Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

where are you?
are you on the clouds
or on the back of a bird
or on the back of a fish?

where are you?
are you on the top of Ural mounatains
or in the greens of the Sunderban
or on the bank of the Mahanadi?

where are you?
are you in your hospital
or playing with some granny
or buying cakes in the big bazaar?

where are you?
never mind, be happy.
smile always just like
the rose attached here for you.

Time trap
Boom boom soon soon
How tricky ticky time can be

Time trap
Boom boom soon soon
It's all about the memories

Time trap
Boom boom soon soon
It's the month of twenty oh history

Time trap
Boom boom soon soon
How tricky ticky time can be

Time trap
Boom boom soon soon
Dreams sail no more upon the sea

In the dark night of my loneliness
You appeared as a ray of happiness;
At once came the black clouds
And dimmed that bright ray.
What happened to you
I could not know,
Though have been waiting for long
To read your warm mail.

Surely, you not changed your mind;
Surely, you not fall into other’s trap;
Surely, you were not playing with me;
Surely, I was not playing with you.

Why then this silence,
The silence of a bewailing heart,
The heart that falls apart
Without being glued with your smiles,
The smiles enchanting and quenching
The parched land of love?

Come on now, cast your spell
The spell of your Helen’ beauty,
Shower your vernal blessings;
Let grow the vegetation of empathy
And blossom with the flowers of feelings
On this parched land of love.

There is none
with whom
I should talk at night.
My heart yearns
to talk to you;
but you are so distant!!!

I listen to the lament
of my lonely heart
and I communicate
with my desperate soul.

I imagine your smiling face,
and try to forget
the pangs of loneliness.

I don't know,
if we can meet ever.
We are so apart,
and you are so distant!!!

As we descend into humanity
from which dreams
never escape
but, where
religion is born (so they say)
and wonder in a voice
that has become
our anthem;
If tomorrow fails
to come,
what does it all mean, poet?
What will become of the gut-wrenching words
we tear from our souls?

Do we go door to door
begging for answers
and come away with nothing,
but a fistful of orders
for vacuums we don't sell?

Determined to salvage
some good from it all.
Will we toss our poems
into burn barrels
on frigid street corners
where frozen fingers line up
like icicles from eaves, poet?

Will unshaven faces
stare at us and whisper
"Thank you"
as we watch metaphors smolder
and dance toward a starless sky
and all we have left are unfilled
vacuum cleaner orders?


SAS

IT'S BEEN MANY YEARS, SINCE YOU'VE, COME AND GONE; BUT YOUR MEMORY, SHALL ALWAYS LIVE, ON AND ON! THOUGH, YOUR BROTHER, RICHARD, CREATED THE TUNES; IT WAS YOUR VELVET VOICE, THAT CAST A SPELL, ON MANY MOONS! YOUR UNTIMELY DEMISE, BROUGHT MANY TEARS, TO ALL THE WORLD'S EYES! I CAN ASSURE YOU, KAREN, THROUGH RICHARDS WRITING, AND YOUR WONDERFUL VOICE; YOU SHALL ALWAYS BE; MY FEMALE ARTIST OF CHOICE!

Weathered barn
All idle and gray
Through vacant doors
Hollowed black
Sills rotting with decay
Another year stands
By autumn woods
As colors fade away
Day by day
One by one
To all are gone
Once long ago
You were young
New and green
Like the trees
Make fallen logs
In late spring
In a skidder hauled
To the rushing saw
At the watermill
Down by the falls
One by one
Day by day
Board by board
The builders
Made you strong

the rain falling on the Windows
rings a bell of nostalgy...
touching the warm of your sentiments
dying...your black orchard perfume
you...my secret far away inspired...
love has the scorching carmin of spain
the passionate italian bel canto
and french elegant satin slipper...
the rain falling on the Windows
has,cello the voice,violin the grief...

If you ask him, he will talk for hours
how at fourteen he hammered signs,
fingers raw with cold, and later painted bowers
in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers
for two weeks in jail, and lived on bread;
how he fled the border to a country
which disappeared wars ago; unfriended
crossed a continent while this country
began.

He seldom speaks of painting now.
Young men have time and theories;
old men work.
He has painted countless portraits.
Sallow nameless faces, made glistening in oil,
smirk above anonymous mantelpieces.
The turpentine has a familiar smell,
but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies.
Perched on the maul-stick, it nears the easel.

He has come to like this resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cassocks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
His pen alone recalls that years ago,
one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear
which, poised, seemed pointed straight
to pierce the sun.

The Rustling Wind That Blows Trough The Trees Whisperes My Love
My Love Iv Come For De As i Gaze On Trough The Night at Her Child Like Smile That Shines So Bright And Wait Whats That i Hear a Voice from
The Trees Said Take Her in Your Arms But i fell Apoun My Knees And i Thanked My God for His Grace Then Took Her By The Hand As We Walked Down By The River Bed Were The Old Rusty Fountain Yoused To Stand And There i Sang for Her A Beatiful Melody As i Kissed Her Sweet Lips
Beneath The Blossom Trees And As The Birds Whisled Softly i Whispered
To Her ear In The Morning We Shall Be Wed So We Lay Down Apoun The River Bed But In The Morning When i Woke My Love She Were Not There She Was Out With Her Basket Picking fruits from The Vineyards afar So i Rise And i Listen i Hear Her Voice from The Trees its Saying its Me My Love My Love i Brought Some Supper for De She Said You Knew My True Love i Near Not Go That far There We Made Our Sweet Love Vows Always forever Never To Part




Written 9 of October 2014 / 5.05 Author Joel o Neill