By Olawale Otaibayomi

Echoes of the Past

Oh childhood nostalgia,

A warm and fuzzy feeling that never seems to go.

Like a comforting blanket,

It wraps me up and transports me back to a time of endless possibility and potential.


Memories of treehouses and lemonade stands,

Of scraped knees and ice cream cones.

Of chasing fireflies and catching lightning bugs,

Of playing hide-and-seek and tag until the sun went down.


But now, as an adult,

I see things through a different lens.

The treehouse is just a dilapidated shed,

The lemonade stand a distant dream.


Yet, despite the harsh realities of adulthood,

I still cling to the memories of my childhood.

They are a reminder of a time when the world was simpler,

A time when my biggest worry was whether or not I could stay up past my bedtime.


Childhood nostalgia, a bittersweet reminder

Of a time that has passed, but will never be forgotten.

It is a reminder to hold on to the magic of youth,

Even as we navigate the complexities of the adult world.



The Ghost of Christmas Past

A specter from the days of old,

A spirit that can never rest,

Whose stories must be told.


A wraith of light and memory,

A shimmering, translucent form,

It comes to haunt and remind us,

Of Christmases that have gone.


With spectral hands it beckons,

To follow through the door,

To a land of yuletide joy,

And days that are no more.


It shows us scenes from our past,

Of laughter, love and cheer,

Of Christmases that have come and gone,

But still linger, dear.


It shows us who we used to be,

And all the love we knew,

It reminds us of the magic,

That Christmas can imbue.


So let the Ghost of Christmas Past,

Lead us on this journey through,

The memories of Christmases gone,

And all the love we knew.


Olawale Otaibayomi is a published author with interest in poetry and fiction. He is a circumstantial ambivert who hides behind his pen-name and pen. His works have featured on Cultural Weekly, Woven Poetry, TushStories, Haikuniverse, FunDza WT, Brittlepaper and elsewhere. He writes from the “City of Brown Roofs”.

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