Most Commented Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

im looking through a window
made of silk and coloured stone
my memory is hazy
am i actually alone?

i cannot turn my head
my gaze is fixed outside
lost in strange wonders
of a plastic countryside

i can hear a bluebird trilling
its sweet vicous brutal song
theres a spider spining wispers
telling me i must be strong

theres a house thats made of faces
and another made of hands
a path that leads between them
shifting multicoloured sands

theres a dragon on a hillside
and a maple tree in bloom
and their both standing steady
somehow honest in the gloom

with shadows playing freely
on the ground and in the air
and even in their darkness
they sing a symphony so fair

its all distraction really
all this dreaming memory
it may hold my attention
with its broken old story

yet soon the window closes
the silk it rips and falls
the stone it shifts and melts
and its empty in these halls

its not one thing
nor yet another
it is what it is
both the start
but also the end
when that hand hits
and the chimes begin
marking a new day
yet signifying the end
of the one gone by
other times may mean
different things
to different folks
time to go to work
time for play
time for dinner
the magic hour
midnight's hour
is all in one

Down in the woods
deep in the glen
is our fairy home
a place of wonder
hid from human eye

some think us a myth
a tale for kids
be that as may be
we are just hidden
tucked away from sight

when a fairy ring
you find, pause
look around
feel the beat
of fairy wings

if you wish to see
our fairy queen
a special stone
you will need
to go to the brook

search there carefully
and you will find
a glamour stone
this will enable you
to espy her or us

through the hole
you must look
magically now
we will appear
clear as day

maybe, maybe
a wish we
will grant you
if we think you
have been good

He came from the old west
His name was Bundango
He could shoot the wings off of a housefly at 50 paces
The only time he smiled was after he killed a guy
He was as hard as granite
And as mean as a rattlesnake
He never paid for a drink
The bartender was too afraid to ask him to pay
He cheated at cards
The saloon patrons would never call him on a cheat
Cause they knew they would be dead men if they did
Bundango ate the same thing every meal
Flapjacks, bacon, and whiskey
Enough whiskey to send most mere mortals to an early grave
But not old Bundango
No sir
Bundango liked to smoke Cuban cigars
He could make smoke rings real good
So if you ever cross paths with Bundango
Be sure to look the other way and leave him be
He might just let you live
So goes the legend of Bundango

Oh! Subtle touch attend, the needs of poetic pen,
intermingling phrases drink the long dried latent ink,
its music betwixt lines apply, bY the hand of harmony,
pulsating rhymes show an ethereal delighted glow,
from lofty spheres again, its joy from rain
to quiet fall unbroken, as thunder yet silent spoken,
symphonic sounds for us, from purest notes melodious,
teach happiness accrue, the wealth of love pursue,
from caverns' deepest cell, echo love's poetic spell,
rewarding toiled chore with stardust from the meteor,
by its light tracking canopy, illume the dark and trackless sea.
Thus enchantingly silver spun, thro' ageless years has run,
serves love a happier knot, along her streaming banners slot,
ever tied to harmonious thought, the icon of virtue taught
piety dwell the muse of it, safe from betraying fools of wit,
find we here on the earth, tongued men of little worth,
oft recite with smoothest tone, words that they do not rightly own,
then with transparent visage tell, all they cannot answer well,
with voice like streamlets running, naive depths of shallow cunning,
forget the pain, forget the folly that blackens day with melancholy,
leave drowsy realms of Morpheus, and harken sweet to Orpheus,
where evening vespers gaily spin,the noiseless web, fragile thin,
cradles sleepy shadows fine, where zephyrs sweep the odorous pine,
with fragrant breath of evening dew, rustling whispers filtering thru,
where we oft in disbelief, hear the harp on falling leaf,
gently moisten so the ground, float, to garnish earth a coloured coat,
leafy companions tree hung store, join in its choir, oft before
summer's scented stirring breeze, echoed o'er the slumbering leas,
breathes its opium incensed tale to herdsmen of the lowly dale,
whose laboured day's timeless clock, toil their charge that ambition mock,
with heart directed eye ever keen,pour love on pastures green,
till past the sun at eventide, whilst moon peeps thro' heavens wide,
steers his stock to homeward Oaks, where cottage chimney gently smokes,
and children skirt the welcome fire, with greedy kiss his cheeks attire,
nightly there he silent took, parental pleasures at the inglenook,
unspoken love joy and care, at his weary side they snuggled there,
with sparkling eye would them entreat, antique stories of heroics feat,
where Knights rescued maidens fair, from the evil clutches of despair,
crusading tales so timeless old, peoples champion fearless bold,
nightly, they'd the same tales hear,caressing balm the infant ear,
love warmed air's silent creep, lull the eye to peaceful sleep,
love unwritten in sand or dust, but in longevity of parental trust,
that we must nurse to ever groom, through the bright, through the gloom,
to burn love's flame serene and pen the poet's hopeful dream.

Its’s December, it’s December,
Oh, no longer am I helper
For the last leaf trembling on the branch…

I’m still looking for your address
On autumnal yellow freeways,
Soon may snow of white sorrow begin …

Oh, this winter will go by,
Wind in soul then will subside,
But I’ll still be crazy missing you,

For again March’ll come in due time,
And cyclamens strewn on hillside
It will pick and toss up into air…

A Week at Clare College

A gentle softness of time settles on silent walls
While youth and future greatness scurries on inside your halls,
Marking a languid link with “then” and “now”
As scratchy ink from pen and thought from furrowed brow
Did prove its point and genius flowed from long-dead minds
Now move from joint liaison with “virtual” strangers’ finds.

With creaking floorboards on the curving stair
Rise up to view the greenness of your Quad out there -
Through mullioned glass you view the life walk by
A scullion ‘d pass; a few to knife and fork to buy
A meal in the café where Dons and staff and students all
Find time together, fat to chew, and ponder on the next May Ball.

The peaceful Backs from office window rear
Look over Cam and Fellows’ Garden near.
The gritted paths for centuries of shoes and wheels
Lay knitted garths around the grounds of yews and steals
Time out from study hard to offer rest and calmness from
The melee of the working day and relentless intercom.

One evening after work I strayed toward the town
At dusk; a lonely soul across the Quad , in brown
Raincoat; looked back at Chapel windows, soft-focused lit
And heard the practised evensong – and it
Was if I’d travelled back in time! To where the street
And modern city grime and Clare, were destined soon to meet.

I’ve left your hallowed halls and lofty rooms I’m sad to say ~
Some others stay behind to finish what they
Came to do and some are there for ever – well, you know
As long as our short life allows, and never want to go.
But Clare will stay and watch the changes over time
Protecting all her charges and her history, sublime.

Inclement climes set early in today
lacking mercy at dawn's soft hour,
the lake now ruffled torn and dour,
as sad the world was hard at play,

Thus to counter my abysmal gloom
and annihilate natures harsh brooding storm,
sojourned I to my favour'd cosy room,
lit the lifeless fire, then my inglenook was warm,

Thus contented I, relaxing with the blazing air,
thought I of thee soft faced and fair,
tho' dull outside, indulged I in vision's care
whilst inclined upon my rocking chair,

There, dare but I, my eager love set free
and behind the curtained wall discover
hallowed time where fond thoughts prevail,
and life's emotional knot ne'er be severed;

YOU THRILLED US WITH YOUR STUNNING VOICE! YOU ARE, AND ALWAYS WILL BE, MY FAVORITE MALE ARTIST OF CHOICE! I TALK TO YOU IN DREAMS, AND YOU EXPLAIN THE WAYS AND MEANS! BECAUSE OF YOU, I'M NOT CRYING ANYMORE! I LIVE EACH DAY, KNOWING GREAT THINGS ARE IN STORE! AND ONE DAY, WHEN ALL OF MY DREAMS HAVE COME TRUE; I SHALL RETURN TO THAT WONDERFUL; BLUE BAYOU!

The poplars' lengthening on this hill,
amid the rows of marigolds and earth,
and through the box hedge labyrinth we walk,
together, to the choiring twilight bells.
~
Their fugue of echoes echoes through the hills
and sings against this time-streaked, flowering wall
where breezes coax the potted lemon trees,
the pendant, yellow fruit and shiny leaves.
Beneath the flaming watercolor sky,
the cultivated, terraced drop of hill,
a gleaming city with its towers and domes,
the Arno shimmering as it drowns the sun,
and a Poet cries.
~
Chameleon-like, I am transformed by the light
of his love and wine has blurred the edges of the
night.

What gifts I could ever give him on this night
or any other night may be retracted in another
light.

You understand this in a foreign tongue,
but vaguely, for these things will not translate.
I feel it in the cadence of your walk;
I am not one for whom moonlight can create,
you are.

And you will think the loosening of these thighs,
the sudden, urging whiteness of the throat
are muted but distantly a Poet cries.
and in your triumph you will fairly gloat.
~
Tonight the unplucked lemons almost gleam.
And with their legs, the crickets harmonize,
The trees are rustling an uncertain hymn,
and unseen birds contribute their trembling sighs,
And a Poet cries


~SAS~