Best Postcard Poems
I: In Rhyme
when the world had no headsets
the sunbathing crowd
fell asleep to the sounds of
transistors played loud
while the deckchairs and windbreaks
kites, beach balls and more
formed the stripes, lines and circles
that painted the shore
and the longer I walked
on the sand to that sea
the more the sea seemed
to get further from me
and the crunch in my mouth
was that one grain of sand
in the sandwich I ate
with my sand covered hand
while the lemons and melons
and plums I'd watch spin
would stop short of a cherry
one click from a win
and the postcards we sent
from the end of the pier
were of blue skies and donkeys
and "wish you were here".
II: In Free Verse
from the end of the pier
through the stiff breeze
and spindrift
I can still hear the tunes
of the promenade bands
and I can still see the stripes
of the deckchairs and windbreaks
and the box kites
and beach balls
that painted the shore
and I can still taste
the butter
- warm like the canned ham
and the crunch of that sand
in the sandwich I had
and I can still hear the djs
laughing and talking
spinning hits of the sixties
from transistors
played loud
and I can still smell the onions
frying wild in the fairground
to the sound of the claxons
and the lemon. click. orange. click. melon.
click. click.
and I can still breathe the deep smoke
swirling in sand dunes
from the benson and hedges
and
player's no.6
and I can still see those grown ups
staring at mirrors
- their bodies distorted
like the dreams
they once had
today on the pier
the rain that's now falling
falls from a same sky
on a same sand
and same sea and a
same
me
- yet this air
this air
is not the same air
as that air I
once
breathed.
Dear All
Hot today. Hired a car. Took to hills. Travelled far.
Narrow road. Never ends. Sweat on wheel. Hairpin bends.
Glanced at temp. Glanced at fuel. Aircon found. Turned to cool.
Island sun. Not like ours. Single track. Other cars.
Parked at top. Lovely sight. Valleys. Vineyards. Left and right.
Church looks out. Opened door. Spanish writing. Walls and floor.
Candle lit. Sat for prayer. Silence deep. Everywhere.
Dark and cool. Warm in feel. Off The Strip. Life here's real.
Gary & Ann
X
Proudly she stands on slopes covered in snow
One graceful woodland deer her eyes aglow
She strikes a pose unmoving, head held high
Twitching her ears as flapping birds go by.
Catching the light of early morning sun
Across the stream reflected colours run.
Right by the lake the drifting mist lies low
Deliberating: should it stay or go?
Voraciously I feast on nature’s fare
Intense the bliss which fills my heart and soul
Ethereal the mood that tempts to share
With my obliging muse...she makes me whole.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Winter-Related Acrostic
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
© 29th December 2016
Picture Postcard
The air sighed heavily
as Winter rested its head
on soft somber clouds
lightened earlier by a sifting
of rain, snow and ice.
It smiled softly at the moon
which, once more, made
a welcomed appearance
in the mantle of night’s sky
sprinkled lightly with stars.
It shivered considerably
near the trees in the cities
wearing their crystal jackets,
that glimmered slightly
with moonbeams smile.
It whispered quietly close
to sleeping houses bedecked
were pristine white hats,
fringed along their sides
with crystalline tassels.
It applauded the sun
as it soundlessly arose
presenting to the world
a postcard bejeweled
with Winter’s muse.
By: Debra Squyres
01/20/13
A sliver of horizon, stiff in hand,
it bears no city, street, or promised land.
No inked direction on its back is set,
a silent promise, a forgotten threat.
It is a vessel built without a helm,
a ship adrift in a vast, indifferent realm.
Its message, trapped within the pulp and dye,
a whispered secret passing readers by.
It speaks of all the words we leave unsaid,
the phantom letters in the heart and head.
The “I forgive you” or “I love you too,"
they’d never find their proper avenue.
It is the bridge that ends before the shore,
the key that fits no lock upon the door.
It holds a sunset view, a painted sky,
intended for a specific, single eye.
Its life is one of stillness and of wait,
a transient object sealed by silent fate.
It knows the sender’s hand, the stamp’s brief kiss,
then plunges into the communication abyss.
It lies inside a drawer, or on a shelf,
a lonely testament unto itself.
A metaphor for chances cast away,
a sun-bleached memory of yesterday.
The postal system, in its structured might,
delivers day and navigates the night.
But this card breaks the code, the golden rule,
a rebel item, a stateless, wandering fool.
It mocks the logistics, the sorting machine’s whir,
a phantom address with no destination, sure.
It is the story told to no one’s ear,
a bell that rings where no one is near.
Perhaps its power is in the void it keeps,
the silent promise that within it sleeps.
For while addressed, its journey would be done,
beneath the gaze of a specific sun.
Unaddressed, it belongs to all of us,
this little card, this wordless, world-less fuss.
It carries every possible reply,
a universal, silent, hopeful sigh.
So let it rest, the unaddressed postcard,
a little piece of life we’ve held unbarred
from finality, from being truly sent.
A perfect moment, perfectly unspent.
It is the poem I write that you won’t read,
the planting of a universal seed,
awaiting recipient, could have been,
a memory in time that no one had seen.
Chorus
My life is a postcard
and my dreams are free
Times can be hard
But not with you loving me
It's been a bad day
and I don't know why
I got up this morning
and I wanted to cry
Like a football game
with that one perfect goal
together we are a team
you make me whole
It's picture perfect
my life with you
in all our adventures
in every little thing we do
you are my life
a beautiful piece of art
and I'll never let you go away
and I'll never let us part
Watching our postcard sunset
as we lay upon the sand
you are my everything
so reach out your hand
I wanna hold you close
beneath the skies above
to forever be in this dream
to forever be in love
THE POLITICALLY CORRECT POSTCARD
One picture is worth a thousand words
(And a flower is worth a whole lot more).
This was the import of the card you sent me,
Flu-eyed, runny nose and a sore
Throat. I was to dismiss, on the merit
Of sexism, the Sistine chapel decoration
Botticelli’s Primavera, so disinherit
The mighty Logos and God’s peroration -
Giving the kiss of life to a still-born cliché,
Gaybo playing his theme, with the wonderful score
In the sub-ed’s office with the copy-boy’s roar.
A photo-opportunity for the Amazon dee-jay,
Who rules the world with a golden rod -
Offer a handkerchief to the offended eye of God.
from IN MEMORY OF HER 2008
Mountains, clouds caping
In land of water falling
Tall, straight pines climbing
Many shades of green
Still paddy water serene
Steep hills between
Spring swallows welcome
Good fortune in ev'ry home
Happy we have come
Hundreds of thousands
of postcards
for sale
evoke nostalgic
memories
and offer glimpses
of faraway lands
Conversations about deltiololgy
fill the room
Dealers have come form
many states and lands
to sell their wares
Along with an old friend
who is a photographer
I prepare a piece
about
the
event
The commerce in old
paper
continues throughout the day
Ashes of the past still smoulder
Thousands upon thousands
of postcards
Images from the past
with the wrting of long forgotten strangers on them
The three day show
Collectors gather from all over the world
Gather in the hotel
to but and exchange
cherished images
fromthe past
Collecting movie star photos, sports heroes ,nudes and
almost everything else
The proceedings seem dull to some
But a source of fascination to others
Postcard show -New York City 2012
I prayed to God hoping he’d send me a distraction.
Then I just stood around, and well, nothin’ happened.
So I said, “This just proves you don’t really exist,
and it leaves no excuse not to take the initiative.”
So I wrote you a postcard postmarked from Hell,
and I assume you received it, but it’s hard to tell.
Cuz I checked days off of calendars, hours off clocks,
and never found a response in my post office box.
And it’s hard to forget all the sweet things you told me
before you washed your hands like I was uncooked poultry.
I know I should be over it; I thought I was stronger.
I’ve said, “Time heals everything,” but I don’t any longer.
I’ve always had the good fortune of attracting lovers,
but I have two categories, and you’re not like the others.
You’re the secret I keep, and it keeps me humble,
and when I try to sleep, it awakes like a jungle.
And it terrifies me cuz I know I won’t get out alive;
but that a’int the scary part, it’s the waitin’ to die.
And there are unflattering descriptions to define such a scenario;
I discuss it with the sad singer I’ve trapped in my stereo.
We conclude to write it down and examine it on paper
with a grain of optimism that it’ll all make sense later.
I got a postcard just today,
It was sent from France,
Where heads your way?
When first I read it,
I simply broke down.
I sat there, crying,
I needed you around.
My life’s full of lies,
You’re one of them.
When I opened my eyes,
You were gone again.
Now I’m sitting here,
Thinking of life.
I’m holding balance
On destinies pipe.
I awoke in a kitchen
on a pillow of aprons;
my body covered with bruises
from a mob of angry patrons.
Then I came to in my bed
with all my ex-lovers
and their menstrual blood
absorbed by my covers.
Then I was asleep on the freeway,
alone in the carpool lane;
drove off a bridge in California
and woke up underwater in Maine.
Then I was alive in a coffin
snuggled with a teddy bear –
a knocking at my door,
but I pretended I wasn’t there.
Then I was back to the mirror
engraving my eyes with glass;
as the lights went out,
my ears started to laugh.
Then I was shivering on a pier
with a needle in my arm,
and my intestines unraveling
like a ball of yarn.
Then I was behind steel bars -
opposite a prison guard;
telling him your address,
and handing him a postcard.
Thousands upon thousands
of postcards
lined up in boxes
People from different lands
milling about
Cards of political figures
actors, musicians
A DELTIOLOGIST'S DREAM
Money changes hands
and hard fought deals are made
Some scoff at this fine hobby
But take a chance - come to a card show!
If you remember the Beach Boys sang - those who don't just have
to put it down"
Postcard show
(for those who don't know a deltiologist is someone who studies postcards)
POSTCARD
P ouring through an old box I foun D,
O ne postcard, THE postcard, from last Novembe R.
S uch an innocuous front, with its Chinese pagod A,
T ricked me into thinking it was something Romanti C .
C onsequently your words, laced with arsenic, poisoned my unprepared hear T,
A s you confessed you didn’t love me, in ALL CAPS, for everyone to witnes S.
R eading it again, before I ripped it to shreds, it was all I could do not t O
D rown in memory's tra P.
6/15/11
(double acrostic and shape poem)
(last line used to be "down a forbidden nightcap", then revised as above.)