Writing letters, now passe,
Was once the only sure-fire way
To keep in touch with those in camp,
Enough to give one writer’s cramp.
And when in Europe, years ago,
On aerogrammes I’d say hello
To keep my family up-to-date
And tell them things were going great.
Of course, there was no email then;
You wrote on paper with a pen.
That way still works, for we just sent
A letter with the sole intent
To let our grandchild have a hint
That she is missed (right there in print!).
She may write back and she may not,
But we’ll persist, no matter what.
a lie within a badass lie
a lie is within a badass conversation
a conversation of a lie is a correspondence of a lie
a badass lie is a badass conversation
a badass lie is a badass correspondence
a lie is a judgement lie
a lie is a judgement truth
a lie is a badass judgement
judgement is judgement of a lie
judgement is judgement of a truth
judgement is judgement of a conversation lie
correspondence lie is correspondence truth
a lie is a correspondence lie
a lie is a correspondence truth
the truth is a future truth
the truth is a future correspondence
the truth is a future conversation
within a judgement is within a lie
within a judgement is within a correspondence
within a judgement is within a conversation
a lie is a conversation of a lie
Such a wonderful sight
A horse going into flight
Captured in a lens
Documenting by the writer's pen
For once a horse was used for war
And now has a prescence of peace with a score
May we continue the beauty of a horse show
Snickering at others athletic events saying 'what do you really know"
You see it is the beauty of a horse that can never cease
With its artistic message reminding us all of the word peace
Marc O'Brien Author/Poet
Correspondence
...in Kosova, instead of my dream, I found a grave in which I place flowers every weekend ...
Islam Morina
(A friend who went back from Denmark in Kosovo immediately after the war on 1999 to find his girlfriend who was shot dead by Serb military machine)
If you remember Kosovo and graves
Albanian immigrant spirit closes into loneliness
And I bite the pain in white letter
You my young friend
Do not ask for the photo of the murdered childhood
Do not daub the wound of a resurrected muse
Measure the sunset with a first step
Do not promise flowers to the spring
Kiss the cold soil of my homeland
And do not seek for love even within the books
We’ll call it a one-to-one correspondence
If it was real, I could taste it
But it hovers above my taste buds
Like a terrible tease
A few people sit on my side
But more on the other
This is real analysis
And no one said it was going to be easy
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.