Most Viewed Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

That music!

I waited with much glee
the ice cream truck
music playing
It came to me!

my coins so sweated
in my hand
just one dollop
for me
in my hand

no double ice cream for me
no matter
Here it was
a pyramid of glee

I saved enough for chocolate coated
wind and rain
smelling gumboots
shivering duly noted

MR Whippy man
Mind that child

a way to learn
I wait patiently
for my turn

A man might live and work beside
The fellows around the wagon;
And never say two words unless
Its just hoorah and braggin'.

But sometimes in the solitude
Of some old line camp shack;
He smooths a fruit can label out
And writes there on it's back.

A group of words redeemed there from time to time
To last when he moves on;
Set down with a hurried flourish
Before his memory of them are gone.

The spelling may not be exact
Or commas where they ought
But there within those rugged lines
A mood is somehow caught.

It might be full of sadness
From a death or crippled friend;
To just the mournful yearning
For a way that's bound to end.

Some others could be bawdy
While full of life and mirth
Or stories about some saddle horse
That has no peers on earth.

There's many through the years been lost
Or burned or thrown away
But others yet survive
To give us views of yesterday.

And still among the working hands
The words come now and then
To write a living history
Of the stock, and earth and men.

Measure of time, measure of thought, drawn out in frescoe so times not forgot, royalty civility chivalry brutality amidst dignity lapse on end of years, the writ of the word en tab en stoned wall to the place it as written in time was to stay. For the lookers believers the sandal'd it seen. We see them today, gleen'd story of mean, decipher conjecture in lecture, whats it say, to each is a story of noble thought stray. . .

What is wrong with poingnant?
Poingnacy touches the heart and soul
and a good cry can sometimes make you whole

To sit and reminisce
with coming tears but no remorce
The washing comes so easy withot force
or maudling sadness

I keep her portrait on my wall
and wink and talk to her every morn
and sometimes she winks back

Poingnant yes
Who wants to forget?

Her voice banished walls, and "coyotee" calls
Would wash newer noises away;
I'd hear eagles scream, and mountains would gleam,
On different horizons each day.

Revived by her words, the buffalo herds
Again roamed the prairie she knew;
Were slaughtered again, plain seeded to grain,
When "sodbustin' farmers" came through.

She often retold how "Charlie" was bold
Enough to set blooded studs free;
To join a wild bunch, 'cause he had a hunch,
Their "get" would remount cavalry.

They could have sold more, "come the Civil War"
But left a seed herd running free;
And "Young Bob" wed my grandma instead,
And started his own "fambily".

A found "massacree' became real to me
As things she kept on her shelves;
Her stories went on, but wilderness gone,
The plains were like ghosts of themselves.

When pierced by the rails paralleling old trails
That horses bestowed on the West;
And worst yet fenced, the prairie commenced,
"Tuh shrivel and shrink", like the rest.

Then she'd story North, whee they had gone forth
On a quest for more untamed land;
Of Alaska, and how they'd gone on,
To the Yukon's promising sand.

The mustangers died, but seed scattered wide
Carried on in a world they spurned;
Where wild things are lost, and few heed the cost
Of values we see overturned.

What I am today, I owe in some way
To stories she pulled from the gloom;
To cowboys and kin who lived once again,
When the walls forgot Grandmother's room.

It's a long straight stretch of road
No danger in it's sights;
Putting your mind at ease,
Laying your worries in the back.

Rolling down the window
Letting the wind fluff through your hair;
It's hot as Hades outside!
Sweat builds beneath your shirt.

Hills rising and falling away
The gentleness of dusk appears;
You might just close your eyes,
'Cause it's a long straight stretch of road.

Strong, powerful, unable to capture.
Free, flowing, caressing.
To the depth of rapture.
Passing sight unseen.
In front, behind, all around.
Loud boisterous echoing.
Sometimes silent without a sound.
Give take here there.
Fast moving air.
Gentle breeze.
Wind.

The ‘shadows grow long’, youthful zest wanes,
Dreams are dimming, the Abyss is yawning ever wider,
Smiles have retired,
And, Meaning, like some elusive chimera, fades fast...

Nothingness is longed for,
Enough of pain,
Enough of angst-filled fear,
Enough of hollow tomorrows...

All his life, the Alchemist has worked his magic to transmute the leaden shackles of others into golden, scintillating freedoms,
But, how is he going to free himself?
When he longs to grasp the Ferryman’s hand, whether it leads to Nirvana or to Hades?

Amidst all this, appears yet another suffering soul before him,
Entreating him to free her,
She’s in a sorry state,
Although strong in body,
Eyes are drooping,
Desire is all but dead,
Hope has eloped,
Youthful joy has turned to a senses-dulling dread...

Sighing, like an old and dying lion of the desert, way past its prime, life’s essence long drained out of him,
The Alchemist musters his craft once more,
Like a worn-out dervish,
He begins the dance which entices innocents to join in...

Slowly but surely, she joins in,
Her youthful body moves in ways that would have sparked the Alchemist’s desire in times past,
Now, he only dances,
Vigorously outwardly,
Whilst within, his inner child is weeping softly and disconsolately...

Finally, the job is done,
The sparkle has once again returned to her eyes,
Her shoulders are humming in tune with the rhythm,
She’s once again the Siren she’s used to being...

But, what of the Alchemist?
He’s treading water,
He’s laughing at the terror that engulfs him,
Within, within though,
The inner-child awaits more hollow tomorrows...

Memories captured in an old parlor portrait
Immortality found a beautiful face
Swirling brushstrokes from a Master’s palette
For everywhere you look is divine grace

Crowning statement of love and devotion
Carefully framed gilded ornate plaster
Beauty the subject of much commotion
With much respect still given the Master

Such as the fine details found in her eyes
The still subtle shades of light through her hair
Features as fresh as the day its paint dries
Anything made today even compare

Esoteric beauty still shines our souls
More meaningful than all the ancient scrolls

Where this road goes
Anybody know?
You been down befor’
You know what’s in sto’ah

Where this road goes
Anybody care?
Why are you standing the’re
With ‘em arms up in th’ air?

Why can’t we be friends?
Why can’t we be friends?
Let’s just say
We be friends

Cross the tracks now
See anyhow
We ever comin’ back again
To the only place we be'en?

When old times end
New times begin?
You always say it could
Did you believe it would?