Most Liked Nostalgia Poems (1,154)

All the little pieces,
fragments and crumbs of life.

The troubles, the love,
the fears and the spice.
Make us what we are today.
Show us where we went astray.

Genetics of course play a part.
wit, talent, mood and smart.
Your fist step into first love.
Those highs of emotion truly absurd.

Insecurities we gather and carry
inform who we should marry.
Too late the wisdom of age dictates,
who would have been the perfect mate.

Our little offspring pick up clues.
Some from me and some from you.
Unintentionally we guide them unwisely.
History repeating itself precisely.

Through it all true love prevails.
We have it in abundance, females.
Mother to child, friend to friend.
It's love in the end that makes amends.



03/09/2020

Lost photography
click on
projector turns
as wheels
rolling time
shadow lines
pale distance
western perimeter
Apache dawn
totem dance
buffalo time
cowboy white
red night
click off

The Belle of Yeavering Bell

It was an eye for an eye
In times gone by
A life when they lived to trade
So if you enter her home
Where you are free to roam
Be sure when you leave
You have paid.

Toss a coin into the air
Make a wish, leave it there
Listen to the whispers on the wind
Hear echoes of the past
Telling tales of those who sinned
Take the beauty
And make the memory forever last

The Belle, of Yeavering Bell
Is watching you I tell
To be sure, her hospitality is repaid
Nothing is for free
Not in the past, or now, you see
So pay your way to have no need to be afraid

You’ll be cursed if you don’t heed
To repay the Belle out of greed
For ill gains, you will now be in her debt
As she guards her sacred home
Where her ancestors roamed
You’ll live a life that you surely will regret

© D Heckels C Irving.

Whitney Houston was one of my favorite artists growing up
The Greatest Love of All
How Will I Know
I'll Always Love You
1991 Superbowl National Anthem
and a slew of other great songs she sang as only she could
Then she met Bobby Brown
And it was a shame
He certainly isn't alone in the secret abuse that goes on behind the silver curtain
There are many, many more who have fallen to drugs and inner demons
Whitney has been gone for over eight years now
Bobby still lives on and is 51 now
Hopefully he is away from the drugs that destroyed his wife
And hopefully other will learn from this and find peace in this world without drugs
As Whitney so famously said, "Crack is Whack."

life can be bitter
life can be sweet
life is what u make it
every single week.

undoubtedly life has changed with covid-19
i think u know what i mean
once we were free to do as we please
now we are confined bcuzz of this disease.

i do believe we will overcome this obstacle
and rise again to a pinnacle
it is a constant battle
but it is one we have to tackle head on.

I went to Belmont, Wisconsin
I asked at the gas station if there was a parade
I was told yes there was
I went to my usual spot in front of the post office
I read my books, one on stories from Vietnam Vets called Nam by Dave Baker
Another book was ghost story from my childhood about a miser
Called Walking Otto who befriended a ten year old girl
I ate my beef sticks from Haubers in Dickeyville
Ate my string cheese from Piggly Wiggly
Played Tetris on my Nintendo DS
Listened to Key and Peele and the George Floyd Funeral on my recorder
I finally left at ten minutes to ten o'clock
There was no parade, but there was a fair with cows, pigs, goats, rabbits
And chickens, no rides, no food
At least I tried to go to a parade

Teach me how to fly over a stormy sea
teach me how to live my time
now I no longer have time
you little star without a sky
love me always
love me tenderly
without asking why
my heart is broken
but.. in every small part of it the memory of you lives
the perfume of you lives
teach me how to fly beyond the lines of a new beginning
the boundaries of a new hope.
Dry your tears
don't you cry,
if you love me.. your smile will be
my peace.

Blown around like a leaf I stumble
back and forth with no real rest.
Lost within the surrounding landscape
seeking I know not what as of yet.

Looking back on a life often misspent
that had no real sense of purpose,
Just drifting from day to day, lost
yet on a track to who knows where?

Until it suddenly clicks and I realise
that the secret was always there.
All I needed to do was open my mind
and follow where my heart led me.

There are times
When I feel an affinity
With an old forgotten book
Dusty and worn
With a sad pitted cover
Where the elements and time
Have taken their toll
The chapters of my life
Make no great reading
Like the book
Neither of us is a classic
But we both have a story
To tell
In pages so steeped
Within sadness and sorrow
As great bitterness and regret
Weep from both our spines
And the glue
Which for so long
Bound us both
To our own existence
Had deteriorated
Beyond all recognition
But more than any other thing
The final two words
Of both our journeys
Remain true and constant
“The End”

"The beginning of a novel is a time of
awful when you're dealing with a lot
of dead pieces and you have to wait and wait for
some sort of animation" ~Iris Murdoch

Poet,
The blank page
is terror.
The blank
screen is too.
How do I dare
to impose
my prejudices upon it?
~
How do I dare
to assume that
what I have to say matters to anyone--even me?
~

It's that mysterious
leap that distinguishes
the dreamer from the doer.
I myself always trick myself into starting.
"No one will ever read this," I say.
"Moreover, no one will understand it."
Sometimes I make as many
as a dozen starts.
Later I realize they
were all different ways of
sneaking up on the same material.

~

I was stalking my poem
from many different angles
--but I don't see that until
I am well and truly launched.


"The last thing we decide
about a poem is what to put first"
This has always been my experience.
If only I could relax and remember
that this game of hide
and seek with my poem
is the only way I know of refinding
the playfulness that making up requires.

(pause)


Candlelight
flickering
beautifully
this morning, dancing
on the walls
like thoughts
dancing
beautifully
inside
a poet's mind.

Yes, sweet poet, we must
let go. We must
take leave, pass on.

Words
are our way
of polishing
the rough stone surface
of existence.

Words
are our way
of pounding nails
into walls,
and mounting
our pictures
in the hallways.

~

Regardless
of our efforts regardless
of our thoughts, and our prayers, and our ideas existence
does
exactly
as it pleases.

and we are here
to please it.

Act only in ways
that will please existence.

Act only
in ways
that will move existence forward.



like tumblers
falls
behind the wall
of a safe,
our words
turn
the keys
to the puzzle the keys
that swing open
the doors the keys
that will keep
the image
safe,
and release it, too, into the winds of eternity where it belongs /
where we
eventually
will travel.

~

We
are the ones
who weren't intended
to be here

We
are the ones
who were intended
to be gone



We
are the ones
you see starving
at dawn.

We
are the ones
who are lonely, and alone.

We
are the ones
who drink coffee
at coffee shops
at the edge of the universe
while peering
at the abyss



Dance
with us
only
if you dare.

Close
your eyes
and help us seduce
the night

We are safe
in the city

We are safe
in ourselves

We are safe
in the workshop
of our talent

~

Aspire
to greatness
by doing
what must
be done
and leaving the rest
for the universe
to take care of.

~

I better close.

I will write again soon.

SAS

_____________________