First Memory

I was tiny, maybe about two or three years old at most, carrying some plates to set on the table that Oma had given me. Her instructions were stern as usual, and I was scared to take them to the dining room. I walked real slow and carefully so as not to drop them.

It was my aunt’s apartment in Berlin, Germany, when it was still called “West Berlin.” It featured a large open living room and dining room. She and her husband’s veterinary practice was just beyond the double doors beside the dining area.

I remember my dress was a blue crushed velvet, with shiny buttons down the front. My white stockings are tucked into shiny black patent leather shoes with a strap across them. Even the details of the kitchen and all the other rooms are vivid in my mind. When my father was stationed in Berlin, I remember spending much time there when I was younger. It wasn’t always a happy place because my grandmother was strict. My mother and her sister also didn’t get along well; the tension was palpable.

Perhaps there are more memories yet to surface. It may explain why I’ve always felt like life didn’t start well.

Repressed Memories

I searched the night sky for a familiar constellation of stars, hoping I could catch their orbit behind an opening in the clouds. But luck was not with me tonight. Instead, shadows projected their natural art onto the forest, leading to sparks of memories of my sisters and our shared life. The past felt empty, yet my mind continued sprouting up more scenarios. I struggled to breathe with this onslaught of my past. My brow got damp with sweat, and my head was in a swirl of sketch thoughts. It was all so ugly, worse than I remembered other times.


when you live in a world
surrounded by nostalgic things
realize it was once progressive

you’ve come a long way, baby
farther than you’d ever thought
your adventure would go

you’re leaving behind a message
of where you have been
showing how far you’ve gone

The Taste Of Yesteryears

a smell, a sound or a ghost
pins us back in time
a duality in the timeline
one foot in reality
the other in the past

echoes of the familiar
trap us quite robustly
forcing a face-to-face
as harsh realities present
a reckoning of our actions

will we learn
or are we doomed
to repeat the recollections
over and over
in our unsatisfying dreams

Tracks To The Past

Inspired by Sadje’s What do you see #63 & The Sunday Whirl #489

when memories present
in the silence of my room
i check my expectations at the door
my spine gets comfortable
as i delve deep into the bank of the past
the risk of emotions is high
will my cheeks remain dry
i hear the clunk of metal gears
hobos sleeping in rail cars
their lives in a haze
while i play in the train yard
i wonder in my head where they are now


A Box Full Of Life

Roman Kraft

Opening the lid to the past.

Joy, tears, and laughter escape.

Youthful feelings rushing back expectedly.

Playing in the past like it was yesterday.

Staying there is tempting,

in the good ‘ole days.

But were they really?

Boxed memories are nearly all good.

Who saves the crap?

Those moments slowly come back too.

Time to close the lid.

Back to reality.



Over and over, repeated re-injury of the senses.
It’s what we had.

Dressed in our despair, bonded by pain.
It’s what we shared.

We twisted and contorted, struggled further to gain control.
It’s how we fought.

Every prick of the conscience drained another abscess.
It’s how we learned.

Giving up was not an option.
It’s how we lived.