Letter of the past,
Now a treasured piece,
Letter of gone years,
Now a keepsake.
She wrote it to show her love,
She wrote it to tell me how proud she was of me,
It had words from the depth of her heart,
It had words from the string of her worries.
She had just lost her elder sister
and was preparing for the funeral,
It was the end of the year
and things were quite expensive,
She wanted to give me a bigger Christmas gift but couldn’t.
Now that she’s gone into the night,
The letter remains my light in her room,
It’s a door into sweet yesterday,
It’s a mirror into a memorable moment.
From my grandmother,
A letter with love.
April 25, 2024.
Quote:"True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories."--
Florence King
In the quiet folds of memory's embrace,
Where whispers of the past find their place,
There lies a fragment, ephemeral, yet profound,
A cherished relic in life's intricate mound.
Old aerogrammes, yellowed with age's flight,
Postage stamps, memories in paper light.
In their fleeting touch, a nostalgic sight,
Ephemeral relics, lost in time's might.
Or perhaps it's a ticket stub, worn and frayed,
From a concert where melodies forever played.
In the echo of music, I find solace sweet,
As notes of joy and sorrow gracefully meet.
There's a photograph, yellowed with age,
Capturing a moment, frozen on life's stage.
Smiles preserved in sepia, a snapshot in time,
A treasure trove of emotions, bittersweet and sublime.
These ephemeral fragments, fleeting and frail,
Are threads in the tapestry of life's tale.
Though transient they seem, they hold memories dear,
Anchoring us to moments, both far and near.
There’s a box lying somewhere.
Somewhere in a dusty cupboard.
Somewhere behind old paper, older words, and wounds older still.
Somewhere no one can find it.
I think about it, sometimes.
Sometimes, when I breathe.
Sometimes, when I exhale puffs of grey smoke and let those rashes bleed.
Sometimes, when in the dead of night, my lashes are wet.
Sometimes, when I’m looking somewhere, lost and stumble upon a sunset.
Apples and peaches,
Magentas and vermilions,
Pearls and emeralds,
all strewn across a cobalt, teal sky.
The sky you loved.
I drown in it when no one’s looking.
No one would understand, anyway.
I miss them reflected in that shard of glass we held together.
The one that broke, in giggles and hysterics, that very summer.
The one that I, upon a whim, hid in a wooden chest.
The one that I, with trembling hands, unlatched years later.
Long after you had left.
And it’s much too late
to go back
Much too late.
A flattened rose mumbles
An old cracked button chuckles
Tickled by a 2nd place ribbon
In the corner a tattered doll weeps
Comically consoled by a one-eyed bear
Ballet slippers long for a pointed toe
A dried corsage sits inside a dusty tiara
A leather-bound diploma shouts success
A tear stained letter sorrow
For joy and sadness are but fleeting moments
Imbedded in the soul of ephemera
Eco fuels at home are warmly cherished,
obligation calls and duly heeded,
in the past a smokeless coal,
allied to peat briquette the norm,
a less than ideal medley I’d agree,
I have this last briquette in camera folder,
on the day it was eventually disposed of,
an ahh moment if there ever was one,
Yet I cling to reminiscence round a warm hearth,
with my sister Jay’s wondrous glowing orb,
how she giggled so infectiously at will,
as intense vivid red flames leaped,
deep down inside we knew this couldn’t last,
a rubicon of sorts had now been crossed,
one final soiled clump of history,
that would resonate deep into late life mists,
our family clustered gaping in amazement,
at momentary flight of era toss on film,
an eternally preserved instant fetish,
some poignant flashback a capsule
You’re like a song that I heard when I was a little kid but forgot I knew until I heard it again. - Maggie Stiefvater, Shiver
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some say love at first sight can’t be.
But, in your eyes, I found my life.
Dazzling lights, wilder than the sea.
With you, there was no grief or strife.
At our first touch, I felt hearts stir.
Some say love at first sight can’t be.
Your kindness I’ll always prefer.
We were so eager and carefree.
Loving, though we might disagree.
I’ll always recall that first look.
Some say love at first sight can’t be.
Now, I can read you like a book.
You’re my love, my joy and my hope.
One look at you just set me free.
Without you, I clearly couldn’t cope.
Some say love at first sight can’t be.
The silver orb of the luminous full moon ascended,
slithering silent on the satin slope of sapphire sky.
Enticing cadence of the dancing sequins sensual
pulsated through the aura of the argentine night.
Rhapsody rolled on the waltzing waves of cerulean sea,
performed in the ballet of floating flakes of the moon.
Celestial charisma surged entranced with ethereal elan,
flooded me in the torrential tide of immersing emotion.
The euphoric moon slices spread on the ebullient sea,
I held one in a cup of still water in the palm of my hand.
Beneath the mystique shroud of the stardust sheen
I perceived esoteric essence of love laced by lunar lure.
The enticement morphed into flickering face dancing
in my dreaming eyes as I saw your enthralling smile
glow in the beckoning beam of the mesmeric moon,
still fixed at the fringe of my heart, so near yet so far.
I like roaming thrift stores
full of worthless things
lost treasures that I can hold
within my hands and mind
capturing a time gone
for a pretty hand painted cup
a collectible or a relic from the past
I love the old dishes
what stories they could tell
I imagine their history
oh, I could write a poem about old dishes
things from times long passed
inspire me to hold a treasure for a moment
I do not have to own it
to capture it with my thoughts and pen
but oh dear the vintage jewelry is my weakness
how can I touch it with my hand
and not own it, how, and I always wonder who did
a visit to the thrift store is quite inspiring
but I best write it down because it is fleeting
Edit on line 7
There he was – my first boyfriend ever -
leaning against the sports car of a friend who drove him
over to my town to see me before I left for college
even though we had broken up a few years back.
I had met him at church camp several years earlier -
John, with that cute elfin face,
legs like matchsticks that seemed half as wide as mine
and the sweet sensitive nature
of a kid who worried so much about his parents’ marriage
he’d already developed ulcers at age 14.
He was looking kind of cool, wearing silver tinted shades
that didn’t allow me to see his baby blues beneath them
as he leaned against that sweet ride, smiled and said so little.
I later learned his parents had split up,
but not one friend of his whom I asked
could tell me where John ended up.
I google him; I search on Facebook; still I can’t find him.
That unexpected visit – not so important then -
has become one more of the many ephemera
in the sum total of my long-traveled life.
Tucked away
right at the back
of my husband’s bedside cabinet
lies a brown leather wallet
The money is long gone
but to him it contains
something far more precious ...
My business card
from Radio Lollipop
a charity we were involved with
I turn the dog eared card over
and smile
written in faded blue biro
is my old phone number
This tiny little card
resulted in our first date
and eventual marriage
I have a lump in my throat
knowing he has kept it
for so many years
Grasping it like an heirloom.
Alone in this room.
I saw a whisker.
I knew it was from her.
Gray, yet somehow bright.
A piece of you that you left one night.
Trying to clean, to help myself calm.
But now I am crying from what is in my palm.
I miss when your whiskers poked me.
Like needles from a pine tree.
A simple memory of your love.
A reminder you sent from up above.
Ephemera, a short lived life
of cherished times before the strife
meandered into detritus
with depth enough to bury thus
beneath the memories with spite.
Photographs torn up by his wife,
the shreds did cut him like a knife,
and nevermore did he discuss
ephemera!
Will his life soon be free from rife,
will he discern a golden fife
to lead him on without a fuss,
down new pathways where he can trust
treasure in the scraps of his life's
ephemera?
In the corner of a room is a showcase
received from a library rummage sale.
It's being utilized differently than
its original purpose for the public.
It is now very much a family focus.
On top of the case are two pairs of small
shoes originally purchased some 40 years
ago for our sons who are now 42 and 46.
Three garments hang inside this glass enclosure.
First, our daughter who is 50, has a high school
jacket with her name inscribed, and there's her
Yearbook dated 1989. There is a Boy Scouts of
America shirt belonging to our oldest son. Next,
there is a beautiful little vest of our youngest son
denoting him as a member of the church's group
known as 'King's Kids'. Finally, there's also a handprint
in a clay mold. It is the handprint image of our youngest
son with his name inscribed and the year 1987, when he
was 6 years old.
These are precious items of our kids from yesteryears.
We have embraced all of these family treasures for more
than 35 years, and display them proudly with much
gratitude toward God.
“Conversation with my eight year old Granddaughter twenty one years ago.
She is still different and I still have the famed four leaf clover” ~~The Poet~~
It’s got extra Grandma, look at this clover.
It’s the only one, I looked over and over.
This one really did stand right out.
Just like you were telling me about.
It’s good to be different, that’s what you say.
It makes it better for me to feel OK.
It makes me feel like I have a magic wand,
When the kids treat me like a real dumb blond.
I am different, even if I cant work out 97 by two.
There are things I can do that they can’t do.
Lets frame this clover sweet Granddaughter,
Oh no Grandma, it will die without water.
You picked it so it will die anyway,
A frame will preserve it longer than a day.
In the morning light, a milk bottle stands,
A relic of bygone days, in my trembling hands.
Embossed with nostalgia, a link to the past,
From the dairy farm, where memories last.
As a little girl, I'd wait with glee,
For the sound of the milkman, with bottles three.
Clad in white, with a smile so kind,
Bringing fresh milk, a treasure to find.
The clink of glass, the cool touch of the jar,
Filled with creamy goodness, from cows afar.
A cap of foil, a symbol of care,
Delivered with love, from the dairy farm fair.
Each morning ritual, a simple delight,
The taste of fresh milk, a pure delight.
In that old bottle, a story untold,
Of days gone by, of memories bold.
Now the milkman is gone, the farm a memory,
Yet in that bottle, lives a legacy.
Of childhood moments, of innocence so sweet,
In the simple act of milk delivery, a connection complete.
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