This poetry challenge comes from poet Roy E. Peterson: From your past, write and provide us a poem about something that gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling about the past—something that moved you, inspired you, amazed you, or at least left a lasting impression on you. Everything is fair game. If your nostalgic poem is from the 20th century, you may need an explanation for the general public. Post yours in the comments section below.
Here is my example:
There Was a Place Called Hollywood
by Roy E. Peterson
Once upon a time there was
_A place called Hollywood,
_Where dreams were manufactured
_Some bad but most were good.
The factories were studios
_Where movies came to be.
_The workers came from hills
_That they called Beverly.
Reality was something plain
_They often would avoid,
_These tales were more than real
_And made of celluloid.
Once upon a time the hearts
_That broke would lead to mendings.
_With strong male leads, romances
_Still brought us happy endings.
Patriotic Hollywood
_Supported the USOs.
_Bob Hope and other greats
_Would give our troops free shows.
Now Hollywood is China’s slave
_And has no moral code.
_They chase whatever sells;
_Hell’s flames lick their abode.
Poet’s Note: Hollywood has come to rely on China to break even, which has led to the American movie industry tacitly catering to the Chinese Communist Party. Read more here.
LOVE QUOTES FROM TV SHOWS
By Roy E. Peterson
On the “Good Witch” series,
Starring Catherine Bell,
“You can’t have too much love,
Or chocolate,” I heard her tell.
Penny in the series, “Lost,”
Characterized her world thus,
“All we need to survive,
Is someone who truly loves us.”
On the “Castle” tv series,
The lovers did not use a phrase.
They ended conversations
With the word, “Always!”
Juliet O-Hara on the tv series, “Psych,”
Tried to shed a little light.
“Well, I think you deserve more
Than just popcorn tonight.”
Mulder on the “X-files”
Was an agent with a task.
He said, “A dream is an answer to a question
We haven’t learned how to ask.”
“Criminal Minds” ended in quotes
They often wouldn’t explain.
“Find the place inside where there’s joy,
And the joy will burn out the pain.”
Someone tried to give a hint
On “The Gossip Girls.”
“Say just three words with eight letters,
And I am yours,”
One said on the “Vampire Diaries,”
Where for life is what they strive:
“You should love the person
That makes you feel alive.”
“Love is like an arrow.
It must fly straight and true.”
That is not a tv quote.
It’s one from me to you.
OLD HAUNTS
By Roy E. Peterson
My familiar haunts are vanishing.
They are a dying breed.
They live on in memory
That my mind can accede.
The farm house where I first lived,
And where I played around
Has gone the way of the old barn,
And fallen to the ground.
The summer camp I loved so much,
Camp Judson and its thrills,
Is covered by Pactola dam
High up in the Black Hills.
The Texas town we moved to
Seems smaller every day.
I can still go visit there,
But my haunts have gone away.
Good morning, Roy. Sorry I’m coming late to this challenge. This is the best I could come up with on short notice — remembering what life was like when Saturday morning cartoons were the highlight of my week!
A SONNET IN PRAISE OF CARTOONS
I had turned the ripe old age of six
When I first saw Bugs Bunny on t.v.
Saturdays were always a fun mix
Of Daffy Duck, the Roadrunner, and me.
Forest-romps, but only after chores.
Treehouse building – that was also great.
Summer days exploring the outdoors
But Flintstones first! – Nature had to wait!
At sixty-four I still prefer cartoons
To angry politicians everyplace
When public figures are all Looney Tunes…
You don’t need Scooby Doo to solve this case.
With all the news that isn’t fit to print
Preferring Bugs is simply good judgment!
Brian, what a great commentary on legendary cartoon, especially “When public figures are all Looney Tunes.” I love it along with the image of not needing Scooby Doo to solve a case. I greatly appreciate your poem, your sense of humor, and you joining in the Challenge.
Mr. Flowerday
His voice has gone. His words remain.
They sparkle at this darkest hour.
They soothe like sunshine after rain
And shimmer like a summer flower.
His grace and joy, his golden tone,
His wit and wonder sing within
My soul. Yet still I long to phone
The gentleman who made me grin
On greyest days. He always knew
Just how to turn my bleak sky blue.
Susan, Mr. Flowerday is a fantastic nostalgic tribute to one who obviously meant a lot to you in the past. There is so much pathos and praise in the fond memory. What a great poem for this challenge as you shared with us your heartfelt remembrance! The greatness of this poem lies in the words and rhymes that everyone can deeply appreciate for its straightforward unpretentious presentation. Thank you for this marvelous contribution to the nostalgia challenge.
Roy, thank you for this challenge… it came at the right time for me. Brian, Joe, and Roy – I cannot thank you enough for your comments on my contribution. Mr. Flowerday is real and this shining gentleman (I love your Kellaway comparison, Joe) meant the world to me. He died last Friday, and this poem landed in my lap. I wanted it to be longer. I wanted it to say all my heart is saying. I wanted it to speak of the priceless gifts of love and joy Mr. Flowerday endowed me with… and all of you have told me, my short and humble poem is a worthy tribute to a magnificent man. For that, I am most grateful.
Susan, great gifts often come in small packages. Your gift to us and to his memory came in the perfect package with a beautiful gold ribbon around it!
Susan, some of the greatest gifts come in small packages and this is one of them. Your depth of feeling is a precious gift to us and to the one memorialized. Your poem is a treasure wrapped in a gold ribbon.
Susan, this graceful poem of deep longing carries with it more than nostalgia – it is a beautiful and heartfelt tribute to someone who was very dear to you. I love its simplicity, the language, the rhymes. I notice in poetry that when the heart matters — as here — pretentious, latinate verbage is best avoided. You have the tone exactly right. May Mr. Flowerday’s memory be a blessing to you always. My deepest condolences over the loss of your friend.
FAMOUS MOVIE AND TV HORSES
By Roy E. Peterson
I remember movie actors
And horses long ago.
We would watch on television
Or at a picture show.
Roy Rogers rode on Trigger,
A great horse, Palomino.
Whatever Roy would need,
Trigger seemed to know.
Roy Rogers saw him on the set
Of Robin Hood one day.
Olivia de Havilland
Was riding him away.
Roy then bought the horse
And they made history.
Riding in the movies
That told a western story.
Dale Evans was Roy’s wife,
Her horse looked burnished silk.
The name of Dale Evans horse,
Of course, was Buttermilk.
The Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver,
Is the one he rode about.
Along with him was Tonto
And his famous Paint horse, Scout.
Silver was magnificent,
A white stallion by the way.
Intelligent and well-trained
It was Hi-Yo-Silver away.
Gene Autry had his Champion,
But there were three of them.
The first died during Autry’s
Military service way back then.
Champion was a blazed face
And three white stockinged sorrel,
At least back in nineteen thirty-five
When he was the original.
Topper was the great horse
Of our hero, Hopalong.
Topper had black ears
And was a white Arabian stallion.
The Cisco Kid rode Diablo
On the western tv show.
His sidekick was Pancho
Who rode a horse named Loco.
In the 1950’s
Wild Bill Hickok was the rage.
Guy Madison as Hitchcock
Rode Buckshot through the sage.
One who went before these
Was Tom Mix, of course.
He rode on a smart one named,
Tony the Wonder Horse.
Lash Larue had Black Diamond,
Tom Ritter had White Flash.
Oh what fun to watch the horses
When they would have to dash.
I would love to return to
Those days of yesteryear
When the dirty varmints
Would the horse and rider fear.
Susan, your poem is a real gem. Only you can tell us if Flowerday was a living person or a fictive invention for your poem. Let me say this: when I read it, the name “Kellaway” came to mind because of the accentual and phonic similarity. And I realized that I had recalled the British actor Cecil Kellaway, who almost always played a kindly old gentleman, of the type that Flowerday is meant to be.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN HALLUCINATIONS
“INNER SANCTUM” RADIO SHOW
By Roy E. Peterson
How many remember
The Inner Sanctum show
From 1941
To ’52 on radio?
It came on Sunday night.
The stories were creepy
With music that was weird
And scared the pants off me.
It could have ghoulish laughter.
And stories about ghosts.
How somber were the voices
Of the scary radio hosts.
To open up the show
One could hear a squeaking door
Followed by an organ
With a malevolent sounding score.
Mysteries could still remain
Unsolved in some of them
The narrator then would say,
“Pleasant dreams, hmmmmmm.
SCARY HALLOWEEN RADIO AND TELEVISION SHOWS
By Roy E. Peterson
I remember listening, though it was long ago
To scary tales on Halloween told on the radio.
Just think of Boris Karloff, or Bela Lugosi.
They fed my inner fears with such horror fantasy.
I recall “The Shadow.” I’d love to hear again
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men.”
Do you recall, “Dark Shadows,” that was full of lurid tales?
I loved, “The Inner Sanctum,” where evil still prevails.
“The Whistler,” when he whistled, made my hairs erect.
There were other programs where the devil might collect.
Do you remember “Thriller,” that put goose bumps on your spine?
“Death Rides a Broomstick,” was a classic line.
A program on the radio that lasted many years
Was “Suspense,” a series that catered to our fears.
“The House in Cypress Canyon,” was a scary episode.
A door that could not open in a couple’s new abode.
Do you remember, “Lights Out,” on the radio?
Especially a true story of some murders in Chicago?
“Murder Castle,” was the one that made the listeners shiver,
Since the murderer, H.H. Holmes, stabbed people in the liver.
When I became a teenager, we got a television.
I could look with horror as someone made an incision.
Vincent Price was master of the depths that evil goes.
Remember Friday nights and the special horror shows?
How I loved Vampira, the Mistress of the Night.
I remember Wolfman, who changed with the moonlight.
I remember Frankenstein, who stood at ten feet tall.
I remember Dracula still standing in the hall.
I can’t forget Elvira, Cassandra Peterson.
She hosted at Knott’s Scary Farm when her career was done.
Some think that modern horror films are scarier than all,
But way back when was scarier the way that I recall.
I think the movie’s better if shot in black and white.
The mood it sets is scarier when watching late at night.
This Halloween I’m hoping to see some on TV.
The ones that I remember and scared life out of me.
ELVIRA MISTRESS OF THE DARK
By Roy E. Peterson
I loved to watch Elvira,
The Mistress of the Dark.
To weekend horror movies
She added macabre spark.
I learned that her real name was
Cassandra Peterson.
She was a sexy, campy host
I thought lots of fun.
Her vampish appearance
Was offset by her comedy
She gave quirky and quick-witted
Valley Girl repartee.
She said as a youger girl
She loved horror-themed toys.
She would not play with Barbie dolls
And often scared the boys.
At seventeen in Vegas
She was discovered there.
Her parents let her sign
To be a showgirl half-bare.
She met Elvis Presley
At the Dunes and was his date.
She was not Elvira yet,
But she must have looked great.
She was in a James Bond film,
“Diamonds are Forever.”
Then moved to Italy, where
Fellini could discover.
She became lead singer
Of two Italian rock bands.
First, the Latin 80, then
The Snails on nightly stands.
She returned to LA to be
With the Mammas Boys,
In discos and nightclubs
With parodying poise.
Then she joined the Groundlings,
As an improv night club troupe,
Where she played a Valley girl-
Character for the group.
In 1981, Vampira,
From a 50’s show,
Was recreated along with
“Fright Night,” as we know.
Nurmi quit when producers
Wouldn’t hire her friend, Falana ,
Then they invited Cassandra
To play Elvira.
Elvira was a hit with her
Tight-fitting low-slung gown.
With the tone of “Valley Girl,”
Her show became renowned.
She wrote her satirical
Comedic commentary
Referring to her cleavage
With double entendré.
She became quite popular
And featured on merchandise.
She made a lot of money
With cleavage and haunting eyes.
Elvira evolved from a cult
Figure to a brand–
Calendars, comics, costumes,
And pinball games so grand;
Action figures and trading cards,
Model kits and dolls;
Perfume; full-sized posters
That could be pasted on the walls.
With the feature film,
Elvira, Mistress of the Dark,
She became the witch beloved,
And she even wrote her part.
She made videos and movies
With the Elvira look.
She co-wrote three novels
And a coffin table book.
WITCH HAZEL NEEDS A HARE
By Roy E. Peterson
Do you recall Witch Hazel,
Who used to bug Bugs Bunny?
She was “Looney Tunes,”
And she was kind of funny.
She would ask her mirror
That was hanging on the wall,
“Tell me my dear mirror
Am I still ugliest of all?”
Her ample green-skinned body
Wrapped in a plain blue dress
Has two twig-like legs
And black hair that was a mess.
Whenever she zoomed off on
Her broom with wicked glare,
She cackled gleefully as
Hairpins spun from her hair.
In the cartoon, “Broom-stick Bunny,”
Trick or treating Halloween
Disguised as a witch himself.
The ugliest Hazel’s seen.
Witch Hazel was so jealous
She was beside herself.
She had a Pretty Potion
That was sitting on her shelf.
First, she asked Bugs Bunny,
“Who undoes your hair?”
She was jealous of the “witch”
Sitting in her chair.
Bugs asks, “Do you like it?”
Hazel answered querulous,
“Yes, I really like it.
It is absolutely hideous!”
When he takes his mask off
She sees that he is a rabbit
The one thing that she needed
She wanted then to grab it.
The only thing she needed
To complete her recipe
Was a clavicle from a hare.
That’s why she bugged Bugs Bunny.
“Make yourself homely,”
Hazel said, and left the room
To make a special potion
With a drug to seal his doom.
She tried to trick Bugs Bunny
With a carrot that was sweet,
But Bugs then turned the tables
And he didn’t miss a beat.
She was going to kill Bugs,
When she looked into his eyes.
She could not go through with it,
And then Witch Hazel cries.
Bugs Bunny tries to comfort her
And offers her a drink.
She doesn’t realize
It’s Pretty Potion from her sink.
She drinks her own potion
And turns into a cutie.
A red-haired debutante,
A veritable beauty.
She is horrified
That she looks so pretty.
She runs to her mirror
Asking for some pity.
The genie of the mirror
Falls in love with Hazel’s face.
She quickly grabs her broom-stick,
While the genie then gives chase.
MEMORIES MADE ON HALLOWEEN
By Roy E. Peterson
Memories made on Halloween will last another year.
Adrenalin comes rushing in confronting things we fear.
The haunted house is waiting now for us on Witches Hill.
Do we dare to enter it while looking for a thrill?
Shall we invade the cemetery that we fear a lot?
Will we see an apparition rising from a plot?
Will the ghosts be dancing around the hanging tree?
Is there a certain demon that is coming after me?
Memories are made on Halloween by those who dare.
We all have trepidations and ghost stories we share.
We all have our illusions on this one night of pretension.
The thrill we feel is present still when we have apprehension.
A Century’s Divinity
Another time, another place,
A waft of smoke, a peaceful space,
Atop the club—a Deke at Yale,
And Vassar maiden, by the rail.
Alone they stood, alone they spoke,
Postured classic, lass and bloke,
A century’s divinity,
Not far from our proximity.
Far from perfect: Mother, Dad,
But what a life they held and had,
Absolutely void of strife?
Nay—no way—yet what a life.
Recalling them with drink and smoke,
Olive, Triscuit, cheese and joke,
Their friends we called by “Uncle, Aunt,”
There back in time I’d go, but can’t.
Reaching out to them, in mind,
Vivifies their life in kind,
And when affords the chance? I tend
To make my world, to theirs, to bend.
Alec, I am once again able to comment. Sorry it took so long. Your poem is a treasured addition filled with a heartfelt sensitive nostalgia for the “lass and bloke” that seems to come from your own personal life. I love how you included “Olive, Triscuit, cheese and joke.”
Telling Truth
The present gift is yet alive
though bones protrude as flesh is sunk,
while muscle wastage gives a rest;
it’s what is seen in line of sight
that boasts skeletal once was strong.
It’s not a hanker, better past
in terms of world, relationships,
but focus on what now is passed,
that treasure trove of memories
which swells the chest, unlocks forgot,
or seeps from eye, incarnate scenes,
the mind recounting richest stock.
I’ll try not burden younger set
with tales, unless they’ve telling truth –
though dress them in a modern cloth,
release them from the clutch now gone,
rebirth them where there’s common bond
They’ve not been shelved, despite their space,
though most unread, a collage built
through time and place in unity,
each tome a tale from memory.
They tell me, prize choice when a lad,
explain, thought swot by working, class,
the extract read when led the form,
those faces blank, my zeal alight.
I learnt the worth, poetic words,
found ‘Michael’, as first poem spoke
to sixteen mind, as I look back,
a strange hook, adolescent teen.
No poem’s made by shipping list –
but Porlock man and Kubla Khan
held sway, deep caverns in my mind –
childhood, scout camp, Cambridge exam.
Those rhythms, I find poetry,
like turning leaves, my library,
thin pages, gold leaf edges, Donne,
great Grandma’s flyleaf signature.
The presentation befits text,
as jewel resting in its nest,
a mohs scale of fragility,
through typeset, printed, press released.
For everyman and woman guests,
novel celebrities in set,
though Alexandria was razed,
a phoenix risen from the ash.
They’re cover when I’ve lost the plot,
my Shakespeare’s not love’s labour’s lost;
had I not been ordained, young man,
no better road than Charing Cross.
To sort the books at eighty four
a paradise from roof to floor;
some spineless, past their sell-by date –
too tough to dump roughed written page.
Slide penguins, age changed livery,
for there it was, long journey looms,
the price of books extortionate,
thought the key, Allen, cheaper reads.
And so it saw the Penguin born,
by Exeter, St David’s track –
my hometown, where these pupils trained –
as steamer rolled in, clackety.
Clack, hissed to halt, like Adlestrop,
but barren, needing tanner book,
though ticket clerk without a clue
of revolution, platform two.
Past Imperfect
past imperfect
future tense
present present
having passed
into the past
future crescent
time is always
now and then
are just places
that the second hand
erases…
erases
Personally I like it… a clever and thoughtful use of words as re-read numerous times… certainly thought provoking on the subject, approached by lateral thinking… and of course, every word counts…
thx Stephen, I have a few of those, the phrases are perfect for ambiguity
on the tail end – here’s one:
Judy and Leslie
When we grow up, we want to be famous
Like Burns and Allen, like Andy and Amos,
On Look magazine, we want our faces
Like Xavier Cugat and Princess Grace’s.
We’ll travel in a Coupe de Ville
Star in movies by de Mille,
Smoke Lucky Strikes, drink gin martinis
Have dinner with the Toscanini’s.
The roaring fifties would be so swell
But all of you can also tell
We are not suited to this era.
We are old hat, like Zeus and Hera.
Who wants to hang out, and we’re not gonna,
With people like Cher or with Madonna?
They’re trollops and they have no taste
Devotion to them is misplaced.
We want fame in a time of style
Who’s Fi’ty Cent? We do revile
The current folks who are celebrated
If they all quit, we’d be elated.
Then there would be some room for us
On Rolling Stone. Fans could make a fuss.
This is the last chance we have got,
Please buy our book and we’ll be hot!
Leslie, I am able to comment after a long period of time. You really wrote a striking poem showing the contrast between the great times we remember, intermittent times that left us older folks cold, and the more recent contemptible pop cultures that we revile (as you said). Like you, I believe we had it better, but then I come from that age of reason, truth, faith, and fun.
It’s fascinating that so many are so nostalgic for the pop-culture things we worked so hard to avoid!
Well, we like to remember things from our childhood and youth, even if they were silly.
The Half Crown
Crowns by their nature cannot be complete.
They only came in halves. But what a weight
That half possessed! You had a pound with eight.
And half a crown could buy a solid treat:
It paid the bus fare for the whole back seat,
Alighting at the cinema, to see
A proper film, costing a half-crown fee,
Not four hours’ CGI but short and sweet.
No crown was ever mine. The half I had
I traded in for ten new tawdry pence,
Tuppence, a dud halfpenny and a frown.
And, looking back, the world and I were mad
To banish the whole worthy half from hence.
Look up. Look down. You owe me half a crown.
Note: The half crown was a coin in old British duodecimal currency, worth two shillings and sixpence. It was withdrawn from circulation while I was still a child, ahead of the decimalization of the currency.
Morrison, I can just imagine the feelings of the British elimination of the half crown as a coin of the realm. We here in America are now facing the elimination of the penny from production. You wrote an excellent poem in commemoration. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Many thanks for your appreciation, Roy. The discontinuation of the US penny coin would be a great historical loss.
I grew up at Athens Y Camp, founded 1898, every Summer. There were days so hot and humid that you’d think the heat and humidity combined to concoct their own thunderstorm. After, we’d be treated to a naturally cool evening. You’d always bring a flannel shirt and some khakis for this reason.
the mirage shall become a pool
midst of the smoldering blistering day
thirsty for water and blazing of ray
sun of the sky in stillness and heat
at work and at sport, upon us to beat
thirsty and dry at the old rugged Cross
bursting with sin, and concave with loss
staggering men, to sue for his grace
starving and thin, the whole human race
sun reaching zenith, clouds gathered dark
edged with a blaze, the contrast was stark
humid, the mist that Christ formed in a cloud
to ride on that storm, his face in a shroud
waters fell down and the evening was cool
heated mirage, transformed, to a pool
my khakis were grey, my flannel was green
clothed in the rain, and the mountain, and clean
title / indebted / Isaiah
Thank you for your contribution, Alec. Sorry to be so late in responding. This is a well rhymed nostalgic poem of a memory that has endured for you. I really liked the phrase, “the mist that Christ formed in a cloud.”
The Prism of the Past
I looked into the shattered glass
expecting to see a stranger,
a cold storm that forgot how to rest.
I thought the distance between us—
between who I was and who I had to become—
was a wide sea too deep to cross.
Like mist clearing in the morning,
I thought she had simply evaporated,
leaving only the heavy armor behind.
But she is still there, resting in a single shard.
No fight, no dramatic noise,
just a quiet warmth in a freezing room.
She doesn’t hate the cold heart I built,
she doesn’t mourn the anchors I had to break to survive.
She just smiles softly,
like warm sunlight piercing through the winter haze.
A silent understanding that holds all answers.
I spent so much time wanting to un-break the mirror,
wanting to go back,
thinking I failed the pure reflection.
But her eyes tell stories in the silence.
She sees the prism of my different sides,
the untamed wind and the guarded walls,
and she knows they are the fortress that kept her safe.
We cannot walk backward into the harbor.
Time only flows forward into the wide sea.
But the innocence didn’t wash away,
it is etched safely beneath the storm.
Two versions of one soul,
meeting in the quiet light.
***