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IdkLove Oct 7
Come with me
Let's explore
And reminiscence 
Our times 
When we fall in love every time
With each other
Under the sheets we build 
Our castle of love 
And river of lust 
Just the perfect view of us
Under the moonlight
Surrounded by the stars
We kiss like no one is there 
Only you and me 
And our fragrance of breath
Raul M Murray Jul 15
A memory is fading
Like a plucked guitar string
Life is like music echoing
Leaving moments of loving
But existence is tough can be distressing
Recall is a flashback jogging
Of those days we we're fooling
Recollection of parties drinking
*** & coke £10 to go clubbing
A memory is a souvenir
Everyday a memory a premiere
Show God's cast a simper
Smiling is like sunshine in summer
Outnumbering grey matter of choler
Make the most of every premiere
May not be what the heart desire
Your smile can lift any soul higher
Transforming the human frontier
choler | ˈkɒlə |
noun [mass noun]
(in medieval science and medicine) one of the four ****** humours, identified with bile and believed to be associated with a peevish or irascible temperament. Also called yellow bile.
• archaic anger or irascibility.
Millie Jul 9
Funny how your warm embrace with emanation pierces cold
How painted words and reminiscence quickly became old
Your approval I once thrived upon, now makes me feel ill
This change was never tangible
Not one action- not one word
Though I fear it's irreversible
Our chapter preemptively told
Violet Jul 10
Some dreamy like starry skies,
Some shiny like fire flies,
Some visionary like poetry,
Some breathe aggressively.

Memories, that's what they say,
They are footprints of yesterday.
Wrote this for someone :)
-elixir- May 25
The shards of fallacies
of the past souls
await, the robust
youth.

The shards impale them,
as their boiling
young blood,
stands witness,

To the reminiscence
of the fallacies.
Agnes Lyndy May 2
You've seen me..
probably many times
But I doubt you'll ever recognize
for you've seen many like me.
I hope you're still half green- half pastel...
like you used to be...
You were the journey.........
to my ' little destination' in the mornings
and
to my coaster in the afternoons...

You were the sole spectator
to various secret meetings...
The anecdotes you see and hear in a single day
could make you a best selling author
had you been born human...

Every walk I took through you was beautiful...
But the ones I cherish
are the ones I took in solitude
engaging in a conversation with myself.

You are what I call
"The Corridor of Memories"
and like a beautiful memory itself,
You will never be forgotten.
You'll stay forever in my heart.
Reminiscing my school days.
Nely Feb 12
sometimes memories can make anyone seem alive no matter how long ago it was.
Alvin Agnani Jan 14
Way too often I find the child within this overgrown shell. He hides in the crack in the slab.

                      Longingly he stares back at me with those deep blue eyes and smiles at me  -  as if he knows who I am inside.

                                     Who I really am.
                                             Who we really are.


                                                       I

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                                   r
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             m
                    y

                                                      c
                                                   l
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                                                       h
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              It burns in my eyes.

He just stands there, looking at me. Then he reaches out his hand toward me.

                                         I awake alone.

- Shepherd, 1-12-20
Visit my poetry account on Instagram @clockwork_poetry
David Adamson Jun 2019
I stand at the flagstone fountain in the park and gaze across the street at the red brick bungalow where I lived as a child. Am I supposed to intone something? Summon a spirit? Or perhaps I’m the one who’s been summoned? Ghost of myself.

Set into the steep hillside, the house faces west. A boarded-up plate glass window makes it blind in one eye. In the summer, from that window, I watched postcard sunsets. I also learned watching there that the world was TV.  You watched it. It didn’t see you.

On the opposite wall, on a sofa, our family watched on a 15 inch portable Sears black and white with the collapsible rabbit ears men first walk on the moon.  We welled with pride in the space program. I ate Space Food Sticks and drank Tang.

Around to the side, behind the rose bushes, through that small basement window was my bedroom when I was 10. A tiny square of sun on the brightest summer day was all the daylight that ever got in.  There I first felt inside the base of my spine a small hard coldness. The night before, my three best friends had slept over to celebrate my 11th birthday.  Tonight I was alone.  The coldness grew.  It tendril’d into an icy tingle that radiated up my spine and through my arms like a metal cage of disappointment.  

Years later I learned the name of depression. But then it was just  cold inside my spine. And the cold spoke to me. “Davy, this is how it’s gonna be. It’s just you and me. Make room.” “You’re wrong,” I said.  “You’ll see. I’ll meet Ruby Tuesday.” I turned up the transistor radio and pulled the music close to me.

Through that bay window just above, the dining room table, my father and draft-age brother late on summer nights had it out over Vietnam.  

“Immoral, unnecessary, we should not be there,” my brother said.
“You know what happens if we’re not there?” says dad. I was in Korea. When the communists took over, in came the guys with the clipboards. Anyone who spoke English or taught school or owned a business was lined up against a wall and shot.
Yeah, well, we should not be … dying … bombs…bloodbath…reds.

Drowsing I no longer heard the words, only rising and falling pitch, a duet of bitterness, anger, wistfulness, probing for connection And into the night as darkness took hold and the voices merged with the rising and falling rhythm of cricket sounds, harmonizing like sleep.
Ash May 2019
Everything pales in comparison to the nomothetic voices of the past. We flail and grasp for the tugs in our hearts hoping to capture inspirations heavy hand for the long while. Meanwhile our other hand struggles to cling to the past while. We endeavor to create the perfect alchemy in discovering the ways in which we can use the euphoria of our past to create the prospects of our future. Our hands are torn apart. Time is short. We lose the world we encounter to every fleeting moment. We reminisce and reminisce and soon the moment blindly pattering on our insides is gone. And she becomes nostalgia too.  Stop trying to extract the contentment of the past and realize its fullest in front of you. Realize every moment. Be mesmerized by its Singular beauty.
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