Nostalgia Poems | Examples of Nostalgia Poetry

Back in the eighties, wild and free.. A golden time for you and me. We'd ride our bikes through streets unknown.. No screens, no apps.. just flesh and bone. Vinyl spun and cassettes played loud.. Walkmans made us feel so proud. Sunday sessions, pub lights dim.. Happy hour.. middies brimmed. Beaches burned with...

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Beneath the glow of neon light, where secrets love to hide.. Two shadows meet in whispered steps, forbidden side by side. A game of passion, sly and swift, where hearts and caution blend.. A dance of stolen glances.. where the night will know no end. The city hums, the streetlights blink, a world of hush and heat.. And in the...

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What’s on tap Who’s on top I’ll give you a tip They sang ‘At the Hop’ Put another dime in the jukebox ~ Rock'n'Roll will never die ...

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Life has an odd habit of making you miss old street curbs and stop signs. The street I miss the most though has to be that cross-street between the crab apple orchard and my friend Jackson’s house. Something about that place felt infinite. And something about sometimes friends feels greater than sometimes. Would I go back? Absolutely not....

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When death comes, He will find me with a cup of tea, Enjoying the summer evening rains. He will find me with my favourite book, Turned to the page I like the most. He will find me with the radio on, Playing a song very well a retro now. He will find me in my mother's dress, Draped clumsily on a whim. He will...

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There is a hush that does not beg to be broken, a pause so deep even breath dares not disturb it. The young guru sits— not as one who knows, but as one who has unlearned. Around him, the elders carry their years like dry sticks, ready to burn, ready to become light. Silence does not teach. It unravels. It is not a voice but the space between...

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I always takes a strange road I sees a strange scenery I listen to strange song I felt a strange feeling Then, in a casual moment I find that the things I wanted to forget Are really forgotten now....

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It is quite common to kiss 'ouchys' on those wee. At three, my son asked to have bath autonomy. I tossed a washcloth, then stood where he could not see. Soon, he called out with words that completely shook me, "Mom, it washed red and sore, please come kiss my pee-pee." Once, when a minister summed up his sermon's span asking...

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The basement bulb goes out, I lack a spare My cat licks my ice cream, I'm OK to share My laptop gives my face a glow I'm wrapped up in a magic flow I imagine leaving the world of men through Moria to Caras Galadren float this door to the Arduin shore reclaim my wonder there once more. Take me to Lothlorien I'll meet...

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An early wintry storm hit late last night on this date, September 11th, 2035. There was strangeness in the air like a stale aftermath of partying. Frigid. Strange that people still celebrate Freedom Day like it happened yesterday. But none of that stopped the lowly publicized auctioning off of what surprised everyone, to...

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the warmth in the eyes is how the mountain outlines left in me, unspoken by sunsets by the ghosts of what never happened the echoes measured the distance still not having found a form, they wander just like you and me through our valleys the saddened silence in me I'll enshrine as an aftertaste of the grape sun look at who you are...

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Fresh ocean air Oh, take me there! To the place below the hill Three hundred years I hold it dear Ancestors can be felt still For all I've roamed My heart knows home And it cannot get it's fill How does it long! For ancient song And the view from mine own sill A seat of peace My mind's at ease Oh, the terrors a place can kill Soon I'll...

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Cutting a rug on the dance floor They thought they were the bees’ knees But they were really the hoi polloi Whereas we tripped the light fantastic ...

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At 13, I used old tissue paper to craft my best friend her wedding veil— a drapery, thrown together in a flurry, taping together parchment scraps, fragile and pale. I ripped my old notes to craft her a crown, to set atop her wind-braided brown mane. The night before, I spun a construction paper bouquet that, by four that evening, had wilted...

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Once there stood a golden field, Swaying crops, a farmer's yield. Morning songs of birds took flight, Beneath the sky so vast and bright. The village paths, of dust and stone, Where children laughed and cattle roamed, Now paved with tar, so smooth and wide, Where restless cars and buses glide. The thatched-roof homes with lantern’s glow, Replaced by lights in glassy rows. The banyan...

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