Most Commented Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

Have I told You how much I love you
How the earth moves when you are near
Your heat goes right through me
And your glistening black body excites
How I love to run my hands along you
Feeling all those lovely, shapely curves
When the right buttons I push
Your body quivers, shakes with delight
Have I told You how much I love you
Old steam engine number nine

I looked across the empty barren field
Where the land seemed to lay silent and still
Remembering a time when it once yield
Now everything seems destined to be killed

I knocked on your door then let myself in
Emptiness was found took my breath away
My heart cried "Where oh where are you my friend"
Did you leave before I could come today

Closing the door wasn't easy on me
Had to let the land lay fallow awhile
Sometimes you must just let the world be
You don't just give up and throw in the towel

Returned to the field to plant some more seeds
The harvest is growing don't see a weed




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A warm summer night for a little sail
Watching golden sunsets awash in red
A lonely gull lights on the starboard rail
With gentle curiosity wings still spread

Whitecaps rolling a wake rippled with foam
Steady while our bow cuts across the waves
Tacking now we turn abreast pressing home
One final reach let's hope the wind behaves

My father's hand holds steady the tiller
I watch smoke rising off his Billiard pipe
Coming into the wind was a thriller
Grabbing the mooring line on the first swipe

Now many of a'summers come and gone
Many restless winds to keep an eye on

The park bench calls to me
Old weathered wood with knots
Worn to silken smoothness from time
Inviting me to sit and share a moment
The green grass soothes my bare feet
Poking through my toes with tickling sensations
Moisture cooling the heat from within
Sending refreshing calm throughout me
Rustling branches of aged trees rattle
Weary with age yet standing firm and tall
Swaying in the rhythmic fashion of dancers
To the music of the wind, thick with humidity
Heavy thoughts bounce through my mind
Leaving a trail of pictures and memories
Yet none so clear, as those shared with you
Sitting here, on this old weathered bench

Oh! ye narrow minds where barbarous thoughts belong,
what joy find you in treacherous silken tongue?
How with lofty air you proudly walk on snow
with arrogance abound, think your footsteps never show;
strut you like tigers, who flaunt their visual art
in amplification of stature, profanity impart
gestures ignoble, with generosity unreal,
solicit ignots, then dividends of interest steal,
self-centred wisdom, speak of books you so adore,
but books give not wisdom where there was none before,
Golden opinions effuse with intolerence prone,
oft know not the difference 'twixt desert and the sown,
still high-handed insolence approbation seek,
whilst cultured courtesy oft turns the other cheek.

at the table the old men gather
to speak of things that really matter
smile at their clever wizened quips
blurting, then laughing at Freudian slips

growing old together with all of life
before succumbing to some afterlife
they look so deep with chiseled faces
know they're soon going other places

yet for now they can sit and sip
speculate on it being a round trip
slap table about events they knew
swear on oaths they know aren't true

makes no matter where they're going
for theirs is just the pleasure knowing
the frail old man across the table
who'd give his shirt if he were able

that's what lifetime friends just do
another's hand to see you through
so let's just sit and shoot our time
'bout youth being partners in crime

tomorrow will come a thoughtful stare
across the table to vacated chair
and remember ol' Jim and all was said
of life and times and things we did

© agoodguy2have 2010-12-16

They've been to get their Christmas tree, they hadn't far to go
They live in that high country where young timber starts to grow
The day is cold, the snow is new, there aren't so many tracks
Dad has got the Christmas tree, the boy gets to hold the ax.

You notice by the chimney that the fireplace is wide
They have their house built strong and low, it's plenty warm inside
They've got a good set of corrals besides a stable too;
They are fixed up pretty handy for a place to winter through

And when they put the candles on, it's easy to believe
How that tree will look by firelight this comin' Christmas Eve
There won't be any carols sung, no organ will be to play
But they'll have a happy Christmas in the hills so far away

I'll bet Dad's thinking, back to when he was a kid
How folks would spend their Christmas and things he got and did
Of course the boy, he looks ahead, he thinks not of the past
But soon he'll have his Christmas memories that'll keep until the last.

Pink peaches I will keep remembering till today …
You’re haunting me the same … you’re killing me the same.
Such craving is in me for you! Oh what a wistful day,
The sky that is the same. The tree that’s very much the same …
The wind that blows the same. The willow's bending down.
The sun that’s just the same. The winding road – the same.
With all my might I’ll tell the wind that’s westward bound
In similar voice I'll tell the grief that’s very much the same.

This poem is for my wife.
I have made it plainly and honestly:
The mark is on it
Like the burl on the knife.

I have not made it for praise.
She has no more need for praise
Than summer has
Or the bright days.

In all that becomes a woman
Her words and her ways are beautiful:
Love’s lovely duty,
The well-swept room.

Wherever she is there is sun
And time and a sweet air:
Peace is there,
Work done.

There are always curtains and flowers
And candles and baked bread
And a cloth spread
And a clean house.

Her voice when she sings is a voice
At dawn by a freshening sea
Where the wave leaps in the
Wind and rejoices.

Wherever she is it is Now.
It is here where the apples are:
Here in the stars,
In the quick hour.

The greatest and richest good,
My own life to live in,
This she has given me –
If giver could.

I was just a little cowgirl of maybe two or three
And tired of riding horses upon my daddy's knee;
So I was given this old stick horse and for hours I would ride,
Chasing imaginary dogies with my heeler dog a'side.

I toddled out behind my dad 'cause I thought I was a hand
Just a regular 'ol cowpuncher riding for his brand;
Dad was awful excited, he had something for me to see,
Saddled up there in the barn was this good Paint mare for me.

The saddle we had was way too big, for I was pretty small
Daddy told me not to fret, there was no problem at all;
He took two worn old stirrups and laced them to a girt;
And tied them to the saddle horn and I sat there pretty pert.

He tied the old split reins into a hard fast knot
Just so that I wouldn't lose them when we began to trot;
I began that day to tag along wherever Dad would go,
I was finally a cowgirl and my heart was all aglow.

Well I grew to fit that saddle and to rein without the knot
I even got a faster horse,'cause Paint would only trot;
We'd ride up in the mountains, rounding up the cows and sheep,
We'd ride all day from dawn to dusk, then unsaddle feed and sleep.

And now I am much older and I still run the ranch
My dad will come to help me out when he has the chance;
I gather the cows in the pickup truck, with modern pens at hand,
And sometimes my love of ranching is hard to understand.

Then I gaze at my first stirrups hanging on the wall
And they remind me of that time when I was very small;
The life of a cowgirl is what I chose to lead,
And all cowgirls in Texas are of a very special breed.

We are everywhere in the state from the Red to the Rio Grande
So please, when you see us, come over and shake our hand;
You'll find a very tender lady underneath our skins of brown,
And on our heads a well worn hat that we wear just like a crown.

We are the real heart of Texas with a will you can't deny
Our hearts and souls belong to God, until the day we die;
So when you speak of Texas do not leave this thought unsaid,
And remember all us cowgirls we're Texas born and bred.