Most Liked Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

stars on a mantles leaf
rose and gold the hearts own thief
to every breath once come is gone
what it was that makes a souls belief

old Indian poets speaking words like driven sand
with face of god above you and stars so close to hand
how can harshness lead to the love of beauty
yet in the oasis of her smile we stand

arms reaching up to a Goddess with Autumn's hair
but the moon it will not rise for prayer
and sorrow touches my hands
as they move across the papers tear

dearest william,

thorns i have pushed aside
when you smiled upon me
(finally)
now tangle my limbs
in bloody spectacle
and angels watch but
know i am fallen


i have asked the meanings
deep in the winter nights
hoping metaphors and blood and snow
could defeat death
and centuries
and thought you answered with
samara and forsythia
now the myrtle rages here
(in my dragon year)
but eros is crying
in the fragile blooms

what now?

and maud, does she still shine
in the seafoam like a dark venus?
and although you married and loved another
was your heart forever dry of nectar,
that sweet flood returning never?

the thorns entangle--
i crave the pierced flesh
but i know if i don't find
the rose soon
the fay will abandon me
so i fumble for luminescence
in the dark
in the curse from birth
of belief
and in the sometimes belief
in the curse

(in this world that saves
paper hearts
and cuts out
real
ones)


~SAS

When people are sleeping I'm awake,
Images of him my mind does create.
My thoughts are without any reason or rhyme,
There's nothing to seperate reality and time.
I've heard voices talking but just in my mind,
Answers to riddles for which I can't find.
Does it really matter or should I really care.
Am I insane or are the voices really there.


SAS

It was then and only then that panic seized me...alone, I could have endured it-- but the madness of my heart would doom me, that much i knew. With one fal swoop (surely the only one fate would grant me)

Now I live my life like a warrior. On the edge of eternity, back with my child, my irises, my dog, my poems, I know I am not alone.

I am moving toward the light.

Like a moth fluttering my wings, if only to die in a blaze. Writing, painting, praying, making love, dying in the interstices between the light.

As long as flesh exists, someone will rise from the warmth of the huddle and struggle to her knees to scribble pictures-words- on the side of the cave to please- or irk- the gods.......

SAS

Where did the years go?
to the things we believed in
to love, and life and family
to comfort in our skin
time did not vanish
it did not run and hide
it is not held captive
nor like the wind outside
time runs through us
entwining with each soul
etched into our memmories
making our lives whole

Its’s December, it’s December,
Oh, no longer am I helper
For the last leaf trembling on the branch…

I’m still looking for your address
On autumnal yellow freeways,
Soon may snow of white sorrow begin …

Oh, this winter will go by,
Wind in soul then will subside,
But I’ll still be crazy missing you,

For again March’ll come in due time,
And cyclamens strewn on hillside
It will pick and toss up into air…

when you were born
you were a clean slate
you knew nothing at all
blissful in your ignorant state

as you aged
as you grew tall
you became a teenager
and thought you knew it all

as you rushed and as you ran
out into the world you were head
it was there that you learned
you knew nothing instead

so you lived life and experienced it all
you said goodbye and closed your eyes
it was at the end you knew so much
yet no one knew you were so wise

Oh how it feels to share a thought
Of how it means to feel for another
But alas would the words have a meaning?
If the other would not understand the goodwill!

Oh how people try to misuse or analyse
And some would cover-up with ignorance
But some would accept and then abuse?
The words of compassion and goodwill!

Oh how the world is full of abusers
Who would just rape or abuse with their attitude
But also the words they use, and do not use
Is it the right of one to another to be mistaken!

Oh how nice it would feel to share a thought
Of how the world feels to one another
And how nice, if one would actually not be
Mistakenly mistaken to express it, so true!

IT'S BEEN MANY YEARS, SINCE YOU'VE, COME AND GONE; BUT YOUR MEMORY, SHALL ALWAYS LIVE, ON AND ON! THOUGH, YOUR BROTHER, RICHARD, CREATED THE TUNES; IT WAS YOUR VELVET VOICE, THAT CAST A SPELL, ON MANY MOONS! YOUR UNTIMELY DEMISE, BROUGHT MANY TEARS, TO ALL THE WORLD'S EYES! I CAN ASSURE YOU, KAREN, THROUGH RICHARDS WRITING, AND YOUR WONDERFUL VOICE; YOU SHALL ALWAYS BE; MY FEMALE ARTIST OF CHOICE!

If you ask him, he will talk for hours
how at fourteen he hammered signs,
fingers raw with cold, and later painted bowers
in ladies' boudoirs; how he played checkers
for two weeks in jail, and lived on bread;
how he fled the border to a country
which disappeared wars ago; unfriended
crossed a continent while this country
began.

He seldom speaks of painting now.
Young men have time and theories;
old men work.
He has painted countless portraits.
Sallow nameless faces, made glistening in oil,
smirk above anonymous mantelpieces.
The turpentine has a familiar smell,
but his hand trembles with odd, new palsies.
Perched on the maul-stick, it nears the easel.

He has come to like this resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cassocks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
His pen alone recalls that years ago,
one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear
which, poised, seemed pointed straight
to pierce the sun.