Best Letter Box Poems
Nobody knows what goes on behind this hotel door
‘Mr Smith’ isn’t with his wife of that I’m pretty sure!
He’s with his mistress Sue, they are having an affair
But he is a cheating love rat and he doesn’t really care
A barrage of fists is flying at number twenty-two
Sally covers her bruises, what else can she do
Her man is a bully and hits where nobody can see
She’s got no one to turn too otherwise she would flee
Harry is all alone since his dear wife has died
He’s desperately lonely but filled with such pride
His family only live on the other side of the city
But are so busy with their lives, isn’t that a pity
Post builds up in his letter box, there’s milk left at his door
Neighbours think they’ve seen him but they aren’t really sure
The police arrive; break down his door and Harry’s lying dead
He’d fallen down the stairs; dried blood lay round his head
Peter is an alcoholic and he suffers from depression
He has bouts of violence, he’s known for his aggression
Since his wife walked out on him he’s attempted suicide
His life has gone downhill since he lost his lovely bride
Little Sally wants to hide when she sees Phil the baby sitter
He makes her do ‘things’ with him, if she won’t he says he’ll hit her
She’s subjected to sexual abuse that no child should endure
But her parent’s are oblivious when they walk out that door
Nobody really knows what goes on behind closed doors
I wonder would you divulge what happens behind yours?
Doors Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
03~23~17
With time on my hands now that I am retired,
To hobbies I have returned,
And I am not disappointed.
I am back into stamp collecting,
Still find it rewarding,
Brain cells re-connecting,
Memories of shared interest with my Mum,
Which was far from Dumb.
Stamps on approval in post,
Hunting for coins that were lost.
To exchange for cheque to send by same day post,
Number of pen pals something to boast.
Waiting at letter box for stamps from foreign lands,
To get into our hands.
Swapping stamps with friends,
Visits to stamp shops,
Asking relatives to save stamps.
The joy of getting stamps from countries just born,
Countries that are no more make me feel old and forlorn.
Saving their stamps for posterity makes me feel re-born.
Drinking drugging, chug a lugging,
Cruising down the poncy street,
Drunk a 40 cats a hugging,
Look out 4 this ***** on heat,
Brain a thumpin, blood a pumping,
Dogs a humping, jelly beans to eat,
Cant get me car outa park,
So brain dead I cannot speak,
Flashing forth in me v6,
On the footpath, sometimes creep,
Uh oh downed a letter box ,
Postie he will surely freak,
Blue lights flashing, they in fashion?
Sirens blaring, dodge concrete,
Off the walls it seems I’m bashing,
Police-e-man I’m yet to meet…
In this time , this town, you'd grow
In this town, this time, you'll feel at home
your poor plenty more than rich enough
to crack the faultline,
your cup half full, half overflowing.
You stretch your legs and wings and mind and laugh
Find friends too easily,
and hand frayed throw cushions
to basement strangers.
But is it your life?
Tomorrow you'll return to the terraced houseboat,
to the gulls and the buoys
and there's a fresh breeze blowing
through fused stamens along the towpath,
coaxing brilliant notes
from your empty letter box
and spinning ancient coins
under a tear-shaped moon.
The chimes are natural now
not flat, not sharp, not late,
not ringing through your dreams like an ice-cream hearse.
He'll phone you at the weekend
She'll pop by with that book, that child, that unfinished thought.
And you'll drink methode champenoise
straight from the bottle
Like winning at Monaco
or from your shoe,
and chase your other lover
upstairs.
Now write a letter to yourself
and copy it to the moon.
Take the ferry to the island
and drive back across
the broad causeway.
In this time , this town, you grow
In this town, this time, you feel at home
My tale about the barnacle I bared upon my bum
has now passed into legend and folk law
The battle I thought was over and now long done
Just when I thought I could sit down and relax
and lick my wounds
and heal my poor bum
I now have two barnacles
clinging on instead of one.
Their jealous of each other
and like a porcupines
my bum is very sore
I'm stuck in the middle
and I don't think I can take any more!!!!!.
My telephone is melting
and they push love notes through my door
I'm divided down the middle
and I'm preparing for war.
I have no idea why they follow me around like flies
maybe it's my aftershave that smells so nice
There's nothing about me
I do declare
but everytime I turn around
there's always someone there.
Why couldn't it ever be
who I really like
I even tried to escape on my motorbike last night
I thought I was just saddle sore
but latter when I pulled my trousers down
what did I see
not two barnacles but three.
I darn't leave the house no more
and I've barricaded myself in
I'm now a nervous wreck
and I've taken to drinking Gin
I've sealed the letter box and took the phone of the hook
and have been searching amazon for a useful book.
If your a poor sufferer too
have a hammer and chisel
we can help each other get through
just bare your bum like me
and maybe we could throw the barnacles back into the sea.
''Beware! their out there''.
Peter Dome. copyright.2014.march.
My unusual physical appearance
Was enhanced by a striking thinness,
And enormous long-lashed blue eyes.
Less charmingly, I was also the kind of
Deliberately malicious little hooligan
Who'd remove some periodical
From a neighbour's letter-box
And then mutilate it before reposting it.
The sixties' famed social and sexual revolution
Was well under way, and yet for all that,
Seminal Pop groups such as the Searchers
And the Dave Clark Five;
Even the Fab Four themselves,
Were quaintly wholesome figures.
And in comparison to what was to come,
They surely fitted in well
In a long vanished England
Of Norman Wisdom pictures;
And the well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service and World Service,
Of coppers and tanners
And ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers
And window cleaners.
At least that's how I see it,
Looking back at it all
From almost half a century later.
A distant fire glows
out on the horizon
spreading further as it grows
Early morning nature rises
calls as birds stir twittering
Day breaks
crisp chilled air fresh on the lungs
Cats stalk through gardens
as news paper round girls and boys cycle on by
Dogs bark disturbed
by familiar letter box rattles
A couple of car doors close
first engines started for the day
all indicates beginning of daily rat race
and slowly home by home emerges
adding to numbers and noise
Smog starts to lift
Smells of fuel spoil the airs quality
Industry booms mechanically back to life
and once again the process of life carries on
Bathed in nectar dew drops, now
the damsel spring stealthily
tiptoes into the hamlet
with all its strength.
The south breeze plays
fifth symphony on tender new leaves,
flings the grey garment of fugitive winter
on the tether of time.
The red modesty of cassia flowers
lazily thrown on the elevations,
sheuli flower hides her whitish face
in dark screen.
Forest being released from solitary confinement
bedecks with colors of nature
snow white swans conquest the copper sky
Jasmine frequently haunts dark nights.
The sun rises
on the forehead of a newlywed bride
as if it is a circular spot of vermilion.
Man in remaining incognito
for years, has come back
to the war fields of life,
perhaps he wants to pay
his debts of soul.
Somebody, in quest of a blue envelope
tinted with multicolor of unknown flowers
but the letter box of young heart
wide open, as the darkness of suspicion
has broken its lock,
the love knots of past love
lost in the time treacherous sand
anxiously asks for identity.
Still on the debris of sand castle
built of hopes and promises,
a young poet composes a lyric
with inks of blood and shades of despair
his pen of eternal pain proclaims,
“Spring has set in again
to solace thousands of broken hearts.”
Enduring love in a letter box
for it wearies not with age
neither does it fade in time
It forever lives on every page
Oh I know it all to well
love comes and go's like the tides
but here within the letter box
just read then close your eyes
You smell it don't you?
the scent that makes you swoon
that taste, a touch, the memory
as those words of love consume
From the heart with which they were written
in ink it sings most tender song
rewind it's only direction now
as if love would never go wrong
Preserved before doubt
in a holding without hurt
when hope surged and passion burned
yet there in lies the lessons learned
Of fire as it blows in the wind
so quickly it's path rescinds as it clings
I too believed loves fire never dimmed
but chasing fire is not for those with heavy wings
Oh the sighs the letter box brings
the miles it's traveled with me
time spent with it seems a perpetual Spring
and for now it's the comfort I need
He only worked the night shift
The other shifts he was cut adrift
As soon as the sun went down
You could see him prowling the town
In his post office van he picked up the letters
And on the colder nights for the better
He wore a cloak in a flourish around
When he stepped out of truck to the letters bound
His cloak he held it high up to his arm
And he looked above the elbow to project alarm
Gliding over the ground to the letter box
With one foul swoop he emptied the lot
They could never give him a partner
Because they never made it to the shift's end after
He had no next of kin listed on his permanent file
And when off duty he hung from the basement tiles.
© Paul Warren Poetry
[Youtube clip attached as the source of my ‘copper through your
letter box line... and because I just love the song!]
Don’t slap a copper with a kipper
Don’t catch your todger in your zipper
Don’t put the peas on if you cannot watch the pot
And if your wife should ask don’t say the weather girl is hot
And don’t play Twister with a hippo
Or light a firecracker with a zippo
Don’t date a sure bet if you’ve got holes in your socks
Don’t try to post a copper through your letter box
For that will be a squeeze but you won’t get past his boots
Don’t pull you’re little sister’s hair out by the roots
Don’t hold a bank up with a plastic BB gun
Don’t ski down K2 just because it sounds like fun
Don’t drive a Datsun in Stetson
And don’t wipe your visor with a wet one
And don’t quarrel with your wife, or venom she will hurl
She’ll say why don’t you run off with your little weather girl
And don’t dress like Lennon at a Rolling Stones revival
If you have inside your head the notion of survival
Foreword... the sort of daft rubbish I write in a effort to defeat writer’s block. No attempt to make any sense, just to get words on a page/screen. Normally I end up deleting such garbage... but I kinda like this one.
The Block
There’s a mule in my pool and he’s munching on a carrot
There’s a fool with a rule who is measuring a parrot
There are chicks doing tricks with some pogo sticks
And some ticks eating bricks with their weetabix
There’s a bunny selling honey cos he hasn't any money
And some blokes telling jokes although none of them are funny
There’s a ghost eating toast spreading butter with a rifle
And a fellow with some jello cos he’s gonna make a trifle
I got some goats in the post they came through my letter box
I got a present from a peasant, it’s a pair dirty socks
There’s a big hole in my bucket, now you know what made me chuck it
And it landed on the parrot so I think I’m gonna pluck it
So I find I’m writing stuff about a hamster in a frock
Cos it came as quite a shock when I got this writers block
But my back’s against the wall, I’ll write anything at all
’til I unlock the block and I write something really cool
To touch the aircraft wheel on the country's soil
An emergency message ...
Authorities have arranged for drinking, feeding and sleeping
Emergency and sudden landing of soldiers across the country ...
After seventy two hours of terrorism, I came to know
I lost my dearest Nicholas
With the twin towers, the pride of nation
I lost him forever
After the catastrophe, with frightened and terrified hands,
I opened the letter box one day
A sealed blue envelope was delivered, stamped on 2001/09/11
The pearls are shed by him ...
"My dear Emily, you're my love
.... and beyond love "
Heavy Right Foot
The clatter of the letter box
And post on the mat
Sends a shudder of fear
So I cuddle the cat
My hand shakes
And my heart beats fast
I did something wrong
In the recent past
I know they are coming
Handcuffs and fines
Cart me off
For serious crimes
My foot too heavy
On the pedal of fun
And like a speeding
Bullet, out of a gun
I did the worst
A driver can do
Eighty miles an hour
Curse my right shoe.
I shudder and shake
Never broke the law
If my licence they take
Will I get parole?
David Cox 17/02/23
Around the dank and dreary walls the howling wind does scream,
And as the rain begins to fall you’ll know its Halloween,
The lightening strikes and mist will form and round the town it swirls,
And dressed as goblins, ghosts and ghouls will come the boys and girls.
In voices shrill and high with glee they shout out ‘trick or treat’,
And prowl the town in awful mobs in search of something sweet.
And if they knock upon your door and sing their sweet appeal,
You’d better have some sweets on hand or soon their scorn you’ll feel.
They’ll pelt your house with rotten eggs or lengths of toilet roll,
Or shove things through your letter box like muck or poo or coal,
And as the evening stretches, the adults are more doomed,
As the pranks become more vicious as more sugar is consumed.
This holiday to non-parents is worse each year on year,
Being blackmailed into sweet supply in the guise of festive cheer
The screaming little b******s are more and more obscene,
In this ‘hallmark-American-crapfest’ that is now our Halloween.