A touch
A touch has a memory.
A voice trigger old feelings.
Meeting again is like inevitable kiss.
Forgetting is a lie; Ignorance is the bliss.
Poems on the topic: memory
Poems on the topic “memory” on Poets.by.
The Memory of Her
months have come
and
gone
and
still, her eyes haunt my dreams
her words' breath still lingers against my ears
the ghost of her lips grazing my skin
its been months
and months
and still, my heart breaks at the memory of her
LONER II
Maybe it's okay...
For certain things to never come back
Memory
our mind-sea foggy clear
hides its scaled creatures
twisting turning movies with their
jungle passions ancient times
crusaders’ flaming crosses
pitiless in ‘faith’
as much a part of me as this treed
half-raked lawn
you hide your armies images
wrapped in your bones
sharing that sea
an attic's cast-off
gowns and gestures where
so many loves and knives
lie buried
in this marsh teeming
The Widower
left: some clothes and letters
chips on dishes memories
her sisters neighbours
who shared recipes chat
memories of her some
like yours
there was a gap between you
you wanted others in
yet that deep work-a-day back-porch
wordless closeness
pulls you to her -
you die too
now she becomes herself
work struggle worry gone
her crisp voice, sense fill
silent shared rooms
Machines
my memories hold machines
the wall lighting up as a car
cruised by our house
and i was happy
high up a buzzing plane in the
hot empty blueness motors
sputtering on lakes
the long car journeys to the
city school with car rugs
the big orange busses leaning
around corners or to
the rolling hills
those old ironing machines
for sheets -
are machines romantic
after all? I've wanted them
Beyond the Point
A ridge of sand dunes barricades the rim
Of the horizon like a gilded bar
To roving sight; a lonely point, the brim
Of earth against the moaning surge. Afar
My glances wander, wistful, ill at ease
From longing to explore those far off seas.
The murmuring tide creeps up before my feet
And leaves a shell or two, a broken spray
Of strange sea growth; then to some chill retreat
In ocean’s depths it slowly ebbs away.
How blithely thought can trail the screaming terns
Beyond the boundaries that the eye discerns!
On the horizon looms that point beside
The pathless main, a prison door to me;
For I would follow on that restless tide
To lands remote beyond a shoreless sea;
Locked Out
When we locked up the house at night,
We always locked the flowers outside
And cut them off from window light.
The time I dreamed the door was tried
And brushed with buttons upon sleeves,
The flowers were out there with the thieves.
Yet nobody molested them!
We did find one nasturtium
Upon the steps with bitten stem.
I may have been to blame for that:
I always thought it must have been
Some flower I played with as I sat
At dusk to watch the moon down early.
A Girl's Garden
A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.
One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot
To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, ‘Why not?’
In casting about for a corner
He thought of an idle bit
Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, ‘Just it.’
And he said, ‘That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm.’
Birches
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
Hyla Brook
By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)--
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat--
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.
A Patch of Old Snow
There’s a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten--
If I ever read it.
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