Memory is not just the imprint of the past time upon us; it is the keeper of what is meaningful for our deepest hopes and fears.
quote by Rollo May
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lines: That time is dead for ever, child!
I.
That time is dead for ever, child!
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!
We look on the past
And stare aghast
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled
To death on life’s dark river.
II.
The stream we gazed on then rolled by;
Its waves are unreturning;
But we yet stand
In a lone land,
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life’s dim morning.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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The writers who have the deepest influence on one are those one reads in ones more impressionable, early life, and often it is the more youthful works of those writers that leave the deepest imprint.
quote by J.M. Coetzee
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Past
I can never let go of my past because my past has marked me
Every time I look down
Every time I look over
There is my past
The notches
The bold the non-mistakable scars
…the scars
My past
Each and every one has a story
Each and every one has a memory
Each and every one has brought tears to my eyes
For no story nor memory are of happiness, triumph, or glory
No, they are of fear, anxiety, self-hatred, paranoia, and loneliness
I can never let go of my past because my past will always be part of me
poem by Scarlet Mo Chroi
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Broken Social Environment
Another day for me
Another time to spend
Another space to fill
Another memory to remember
I can smell different air
See the ocean through my window
The sun shines brighter than ever
Like the only thing in the dark that glows
So much hopes for the future
So little we have done for
Just in a light of mystery
Drowned like a stone for glory
And the stars are watching through space and time
Ghosts of our past dwelling in sub-lights and lines
Should have something better to tell to our children
But nothing grows here except hatred and violence
Another day for us
Another time to waste
Another space is getting worse
Another memory to be encased
poem by Alexander Foald
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To Thought
I may not give to thee
One hour again;
The past is not for me,
It burns my brain.
Thy haunts are treasuries now
I may not see;
Dark cypress binds my brow,
The willow tree.
And yet I linger here,
With thee would stay;
Thy shrine! receive my tear,
My parting lay.
Time wings his flight along
O'er memory's glass;
Years given to mirth and song
Too quickly pass.
Few—few—how few my lot!
Like early flowers,
Which blow and are forgot
Mid summer bowers.
My infant hopes and joys,
Too bright—too brief—
I flung with childhood's toys,
To nurse my grief.
And what my riper years—
An aching breast,
Cradled by hopes and fears,
Still asking rest.
Farewell!—a long farewell!
Pale thought,—we part—
Oblivion's waters swell
Around my heart.
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Sonnet: God, Imprint Thy Holy Cross
Imprint Thy Holy Cross on my forehead!
And let my face look ugly to the world;
And let my life become a thorny-bed;
And let me pass my days thus God, till old.
Imprint Thy Holy Cross onto my heart!
And let my thoughts be free of sinful shade;
And let their earthly tones from them depart;
And let me spend my life thus God and fade!
Imprint Thy holy Cross onto my soul!
And let its sanctity fill up its space;
And let Thy grace guide me onto my goal;
And let me have always a Heav’nly gaze!
Imprint Thy Holy Cross all through my life!
And let me not forget it ev’n in strife.
poem by John Celes
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In Old Claraghatlea When I Was A Young Boy
In old Claraghatlea when I was a young boy
Walks in the old fields I used to enjoy
And Summer evenings out hunting in Pomeroy's bog
With Pudsy our dark brown hairy cattle dog
The boy of the fifties is now looking gray
One might say he has known a far better day
But memories of the past in the memory remain
And in memory the past we re-visit again
Old Pudsy long gone she is in time's decay
In Mother earth's bosom forever she lay
And time ticks away and nothing seems to last
And in memory we only can go to the past
And in old Claraghatlea far north and far away
A boy with his dog is out hunting today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Memory of Us
The memories we have
Might be like the blowing breeze
Passing through without any impression
But,
Your memory of us
Memory of our laughs
And our togetherness
Hopefully will always stay in our deepest heart
Be the beautiful memory we ever have
(Dedicated to my Listening I&II lecturer)
poem by Little Red Apple
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Shadow of My Memory
Gust of stale wind breeze
whispers,
the memory,
the memory,
the memory,
much feeling
but seems without feelings at all,
candles have heart to,
hesitant to part.
much feeling but its
just as if there's none,
I think of the past
but i can't smile,
candles have heart too
it loathes parting.
Today will be a memory,
yesterday was a memory
drifting away, but
count not the time,
rather the moments.
our past days are beautiful
the things we kept
in our memory cache full.
the things we left are so many
fear of moving on,
fear of change,
wails of grief sucked
up excavated nose
soul wailing to the
top of the lungs.
in a minute this will
be just a memory
memories are
all pain in vain
but those are but memories
that dwindles each
day passes by,
as those slowly vanished,
I huddle in my room and cry,
memories are like dreams,
a reflection of the past.
poem by Cyrus Diaz
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Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend - or a meaningful day.
quote by Dalai Lama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Canary Bird
I cannot hear thy voice with other’s ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! That with thy music’s gentle swell
Past days of joy should through thy memory throng,
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell
While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on thy past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard like thee forget his native sky.
poem by Jones Very
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To The Canary Bird
I cannot hear thy voice with others' ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.
Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell
Past days of joy should through thy memory throng,
And each to thee their words of sorrow tell,
While ravished sense forgets thee in thy song.
The heart that on the past and future feeds,
And pours in human words its thoughts divine,
Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds,
Its song may charm the listening ear like thine,
And men with gilded cage and praise will try
To make the bard like thee forget his native sky.
poem by Jones Very
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Strolling down memory lane
Strolling down memory lane
Where the colors begin to fade.
Strolling down memory lane
Is where I want you to come along.
Strolling down memory lane
is a test of time and mind.
Strolling down memory lane
I won’t be afraid.
Strolling down memory lane
Is not lacking in color.
Strolling down memory lane
Is not a big bummer.
Strolling down memory lane
Not a storm in sight
Strolling down memory lane
is joy without bite.
A memory that I have created in my mind,
Stands the test of time.
Memories are like dream, a reflection of the past.
My memories can kiss my…
Ask me no questions I will tell you no lies.
poem by Taran Burke
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This is the last time....
This is the last time
The last time you will ever see me
The last time I will look into your eyes
The last words we’ll ever exchange
And the last memory I have of you
This is the last time…
The last time I believe your sweet lies
The last time I remember our past
The last time I thank you for your friendship
And the last time I hate you for leaving me
This is the last time…
The last time I blame myself for this broken heart
The last time I cry over you
The last time I feel our past happiness slipping away
And the last time I see you as anything more than a stranger
This is the last time…
The last time I’ll ever give into my delusions of you
The last time I’ll say your name with such recognition
The last time I’ll erase the future I had drawn in my mind
And the last time I’ll ever bother you
This is the last time… I promise.
poem by Nikki Taboada
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A Normal Person
The normal person only copes
By watching television soaps
And sees revealed on the demon box
His deepest fears and highest hopes.
Unlike you jerks that criticize
Our hero's really very wise -
You'd think he'd never been to school,
He's far too smart, he's far too cool,
And since he doesn't use his brain
He's well-adjusted, not insane!
The Truth for him is plain to see
Shown ex cathedra on T.V.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Her Gratuity
She had been a versatile woman,
Having worked as a cook, a keeper,
A sweeper, a cahier, a store-keeper,
A washer woman, a gate-keeper,
A nurse, a waiter, and an escort.
All she did under one master,
Her husband, who bequeathed to her
The widowhood as gratuity.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Am I my fathers keeper?
He found redemption
danced with the devil
got lost in frustration
from the pain in his heart and
the fear that griped his soul
Am I my father’s keeper
A puff away from reality
Dreams up in smoke
Trading life for a toke
of sin
His new found friend
Am I my father’s keeper
I’m down on my knees
Praying for you
Your soul is on fire
And you don’t know what to do
Am I my father’s keeper
I ask him to take a step toward me
when the road is getting rough
I promise my love will be enough
Am I my father’s keeper
I tell him “you are blessed in courage”
Take this step for me
fight your way back towards reality
Am I my father’s keeper
Am I able to love him enough?
poem by Lisa Visor
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What The Future Holds For Us
What the future holds for us we are not to know
But our past it goes with us to where-ever we go
Your best years in life to the forever gone
But your past in your memory it is living on
Many friends of your past you may never more see
But they do remain young in your memory
And for as long as the gift of memory you retain
Mental pictures of them with you will remain
But the present is what matter as some are known to say
And only in memory we have yesterday
And tomorrow at dawn the songbirds will sing
But who knows what tomorrow for us will bring
But we will live till we die like the sheep or the cow
And we only can live in the here and the now.
poem by Francis Duggan
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His Books
MY days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
poem by Robert Southey
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My Days among the Dead are Past
My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead, anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
poem by Robert Southey
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