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Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden

The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may

The distinguishable noise of your parents' doorbell

The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back

The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story

The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night

The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades

The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to

Nostalgia
We are tied together by our stories, our history
Tales woven through our ancestry, when our parents talk of their younger days
When their life was ahead of them, the future was anything and everything, they speak of their old friends with ache in their soul
Of times when their hearts were filled with fire and passion, running through fields growing memories  planted by the world around them
When they could sprint the wind in their hair, adventure ahead, hope in their heart.
They speak of the days behind with woe
Because essentially just their ideas of the future as a young mind, was more exciting than reality.
As dreams failed and hope faded
As their minds wear and their treasured stories that made them who they are fog over
As threads begin to wear
As tales they once yelled to the world with pride frays at the details
Your whole world slipping away as the thread unwinds
But they get the joy of passing down the tapestry to their pride and joy, to the life they made, every one of us
Every moment we live with ease of no appreciation for every experience every laugh
Moments we take for granted
Moments we will pine for when they run out
Moments the elderly urge us with fire to be aware of the importance of
Moments we'll wish we listened to them about
There is a vast tapestry of memories behind you and infinite thread panning out in front of you, connecting to other tapestries, visiting at friends, at enemies, joining with soul-mates future, some cut away, some ripped from the tapestries to soon before they could weave their own
A loose thread cannot be fixed once more are made, and the patterns will never be what you want them to be, savour each stitch
Take time on every thread
You don't want to be sitting there 50 years old thinking about the life you wasted
About the memories faded
About how every slipping memories never like the moment you made it
Don't be sitting 90 filled with regret
Filled with hatred for every opportunity you left
Screaming into the voice about how much you hate what your life become.

because they say time flys when your having fun truth is time only flies when you're young.
CK Baker Jan 2017
I can’t wait
to be a hundred
turning over the thoughts
(and plots)
of Caledon
floating
on zimmer inserts
and dusted florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon

through the
barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes
and goes

you can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
the patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(with ripped and rolled
frontier seats)

it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
peeking their way
through
the rusted
grinders wheel
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
to be alive
and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
**** bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be **** to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
the last ash leaf falls
but it doesn't blow away
blanketed by snow
***
PS Rowland May 2014
Excitement and thrills,
of what's to come.
Three days so free
to spiral undone.
Sun, and blue skies,
caressing our skin.
With knees in the breeze,
we don't care where we've been.
Smiles and laughter
and fancy party drinks.
A relaxing time
where nobody thinks.
© All Rights Reserved P.S. Rowland
L B Jul 3
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of ******-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger *****.
Hanna Jordan Oct 2014
All of the memories came crashing
in like a wave
I reached my arms out to
         grab them
                 to catch them
                         and hold them close
but I ended up drowning...
              
                        -H.H.
Cné Oct 2017
The surf provides lullabies
as ocean echoes roll.
Too soon, the sunlight glitters
as the dawn turns gray to gold.

I wake and I rub my eyes
beside the sandy beach
My love beside me, languid lips
within an easy reach.

I whisper, sweet good mornings
as your dreams I brush away.
You stretch and yawn, responding to
requests to "come and play".

Lingered memories caress,
of last night's rising moon
with silver waves and ripples,
beyond the dark lagoon.

In shades of colors that mix and smudge
you take your time, no rush
My ******* tingle, at the thought
upon my skin, spreads flush.

In reverie, flutters reminisce,
your wanton body on mine.
Whispered moans in my ear, you ******,
"I'm yours", I hear on rewind.
When last night's... turns into this morning's
PS Rowland Mar 2015
Flickers, orange and red
Lapping heat against my skin
Stories, cocoa and love
© All Rights Reserved P.S. Rowland
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