. The moment was filled with nostalgia and a surreal sense of disbelief. I kept asking myself, “Why take her?” It was heartening to see familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years, though time had changed us all. At sixty-seven, I too felt the weight of those years.

Returning to St. Matthews, my childhood church, brought a smile to my face. So many memories flooded back. We offered our prayers, seeking strength and ease. The year 2024, despite its sorrows, brought my family together. It was wonderful to see everyone, from the youngest to the oldest.

I didn’t visit the beautiful beach on the island; it felt like too much all at once. Today, my lower back aches, but I cherish the warm memories of July 2024.

returning home

the old mill reposes in the middle of the peppered autumn trees
spruced up under the jurisdiction of golden, yellow, red, maples
the scene cannot be captured in a photograph, it is soul searing
My throat clogs up and I gasp, full of childhood memories

I sit at the edge and watch the revolving spokes of the water wheel
the mini falls splash and dance at my feet; I inhale the scent of the woods
September has never felt so welcoming and loving
Tears dance in my eyes, as I am overcome with nostalgia and hope.

The last time I was here I thought I knew about the world
Traveling for the last thirty years proved that I knew nothing
Forgetting the feel of this sanctuary, of my roots
I give praise to God that He allowed me to return home.

Magnets

Rock paper scissors,
popular events have seat fillers;
seven minutes in heaven,
a bingo call of legs eleven.

Sweet and sour,
rising dough needs flour;
popcorn watching a movie,
forty years celebrated with ruby.

Smiles and sorrows with nostalgia,
a new year’s resolution mantra;
feeling outside and forever looking in,
hearing that theme alongside shark’s fin.

Prophecies predict fate,
women are told to fear being late;
wolves howl at the moon,
humming just one bar of a tune.

Opposites really do attract,
cliches mock the abstract;
digestion and enzyme,
but do poems have to rhyme?

Milk Delivery ephemera poetry

In the morning light, a milk bottle stands,
A relic of bygone days, in my trembling hands.
Embossed with nostalgia, a link to the past,
From the dairy farm, where memories last.

As a little girl, I'd wait with glee,
For the sound of the milkman, with bottles three.
Clad in white, with a smile so kind,
Bringing fresh milk, a treasure to find.

The clink of glass, the cool touch of the jar,
Filled with creamy goodness, from cows afar.
A cap of foil, a symbol of care,
Delivered with love, from the dairy farm fair.

Each morning ritual, a simple delight,
The taste of fresh milk, a pure delight.
In that old bottle, a story untold,
Of days gone by, of memories bold.

Now the milkman is gone, the farm a memory,
Yet in that bottle, lives a legacy.
Of childhood moments, of innocence so sweet,
In the simple act of milk delivery, a connection complete.

Old House

Once grandeur,  
and perched on an expansive terrain 
The humble monumental frame 
that had bounced children's laughter
from its walls 
And had displayed historical images  
Along its halls,  
Now stands an eyesore 
so silent and worn. 

I passed by once to catch a glimpse 
Of what was left of it since 
Those glorious years of my youth. 
Though the epochs have passed 
And life had long bade that old house goodbye, 
It still echoed its beautiful truths.
I smiled- awash with nostalgia 
- And was lost in my childhood forever.

Flowers Sing at Starlight

We all seem to think of flowers, only in the sun.
Did you realize at night, it is time they dance in floral fun?

After the busy insects, got their tasty food for the day,
The flowers can relax in the most unique, enchanting way.

They recall with nostalgia, how the baby roses grew so tall!
And how quickly the young, dark, green ivy, crawled up the garden wall.

With glee, they relax, as no person will uproot them from family or friends.
And are so very grateful when the sun does set, the day finally does end!

The sounds of car horns, motorcycles, lawn-mowers are finally at rest.
Dont you know, it’s cooler for them, as they get a well-deserved rest?

They thank God for this precious day, having done so very well their jobs.
Free now, to flower-talk, free of the jabber and loud talk of the human mobs.

They chatter with one another, about today’s sunny, busy, happenings.
Studying the stars, and grateful that no noise from any backgate swings!


                     4/14/2024

Postcards and paper plane's

Postcards and paper plane's.

Postcards and paper plane's I'd never thought to throw away, some day I may reminisce how flying and crying mingled with nostalgia,  as my travels have been short. Maybe the plans will resemble my freedom on the wings of desire,  and the postcards remind me of home, in all the places you have been.

Ode To the Midnight Streets With Autumn Trees

The midnight streets,
Are empty,
And the ladies,
Are filled,
With longings,
And croissants,

The moon,
Has lit,
Its candle,
From within,
And the songbirds,
Are filled,
With nostalgia,
And wine,

The autumn trees,
Are shedding,
Their leaves,
And the jazz,
Is shedding its blues,

Some quaint irises,
And exotic roses,
Adorn the lakes,
And the moon,
And their love is yours
Reynaldo Casison

The Mysterious Path

When you pack a life, you pack a soul.
A tapestry of memories, tales untold.
Each cherished moment, tenderly whole,
To be packed away, a bittersweet bold.
 
When facing mental and literal grime.
To pack for an unknown trip on time. 
A dance with nostalgia, a delicate art,
To gather the fragments, piece by part.

There is a profound stillness in the room.
As blaze pictures and messages to consume. 
Stale, antique odors of books and art.
Floats across the air as the mind starts 

Each item holds a story, a chapter in time,
To be stated, akin to a tiny wrap, is sublime. 
Tokens of happiness and signs of pain,
The tangible remnants of a life's refrain.

The clock ticks softly, as memories unbend.
Through the hands that touch, stories trend.
Each object holds a piece of one's soul,
A window into a life, a world once whole.

The packing continues, a dance of reflection,
As the past and present merge in introspection.
Each item is carefully wrapped, with love and care,
Preserving the essence of a life's wear and tear.

 After the last item, a closure grips the room.
A silent trip ended, and a fresh era beckons to bloom.

Guilt

I am thankful,
I am so lucky,
yet at times I cry,
filled with sorrow,
not quite knowing where I belong,
wanting to escape the world,
for a moment I forget,
forget that I am loved,
I am lucky,
yet I cry,
will future me look back on now,
with nostalgia,
or with sadness,
that I felt pain so deeply,
but with so much to be thankful,
I am guilty,
one day I will be okay,
not yet.
but one day.

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