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I burnt the Memories, U gave Me.
I burnt your Love Letters Too.
Your Tears won't ever, Cry for Me.
Tell Me.....What else must I Do?
I threw the Souvenirs, U gave Me.
I hardly ever take, your Name.
Our Love is done and Dusted.
As it put us both, to Shame.
Most of the Time, I keep Thinking.
Why not find, somebody New?
A Woman who Glows, like Moonlight
and is fresh, as the Morning Dew.
Once Her Eyes, find Me.
I shall write, My Love Story Again.
In the Arms of My Angel,
U won't find, My Tears weep Again.
Savio Fonseca Jun 20
I read all your Poems,
U wrote to Me years Ago.
Reading them......My Tears,
began to Show.
My running Tears,
now have no place to Go.
So I'm holding them as Souvenirs,
for U......each time they Flow.
In the Charleston marketplace, a boutique auctions off
detailed limited edition replicas of black history: a slave
who hugs his chains upright over his porcelain hands,
is sold for $1200.00 to a man with a black Amex card,
a horde listening to the Emancipation Proclamation
goes for the same amount, Malcolm X gets $1000.00,
MLK just a little less, the OJ bobble heads sell for $60.00  
in the store’s gift shop while the white Bronco in
slow pursuit complete with flashing police lights
and breathless live commentary garners $2400.00,
Rosa Parks languishes at the rear eventually getting $300.00,
Eric Garner, Treyvon Martin, Rodney King are
part of lot sold for $500.00 clearance and a free
Black Lives Matter T-shirt, George Floyd gasping out
“I can’t breathe,” enshrined in a porcelain halo nabs
the same price, while the last figurine, of his murderer
being embraced by a very happy Donald Trump is
purchased by a man in a MAGA hat for $10,000.00.
Valentin Nov 2019
I order a mango juice
Because this is your favorite drink
Because it reminds me of you
Because I want to feel
The taste of your lips again
10.19.19
Yağmur Kaya Dec 2018
The never existed
souvenirs of us
I was
Ready for you to cause
me any kind of pain
or loss
But you
never even realized
that I exist
So I stopped

I loved you,
You didn't love me back
I needed you,
You didn't need me back
So please tell me
How kind of a revenge is that?

So, I stopped
Stopped waiting for your love
I stopped getting into your charm
I stopped thinking of the harm
you gave me, instead of your love

The never existed
souvenirs of us
I'm very sure of that
You don't remember me
But I still can't see
Why
You couldn't just love me
Hunter Green Oct 2018
Is part of getting over you,
Disregarding my influenced interests?
Is it unhealthy to hold on to what made you the one that stuck in the back of my mind,
Even when my heart no longer pined,
For you.
I’m discovering new beauty,
Yes it’s great,
Should I set down some souvenirs,
Were they solely for you and me?
Golden light,
Will you still shine?
Maybe in a different time,
Strung by new threads of twine?
I’m ready to pursue,
Somewhere I have not yet flew,
Find something new of mine.
Lynn Al-Abiad Mar 2017
Flashes of images.
Lost and reconstructed.
Arbitrary memories.
Words, people, places, actions and feelings stored for rememberance or oblivion.

Flashes of images.
Deformed by desires.
Revoked to feel.
A dream wide awake.
A passageway into the past to escape the present.

Flashes of images.
Shelter of secrets.
Short, re-acted and unclear.
Abstract yet vivid.
Unreachable but so very near.
A black hole that ***** you into another dimension then spits you out.



- LynnAA
Memories never function the way we expect them to.


12/3/2017
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
I had told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.

I had written poems about her -
It was that kind of intimacy.

She returns with another present,
In fact, more than one,
Despite being a woman scorned -
It was that kind of intimacy.

One, a postcard, to return my gesture,
A memory we shared together -
It was that kind of intimacy.

Two, a pin, she travelled to find,
Searching to fix something that
Was never broken.
To her, this was a failure,
To me, it was
Our kind of intimacy.

And three, a notebook,
Because she knows what I love,
And that words lie deep inside of me,
Screaming to come out.

I write this to her to apologise
For being a fool, and to thank her
For her undying encouragement
And her endless inspiration
And her kind, warm words -
A beautiful friendship married
By the endless embers of
Written words -
Our kind of intimacy.
Sally A Bayan Oct 2016
Box

Shared visions and promises
Written on yellow papers
Invisibly marked....faded, broken promises
Endearing terms...endearing moments,
Old postcards...old photos and letters
Time-colored...marked souvenirs,
I kept them inside....all stored in a case....
Unexpectedly, the Heavens cried in anger, one day
I rushed, to hold tiny currents at bay...to save
The memories...but the box was no longer there
Those gifts, letters, souvenirs were nowhere
Almost a lifetime...stored in there
But...monsoon rains took them all away...forever
::::::::::::::::::::::::
Got to find myself, a new box....


Sally

Copyright October 15, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Carl Halling Sep 2015
One day I'd like to go
In search of my past,
Of all the memories
Of my youth.
I cry for all my souvenirs,
And I dream of a future,

Where I can atone
For all the follies
Of my existence,
And where I might
Contemplate my past
In peace at long last.
"My Past in Peace at Long Last" has been based on the portion, originally in French,  recently added to a song written in 2003, and which I translated not so long ago.
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