Most Commented Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

A thousand fragments of broken thoughts
invade my mind
tumbled,jumbled, like sand in a glass
uncountable
grains of multi-coloured sand.
What can they tell?
of you and I, of us together
we cannot measure the treasure we found
so late in our life.
Scales could not weigh it,
nor a bank vault contain it.
It has no price.

Yesterday's now long gone
never can return
just a brief passing moment
in the relentless march of time

today we live, laugh and love
share precious moments
all far too brief
while the wheel of time turns

what could tomorrow bring?
if the veil was lifted?
would we be any wiser
could things have been altered

alas its not for us to know
we have our yesterdays
with all the mistakes made
today we live with what was done

I remember the fairground when I was a child, there
Was the candy Fairy Floss machines, and you could
See them spinning the spider webs of sugar which
Made up the sweet delight, that children loved to eat
Then There was Sideshow Alleys with its clown stall
With the moving heads and popping the balls into it's
Mouth, there was the shooting galleries and penny
Toss events and many other things to play, there was a
Ghost Train and the Dodgem Cars and Boats, where
Bumping deliberately was not allowed, the Penny Arcade
With Pinball games and the Claw Crane where you tried
To grab a prize If you where lucky, penny slots which
Could give you a free ball and your penny back by flicking
A lever, and now the main events, the Big Dipper or
Roller Coaster, it would leave you going back for your
Stomach, the large Slippery Dips, Hall of Mirrors and
The Tunnel of Love river caves, Ferris Wheel and the
Helter Skelter where you rode down a spiral on a mat
But the one thing that stands out in the Fairground
Was the giant Carousel, a beautiful hand crafted
Turntable loaded with beautifully crafted wooden
Horses, which where all hand painted, children would
Always want to ride this iconic ride and if you where
Able to grab the brass ring, you would get another
Ride absolutely free, yes the Fairground was an event
In itself, as children would always want to go there
All of the time and even the adults would ask their
Children to go, because inside every adult lived
Another little child, they all loved the Fairground.

Sitting here I am lonely,
Thinking of you.
I wish you were here,
Beside me,
By the fire....

I'd really love,
Your arms around me.
But distance,
Makes my heart desire....

Then,
I call your name.
Staring into,
The candle flame,
I see your face....

For sitting beside me,
Is your true and only place.
I wonder what you're doing now,
Thinking of you,
Thinking of me.
I smile.
In my mind's eye,
T'is us.
Together,
I see....

My heart
Calls your name.
The day will come,
When we two,
Will,
Make true love....

I looking into your eyes,
Touching your face.
By candle light,
Fire glowing,
Desrie high....
,
T'is then my love,
Into your ear,
I shall whisper,
How very much,
I truly.
Truly,
Love you....

30/1/2011....

Liza Mc Beth....

Sometimes it's cosy to live in the past,

amongst faded memories you'd like to last,

behind the shadows that made you smile,

a safe place to dwell for a while.

Living in the former is all that we do,

an uncertain future for us to view,

tied to the past stuck in the present,

no time to relax but time to resent.

Revolutions of the mind thoughts persist,

photocopied days you try to resist,

light from the moon rays from the sun,

a celestial divider of days to become.

We cannot look forward only look back,

the road ahead invisible behind a murky track,

the spotlights on the here and today,

yet history is closer than the future far away.

We step out of the shadows toward the dawn,

lingering in the moment before we're born,

the womb of life reassuringly close,

cradle to the grave and then a ghost.

An unfamiliar journey we try to perceive,

those bound to the past are often deceived,

the only time you feel your winning,

comfy in the past from your beginning.

We tend to look backwards yet stare straight ahead,

a long-familiar history but a future we dread,

yet an unknown equation we try to prevent,

is the past meeting the future and robbing the present.

How old must I be to not miss
The company and embrace of She
Faithful to the end I never strayed
But not for the want of dreaming.

Doing a woman’s work as I live alone
I learn of the sacrifices made
The drudgery willingly endured
Nare a thought of getting a maid

I made her last days comfortable at home,
And when she was gone I did not weep
Perhaps consoled in her freedom
Forever missed
How long to not feel the loss?

sometimes, I find my self lost in a kind of chimerical bubble like the molokini-crescent-shaped-crater-maui-hawaii...,
I simultaneously see myself as the whole of it, or an infinitesimal throw of the dice, a frenzied ‘quanta-dance’,
my logical, empirical, and carefully trained mind is intentionally sent on sabbatical,
I find myself ‘rumba-ing’ to some melodious yet impudent refrain, of a fate yet amorphous, gyrating, driven yet unperturbed, the rumba being a vertical expression of a horizontal wish...[whatever the hay that means anyway, really??? lol, lol and lol again...]
I want to allow for a composite of diametrically opposing forces to, with wild abandon, give themselves over to this thing called:- verve or pizzazz, yet intertwined with élan, with a devil-may-care attitude of consequences..., embracing the jovial and the rakish..., leaving the lugubrious, responsibility-driven, caliginous, upright and uptight restraints of an ultra-disciplined mind behind, waaayyy behind...

oh, what sweet relief, oh what unspeakable joy, oh want wordless bliss that engenders...,
being one with the deepest passions,
being one with love,
being one with compassion,
being one with peace,
being one with eternity,
indeed, being one and in harmonious tune with the infinite...,
being One with Zero...

lives bundled in boxes/
melodies of memories chime/

Dear Poet,

Where do I begin?
Now, moving in,
cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left abandoned
in the unsoiled squares where Monet's
hung proudly not so long ago.

Something reminding us
this is like all the other moving days;
finding the dirty ends of someone else's life,
a half eaten apple, melted candle wax,
lipstick stained "I love you" faded
on the bathroom mirror
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day...

in ordering our lives, we discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become in some strange frightening ways, our own.

We plan not to tolerate our fears- a year laid out
like rooms in a new house- our dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, vases no longer filled,
the bookshelves sagging with heavy
self-help books.

Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of poems and metaphors
eager to greet the spring and looking
for the good life we have made.

Yes, poet, now we plan, postponing,
pushing our lives forward into the future-
as if, when the room contains
us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.

The room will not change:
a rug, queen Ann chair, or new coat of paint
won't make a difference:
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath
our freckles & suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and
forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.

I look forward, poet,
and I see myself look back.

I must close,
be well sweet poet,
be well and safe in your existence.

SAS

Hath not one touch heart,Its by glimpse only you....
Dwelth the corner for all,In you found some true.
And thou all generous felt,Why early did not make....
But was every night alone,And also the morn when wake.

And never thee one near all,May found as one likes....
Beneath the feet all stunned,you were like of so nice....
And thee flying up in clouds,thine feathers turned as wings....
And my heart got mend all,You are song i miss to sing.

Coffee Shop At the Edge of the Universe

Here, at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like India ink,
and poets dip their pens in
and they write.
~
"Here at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
~
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestacks feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
and people come to resemble them..."
~
Here, at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe,
the poets, the poets are bleeding.

Writing and bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing and bleeding
are thought to be the same.
~
Write us a poem!
Send us a parcel of metaphors!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
~
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.
~
Here at the coffee shop at
the edge of the universe
our heads are empty,
and the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house.


~SAS