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Ankita Gupta Nov 2019
That's what you get for living a life.
A life like a city, in a city.
You get the rushed parts, the gardens, caf├ęs and ice cream parlors.
You also get the schools, markets and the clinics for the hurt.
Yesteryears! That's all you ever going to be needing for living a life.
Dess Ander Nov 2018
Commiting unknown errors and unknown sins
Reasoning that I could have handled situations better
Yesterday never seems to disappear.
Broken Dec 2016
Can you show me the way to my heartbeat
When my love was so simple and pure
Can I please find a way to go back there
To relive my sweet yesteryear.
SilentMetanoia Jun 2016
She slept with flowers in her hair,
enclosing starlight in weary eyes;
Dreaming of yesteryear
and all she once left behind.
HRTsOnFyR Sep 2015
While the other children were content
To play jacks and skip rope
She preffered the company of the old oak tree
Towering in the back corner lot of the schoolyard
She rested against it's mighty trunk
Basking in the cool shade she loosened her bonnet
Only the toes of her patent leather shoes
Catching beams of wavering sunlight
As they arched through the rustling leaves
A sweet song of a robin whistled amongst the branches
As she smoothed the pleats of her dress
A leather bound book at rest on her thighs
It's jacket so familiar and a comfort to the touch
The scent of it's brown and curling pages
Reminding her of late winter nights by the fire
When her grandmother's kind smile shone so brightly
As the flames from the hearth danced in her eyes
While she spun the girl one of her many stories
As deftly as her fingers could pull stitches
From a mountain of patchwork piled on her lap
The chiming of the bell marked the end of play
And she shook herself from her daydream
Dusting off the errant leaves and grasses
She lined up at the entrance to the courtyard
A sweet smile forming on her lips
Though a measure of sorrow still lingered in her heart
A bittersweet mix both of pleasure and mourning
Her spirit pining for the solace of those precious days; of her past
Eric Rodda Aug 2014
The train goes rattling down the track
A trail of smoke is at your back.
A spot of soot may close your eye,
To miss the gums as they fly by.

The porter shouts "All tickets please",
To check that all have paid their fees,
The engine driver blows his whistle,
As the view converts to thistle.

Out on the verandah the children play,
"Come inside", the parents say.
From the windows they hang around,
Not a care is to be found.

Traveling onward 'round the bends,
A joyous journey with our friends.
Then at last our stop we reach;
Hooray! Hooray! It is the beach.

Eric Rodda 1996
My only poem - Written in 17 minutes on the train trip from Adelaide to Marion, on the way home from work, after reading about a poetry competition...

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