Most Commented Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

I hear the distant echo
of a song I knew before,
it hovers o'er the river
I swam in days of yore,
when enclosed me only sunshine
and all the world was mine,
'fore penury got its grip on me
in the dark'ning veil of time

I hear the distant echo
of a song I knew before,
it plays in attic treasure chests
my mind loved to explore,
when diamond chips and pirate ships
abounded on the main,
'fore my childhood dreams cried mutiny
now no mystery remains

I hear the distant echo
of a song I knew before,
it swings on oak tree pendulums
I tied before the war
'tween a young boy's dreams of flying
and an old man's hopes of dying,
and with time's speed multiplying
'til the clock tic tocs no more

I hear the distant echo
of a song I knew before,
so I'll ramble on
and sing my song
and regard not nevermore

Dearest Poet,
It thrilled me to read you again
after this long interruption.

Your last send, accompanied me,
became part of my journey,
for I kept it with me as a token
as a promise of words yet to come
stars yet to be crossed.

~

On a sand dune in the Tar desert
haunted by a wailing ghost
that kept the dogs howling all night
and the camel driver awe-stricken,
chanting frantically mantras to exorcise
the encroachment of an overwhelming presence.

Fixing the cold glimmer of unreachable galaxies,
as shooting stars passed through empty arches
there was the sudden revival of your voice
to bespeak of an harbor you had offered me
in some remote life spent or yet to come
through ocean restoring echoes of silica.

~
We are not apart in this dark,
though I be absent poet,
absent from this earth
have escaped the snares of this world
have vanished beyond reaches of desire.
My body is just the reverberation
of your nocturnal ache poet,
the ebb and flow of your lamento,
the throb of your savage heart
fixing my vagrant tremor
the submerged flicker of my serenity.

I am glad you have returned poet.
Take care
SAS

For Daniel

"Why do you
stripes
in you forehead,
Mommy?
Are you
old?"

Not old
But not so
young
that I cannot
see
the world contracting
upon itself
and the circle
closing at the end.

As the furrows
in my brow
deepen,
I can see
myself
sinking back
into that childhood
street
I walked along
with my grandfather,
thinking he was old
at sixty-three
since I was four
to my forty.

Forty years
to take
the road out,
Will another forty
take me
back?

Back to the street
I grew up on,
back to
my mother's breast,
back to the second
world war
of a second
child,
back
to the cradle
endlessly
rocking?

I am young
as you are,
Daniel-
yet with stripes
in my brow;
I earn my youth
as you must earn
your age.

These stripes
are decorations
for my valor-
forty years
of marching
to a war
I could not declare,
nor locate,
yet have somehow won.

Now,
I begin
to unwin,
unravelling
the sleeves
of care
that have kept
me scared,
as I pranced
over the world,
seemingly fearless,
working
without a net,
knowing
if I fell
it would
only be
into that same
childhood street,
where I dreaded
to tread
on the lines-
not knowing
the lines
would someday
tread
on me.

Daniel,
when you are forty,
read this poem
& tell me:
have we won
or lost
the war?


~SAS~

Put away my basket and sewing thread

Whilst memories of how you use to be

Decidedly were better left unsaid

Each repair sewed lovingly yet still see

The scars that have changed how you once appeared

There's nothing more that I can do for you

I will don you for what you are, no more tears

There's nothing left for me to really do

Memories of colors that showed so bright

Faded replaced by a different hue

I could think of what once was or what might

Or just except you for what you've been thru

Sometimes life has a way of changing course

To move on you must let go of remorse

We sit upon a log
to allow our souls
to catch up with us

We have been traveling
a long time.

Behind us
are forests of books
with pages green as leaves.
A blood sun stares
over the horizon.

Our souls are slow.
They walk miles behind
our long shadows.

They do not dance.
They need all their strength
merely to follow us.

Sometimes we run too fast
or trip climbing
the rotten rungs
in life's ladder.

Our souls know
it leads nowhere.

They are not afraid
of losing us.


~SAS~

Poet to Poet
Journal Entry

What Makes a Poet?
Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like an aqueduct,
a plain-spokenness to grief,
the hairs of the head
dancing on end,
the blood pulsating
with the voices
of all those who have died,
will die,
and will also be born?

Is it the mellifluous catch
in the throat
that awakens the eyes,
is it in the eyes themselves
or is it something
in the heart?

I think it is pain--
an openness to pain,
so that the slightest leaf
cuts the hand
and the smallest tear
cuts the cheek
like jagged crystal,

so that the world
is a sick infant
and the poet
its mother,
praying, promising
to be good
if only the cure
takes.

There is, of course,
no cure.

Poetry does not cure
the poet
and the poet
does not cure the world.

Usually she catches
the world's diseases
and dies
long before her time.

But against all odds
and all indifference,
another one is born.
The world must have
someone to feel its pain
and speak of it.

The poet is that
mellisonant.


~SAS~

Dear Poet

Sleepless night
tonight

though calm

(and a wonderful feeling of peace)
~

… releasing
one's creative vision
in the morning /

letting it fly
letting it breath
letting it exist as an entity separate
from oneself

engaging it
in conversation

becoming friends /
fellow soldiers
on metaphysical battlefields

Twisting fantasies together
in the night

seeking
degrees
of understanding

… and letting the rest
remain
a mystery.

~

… to touch your face
in some deep, dark mystery …
to touch your shoulders,
to hold your hips against my hips
and to share
a soldier's heat
a soldier's mind
a soldier's night

~

I love
leaving
the office
in the day,
and seeing people …

I love smiling
when I'm with them …

I love trying
to give them the energy
I feel inside … and the happiness.


Einstein believed that the universe is curved /
If you look
far enough out
into space …
you'll see the back of your head /

It's the same
with energy … and happiness … even knowledge /
when you give these things
to another,
a renewal-of-spirit
begins
inside you …

the ever-balance
the ever-dance
the ever-poem
written
around you

the ever-poem
written
inside you

and the madness … in check /

safe

whispered

dark

(seeking
a sense of order. -creativity exists within a sense of order)

~

Clarity

~

There is nothing we can wish for … or strive to possess / or become …that is
not
already
inside us.

~

(Pause)

~

Night
has turned to morning … wine
has turned
to coffee /

only the candlelight
remains
from last night … and, of course, the jazz.

~
<BR>
I should close.

I will write more soon.

(I closed my eyes
last night, and dreamt of you /
we were both naked
we were both
allowing the other
complete access
to our bodies … you were so warm, and sensual.

I must close, poet
write soon.
SAS
~

~*~"Prayer is humbleness, I cannot be humble with the wealth of you beside me" ~Walter Benton~

Yon lofty hills, dear lingering youth
when we climbed life"s sisphean slope,
amid tumbling rocks, yet, struggled on in hope,
now backward glance on labours oft uncouth,
each blind day, we green faith applied
upon the anvil of life's harsh forged sway,
each and every aching limb, relentlessly applied
the burning coals, to fire destinies unspoken play,
to climb the summits unattainable spoils,
such salad days, inspired by trackless spheres aloft,
passion filled, like as when, both lover and artist toils,
flew on wings, when life was green and soft,

yet despite the woes and destiny our present foe,
we sallied forth to Autumn's coloured glow.

Ice Crystal Droplets

Picturesque falling flakes of snow
Covering the world with their coating of whiteness

Icy etchings upon window panes of artistic splendor

Vibrant drifts of wonder cascading everywhere

Animated scenes of sculptured snowmen
Created by youths with resourceful imaginations

Sculptured rolled up balls of snow
decorated with youthful improvisation

Faces with buttons for eyes or sun glassed to protect their snowman from the sun's rays so he wouldn‘t melt so quickly

Sticks for arms & mouth, carrots for noses

An old knit hat to wear with a wrap around muffler scarf for his neck & of course don’t forget a broom in his mitten hand

Christmas Carolers could be heard singing in the icy cool air that Santa Claus would soon be there!

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells … Dashing through the snow
"Ava Maria” - “O Tannenbaum”
"It Came Upon A Midnight Clear"

Santa is tuning up his sleigh at the North Pole
Polishing up it’s runners and feeding & grooming the reindeer before their Christmas adventurous trip around the world

Isn’t it marvelous what the thought of a little snowflake can do!

Tis Santa’s helper wishing to everyone on Connecting Singles

A Very Merry Christmas!

Christmas Poet
JimEee

Where to go ..


Every day .. and your face becomes closer ..
Every day, it becomes your face
Part of my life ..
Becomes the most fertile age
And become the most beautiful shapes, form
And things become sweeter and best ..
Has been leaked in the pores of my body ..
As a drop of dew seeping .. ..
Unusually difficult away ..
The unusual for coming harder ..
How much am I .. how much I love you .. so ..
That myself of the same .. wonder ..
Dwell hair, in the gardens of your eyes ..
Without eyes .. no hair writes