Last Commented Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

Please don't let them poison you.
cheat and lie and make a crook of you..
Don't sell your soul..
Hold out for what you know, and what you believe..
There are children in your future and
cats and dogs and everything...

But right now you're throwing it all away..
for a wreckless game of russian roullete..
This is not the world you would have chosen
But sometimes you have to bite the bullet
And just suck it up and stay
Sometimes you have to cash in your chips
And let the cards fall where they may,,,

Don't let them lead you where you arent prepared to go..
You used to make up your own rules you used to steal the show..
There is nothing, you ever wanted that you could not attain..
You held the world in the palm of your hands and you can again..

Toss away your licence to kill..
you'll be killing everything..
You ever wanted.. portrayed and flaunted
Nothing left to win, nothing left to gain..

But disease and decay
Oh you'll come back again,.
sink and fall again..
but you are going
to be ok..

For as the sky turns dark and cloudy,
A bitter shade of grey...
Sunlight filters through blackened skies,
And takes the pain away..

And the rain comes down, and it cleanses everything..
And in the new day,
when it dawns on you,
gives you reason to stay..

And it will shake you up, and wake you up..
Melt all your fears away..

And you're gonna be ok..
Yeh you're gonna be ok,,
Just hang in there one more day..
One more day..
Banish clouds of grey.

Can you believe
your death gave birth
to me?

Live or die,
you said insistently.
you chose the second
& the first chose me.

I mourn you.

Is love the sugarcoated
poison that gets us in the
end?

We spoke of men
as often as poems,
We tried to legislate away
the need for love,
the back-seat sex
& earth caressing you.

Why did you do it in
your Mother's bed?
(I know, but also know
I had to ask.)

Our mother's get us
hooked, then leave us
cold, all full-grown
orphans hungering
for love.

You loved a man
who spoke "like greeting
cards."

"He pleasures me
well, but I can't talk
to him."

Poet, we share that awful need
to talk in bed. Love wasn't love
if we could only speak
in tongues.

& the intensity of unlove
increased until the motor,
the running motor could
no longer power the driver,

& you, poet, with miles
to go, would rather sleep.

Between the suicide pills
& giggly vodkas in Algonquin..
Between your round granny glasses
& your eyes blue as glaciers..
Between your stark mother-hunger
& your courage you knew...
you knew there was only
one poem, we all were writing.

No Competition..
the poem belongs to
everyone & God.
I jumped out of your
suicide car & into his arms.

Your death was mine,
I ate it & spit it out.

Now, I sit by the lake
writing to you.
I love a man who makes
my fingers ache.

His beard is disgustingly gray,
his eyes blue as the deepest ocean
& the amazing plum of his tongue
sweetens my brain.

He is like nobody since
I love him-
His manhood sinks
deep within my heart

I write to you off
somewhere in the clouds..
I tap the table like a spiritualist.

Sex is a part of death;
that much I know,
your voice was earth,
your eyes glacier blue,
your slender torso
& long American legs
drape across the huge
Midwestern sky.

I want to tell you
"Wait, don't do it yet,
Love is the poison,
but love eats death."

~SAS

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

I imagine my bed
as an intergaltic starship.

In this white iron bed,
this white clapboard house,
I am sailing through the universe.
in black space.

All around me,
on asteroids,
are the people who
have touched my life:
my twins, waving like
two little princes drawn
by Saint-Exupe'ry;

My mother waving from
her intergaltic funny farm;
my father, making origami birds to sail
off across space to the twins
(the twins he never saw,
yet of course sees)......

My granny planting her
rose garden on her asteroid
and praising the astounding
energy of postmenopausal women.

The earth, I see is a tiny spore
hurtling through deep space.
From my vantage point in the intergaltic bed-
which has now left the earth
and is sailing effortlessly through
the cosmos alone, with me in it-

I see not only the smallness
of the earth but its astonish vulnerability.

Earth, moon, and stars all
can be snuffed in a second by
a whiff of cosmic breath.

And I in my bed hurtling
through space-time,
with only my dog to comfort me.

From my bed I wave
to everyone I have ever loved.

This vision sooths me.

The voice of female pain
predicting male unpredictability,
declaring in song that nothing between
men and women is new under the sun.

~SAS

A Woman's Voice:

Caressing flickering light dancing between shallow breath
It, in its low pleasing release
Deadens fiery hours spent aging restlessly against the world and its teeth.
For in her words of play
In her words of delay
She always knows what to say.
I would drown in her skin and hear her speak
Oh the things she says that carries me away!
I am stung by her clever words of display
Her tones of I love you’s simple and at bay
It breaks and washes until I can see
How very beautiful her words can be.
Copyright 2013 By E.Perez

I do not look at the clock anymore...
Neither do I take calendars
From the store.....
Why should I be reminded
Of times gone by
And how fast the years can fly...
Which months were my worst
And how the best
Flew so fast

Why should I attempt to plan
When tomorrow belongs to no man
The days are long
The nights are cold
Yes! I know that I am growing old....
Need no reminder
From a calendar
Refuse to sit and watch the clock
Measure time, I shall not....
I refuse to listen to that old tick tock

My adversary
says he is my friend,
But he constantly strives
my will to bend,
Then when he breaks me
he has no respect,
I look in his eyes
can no mercy detect,

With pitiless heart
he crushes my spirit,
His nagging voice bites
so hard that I fear it,
Ashamed of my weakness
and being so meek,
Embarrassed to tears
I endeavor to seek,

Escape in denial
a powerful tool,
I still feel the anguish
I've been such a fool,
I shall continue to
play the sad role,
A poet does her duty
and loses her soul.

~SAS~

Gone are the days of the innocent dream,
A time when love showed respect,
When chivalrous men displayed high esteem,
Poor manners, proper ladies would deflect.

Lost in the shadows of a rude modern world,
Cool to show promiscuous behavior,
s*xual disarray and disease unfurled,
Common decency their only saviour.

I recall a time when love was young,
An innocence so precious to savour,
Lips soft kisses speak, not foul mouthed tongue,
Our breath minty, not cigarette flavour.

We oft' whispered a prayer to our silver coins,
Then released them to the old wishing well,
Stared at them glint as they fell entwined,
Just as we would, under starryeyed spell.

'Neath the shedding cherry blossom, where lovers used meet,
Like confetti when the breeze did blow,
We'd laugh and kiss on the worn wooden seat,
Petals showering like a fall of pink snow.

Oh ! Where are they now, those bygone days ?
Return to us please !... we implore,
Banished forever in respectful haze,
Replaced by a lawless street whore !

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~