Poetry: November nostalgia

Nostalgia

Kalea Colton

Nostalgia is purple

Nostalgia is getting slapped in the face with deja vu,

And forgetting why you're feeling it

Nostalgia is turning sixteen,

And turning around to see your eight year old self 

Wishing upon the north star that she could just grow up already

Nostalgia is the shoebox buried in your closet

Filled with little momentos that previous versions of you wanted to remember

And you realize that you're glad you forgot

Nostalgia is loose ends coming back up

Just so they can be pulled taut and cut away from the new narrative your life is writing

Nostalgia is your dog's grey fur

You remember bringing them home for the first time,

And you wonder where the white rabbit ran off with the time

Nostalgia is looking in the mirror

Just to see that you've become a diluted version of your mother

Nostalgia is crying into your father's shirt over a boy,

Just like you used to about a scraped knee

Nostalgia is realizing that time is fleeting,

Serving as a constant reminder to cherish each moment

There's no warning when one chapter ends

And another begins

Nostalgia is a sickening cycle of yearning for the past and fearing the future

So much so,

That you forget to read the page you're on now 

Drown

Ruby Lakin

Nostalgia knows me

She watched me grow

She cradled my face in her hands

And when she kissed my head, it was warm

As she pushed my head under, all I could see was her face

Her eyes turned down on me, merciful and kind

Kinder and infinitely more forgiving than World had been to me

I let the water into my mouth

And all I knew was my body

No longer weighed down by the grotesque nature of age

Suddenly my skin didn't sag and stretch 

Young and full of promise

Static in the Before

I stayed there, just like that

I breathed water in and out like air

While Nostalgia towered over my tired body

She knows me

In The Moon I trust

Kalli Nicholson

My allegiance shines in the moon, 

The gleam of fresh frost 

In the morning. 

The feeling of when 

Inexplicably 

You find a new hobby to partake in. 

My allegiance falls with the autumn rain 

And the song it makes 

When it hits the roof. 

The joy when 

For some reason 

You dance in it. 

My allegiance 

You see 

Is to the joy and love 

Present in you and me. 

For there's nothing more special 

Then special can be 

When you find something that makes you 

Truly happy. 

Where I’m From

Maya Schillinger

I am from Lavender,

from Autumn, and old Disney movies.

I am from laughter as my cousins, and I run bare foot across a

hot gravel road.

I am from windstorms, blackouts, and

flashlights which gave me a sense of relief, I remember vividly.

I’m from Friday night dinners after basketball games,

from the “napkin game” and crafts in my basement.

I’m from the “Treat them how you want to be treated”

and the “You can do anything you set your mind to.” people.

I’m from backyard barbecues, and competitive game nights.

From falling asleep to Romana and Bezus on audible, while My Romana dozes in the

bunk beneath me.

I’m from Roald Dahl and Sunday school,

“Sit still during sermon”, and from Christmas pageants

(In which I was an Angel, a Wise Woman, and a Lamb)

From dancing to la ’vie n Rose in the kitchen.

I am from Louis Armstrong, and Etta James,

from Taylor Swift, and Khalid.

I am from the book “witches”, scary stories, and nightmares.

I am from the flashlight in my room,

That wakes me from my dreams and hugs me.

From My mother’s gentle touch and my father’s smile

when they told me it wasn’t real.

I am from every nightmare, every windstorm, and every shadow.

I am from the flashlight that reminds me not to be afraid.

A Boulder

Angus Burge

The muted contrast bleeds into the stones,

of the boulder that confines my landscape.

Liquid drips are humble, masked by my groans.

The fabric of moss, like curtains, they drape.

After growing his mouth, the boulder speaks.

Tells me the horrors of what he has seen.

Embodies the life, blessed is the meek.

Humanity was ripping at its seam

I wish I could look at the brights and blacks,

But the boulder blocked all of my freedom.

I could hear the shoreline through the stone cracks,

And everything that exceeds beyond them

The sun, the black, the rock, the dirt, the snow.

All that he seen, one thousand years ago.