Nostalgia is never what it used to be

These are those days (whatever we will make
of them) we may, once upon a time, look back,
through rose-tinted spectacles, to name golden.

The sun will rise on days like these (our golden
days we’ll call them) and as we’re looking back
older, not necessarily wiser, we will re-make

the same mistakes we might have had to make
when we had little need for spectacles; way back
then on days like these when suns rise, golden:

rose-tinted spectacles before us in the glow of golden,
recollected, half-remembered moments we bring back
to something somehow less than what in life we make.

I found this excellent web site (Poetry Foundation) after reading about Natalie Merchant's new album Leave Your Sleep, which I think I read about in The Guardian, although that was a couple of hours ago so I've forgotton (and it's less than important, really).  I watched a couple of videos on the poetry web site; Poem Beginning with a Line by Frank Lima by Lisa Jarnot (which I like) and A Partial History of My Stupidity by Edward Hirsch (the title of which I like more than the poem).  The latter, however, inspired the first four words of my own effort as I made my way to the bathroom to empty my urine collection bag, which had filled as I sat at the computer reading and listening to poets and singer/songwriters at work.

It's another of those poems of mine that I doubt can be called a poem.  I heard that voice I sometimes hear inside my head.  It spoke those words to me.  When I started playing with the idea I wondered if one could construct a poem that revolved around the words that end the first three lines.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Don't ask me why.

Do you think Byron had such doubts?  No, I don't either.
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