Long Mail Poems
Long Mail Poems. Below are the most popular long Mail by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mail poems by poem length and keyword.
I AM AMERICAN I WILL NEVER FEAR DOMESTIC TERRORISTS COMMITING SEVERE IDENTITY FRAUD AGAINST ME RECIEVING ANNUITY PAYMENTS ON MY BEHALF IN MICHIGAN SEVERE IDENTITY FRAUD ACTUALLY RECIEVING DISABILTY PAYMENTS ON MY BEHALF WITH PETER GARGANO ORDERS HIS DETROIT HIT MEN INSURANCE FRAUD ALLSTATE AND FORD COMPANY ON BEHALF OF MY TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY AIRBAG BOMB DETECTIVE PARTS THE GARGANO CRIMINAL GROUP GATHERED IMPOSTERS JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY JAMAICAN DEALERS CATRINA BELL MIKISSICK CONVICTED VIOLENT OFFENDERS OBSESSED WITH MY AMERICAN POETRY HACKING INTO MY LIFE A SEVERE DATA BREACH BULLYING ME WITH INTIMADATION IMPOSTERS BECAUSE I WORE WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI TAKING DOWN CATRINA BELL MIKISSICK HER CORRUPT FAMILY OF JUNK SICK OFFICERS SEVERE ABUSE OF POWER WEARING BADGES COMMITING IDENTITY FRAUD AGAINST ME SADLY I HAVE SUFFERED FOR YEARS IN CONSTANT CONSTANT CONTACT WITH THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION PLEADING FOR THE IDENTITY FRAUD TO STOP CORRUPTION AT IT'S ABSOLUTE FINEST BULLYING A TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURED DISABLED AMERICAN IT IS HORRIFIC HORRIFYING MY DEATH IS BEING PLOTTED IN ORDER TO COVER UP THESE DOMESTIC TERRORISTS WITH BADGES JAY TOWNSEND JOHNSON HENRY JAMAICAN DEALERS FROM TAMPA SEVERE DATA BREACH ON MY MEDICAL HEALTHCARE BANK FRAUD MAIL FRAUD INSURANCE FRAUD THIS VICIOUS DOMESTIC TERRORISTS IS INDEED A VERY DANGEROUS VIOLENT OFFENDER HABITUAL IDENTITY FRAUD IN AMERICA WHILE MY DISABLED SPOUSE AND I ENDURE HORRID THREATS EVERYTIME WE ATTEND DOCTORS APPOINTMENTS FORD TRUCKS TRY AND RUN US OFF THE ROAD BECAUSE THE DETROIT MAFIA CONTROLS THIS CRIMINAL GROUP IDENTITY FRAUD EXTREME TERROR BULLIES ATTACKING DISABLED VETERANS DISABLED FAMILIES IN ORDER TO FUND ELDERLY MOBSTERS GAMBINO BONNANO COLOMBO LUCHESE GENOVESE FAMILY BULLIES INTIMIDATING DISABLED VETERANS AND THEIR FAMILIES EXTORTING HEALTHCARE THE MAFIA NO LONGER WHACKING BOSSES IN SPARKS STEAK HOUSE THE SCORE IS NOW DISABLED AMERICANS DISABLED VETERANS BEING BULLIED BY THE AMERICAN MOB CENTRAL STATION DEARBORN MICHIGAN FORD LINCOLN REALIZING THE MAFIA IS ALIVE STRONGER THAN EVER CONTROLLING ABUSE OF POWER HEALTHCARE FRAUD INSURANCE FRAUD BANK FRAUD MAIL FRAUD DISABILTY FRAUD CYBERATTACK ATTACKING ME FOR BEING A CONFIDENTIAL HUMAN SOURCE FBI INFORMANT WEARING WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI BUYING WEAPONS AND DRUGS FROM JUNK SICK COPS BULLIES
Little Miss Take would steal anything
She’d steal from a pauper, she’d steal from a King
Don’t show her a bell if it goes ding a ling
For when you’re not looking she’ll half inch its ring
Little Miss Take does not like to pay
She knows what she likes and she’ll whisk it away
She’d steal the moon as it slept in the day
She’s barred from the grotto, she nicked Santa’s sleigh
Little Miss Take if she needs to be fed
Will nab eggs and bacon and butter and bread
And getting it cooked won’t befuddle her head
She’ll just nick the camping stove out of your shed
‘Little Miss Take is my name,’ she once said
But she wasn’t named as a thief, but instead
’twas only a quick drunken fumble in bed
And her mum and her dad hadn’t planned to get wed
[If Adam Hargreaves would like to get his hands on
this material (or to sue me) I can be contacted through
Soup Mail... or any half way decent lawyer]
The browning leaves of the old calendar heap fly,
wafting away slow the depleting sands of my time,
as I cross at creeping pace the spaced milestones,
pegged at the frail points of my obscure birthday.
My mother always celebrated that special day,
offering the family and friends a variety of sweets,
she loved to make herself in her own unique way,
the hearty treat I have not forgotten even today.
After she left for her new abode on a summer night,
years rolled, my birthday party stopped permanently,
but that singular day came in cycles, went unnoticed,
nobody bothered to remember and seemed to care.
A time came soon when I also got used to forgetting
the day when a layer of year piled on stack of my age.
So, I was delightfully surprised when once I received
by mail a package, I was expecting in the least to arrive.
For me it was a present of birthday cake, I much liked,
sent by my elder daughter who lived overseas far.
She let me feel the lost touch of my mother return
on that special birthday of mine, I will never forget.
May 12, 2020
Contest : I Will Never Forget
Sponsor : Silent One
The Grand Opera House was
packed to capacity for the
closing night of the season.
Soprano Bianca London
delivered a flawless
performance that moved the
entire audience to tears.
Among the crowd sat Leo
Henderson, an obsessed fan who
believed Bianca sang exclusively
for him.
Leo had sent dozens of
unsigned letters, but Bianca
had ignored every single one.
Driven by the dark jealousy,
Leo sneaked into the backstage
corridors during the final standing
ovation.
He slipped into Bianca's
private dressing room and
waited silently in the dim
shadows.
When Bianca walked through
the door, Leo confronted her
with a bouquet of black roses.
Bianca threatened to call
security, causing Leo to
lose his grip on reality
completely.
He grabbed a silk prop scarf
from the vanity and brutally
strangled the talented star.
Leo fled through the rear
fire exit before the stage
manager discovered the
tragic scene.
The police arrived quickly,
but the killer left no
fingerprints or physical DNA
behind.
The murder shocked the
music world, and
investigators struggled to
find a solid lead.
Detective Arthur Pendleton
took the case, carefully
reviewing Bianca's fan mail
for clues.
He noticed one letter
contained a unique quote
from an obscure, centuries-old
Italian opera.
Two weeks later, Arthur
attended a public memorial
service held for the fallen
singer.
The detective watched the
mourners closely, looking for
anyone acting suspiciously or
overly emotional.
He spotted Leo placing a
single black rose onto the
memorial alter in the lobby.
Arthur approached Leo
and casually struck up a
conversation about Bianca's
legendary repertoire.
Leo proudly quoted the
exact obscure opera line
from the letter, trapping
himself completely.
The obsessed fan was
arrested on the spot, final
justice delivered for the
opera star.
There’s a good chance all this
pushing electrons around comes to nothing.
Odds stacked like junk mail—still, here I am,
fingers on the keyboard,
small-time criminal trying to spark
a live wire in the dark.
Guessing the radius of a hummingbird’s wingspan,
tiny engines thrumming against the wind
and chance—
sometimes it has to be enough: staying alive, curious,
sticking around on this dumb rock another day.
Every morning I scare myself sideways,
arms windmilling through the network airwaves,
patterns I'd never choose—would never wear
on a blouse, would never endorse on a ballot—
but a body in a republic needs covering.
Prudence and his counterpart need costumes.
And the pervs at the loom never stop
selling bolts of period-colored cloth,
cotton picked from whatever’s
fashionably oppressive that season.
Please forgive
the generalizations—
maybe they fail—but this
is the texture under my fingernails,
as enduring as the Giza Pyramid complex,
the grit behind my teeth. I am so disappointed.
God, I am. The boogeyman broke his mask; turns
out he’s human, only human, so human he’ll complain
about ice ratios in a fountain drink handed through a window.
And what’s one person to do
but tune intentions, clean hollow bones,
watch birds fly backward to keep their wings
from getting chewed by turbines
while the world groans forward anyway?
Meanwhile I’m shouting don’t eat that
to my mother on her birthday
as she plucks red berries
I know are poison, scrolling Facebook,
thumb poised to love an AI photo.
I keep screaming, but she doesn’t hear me.
Swears it’s fruit, swallows, says delicious.
Then asks if I’ve gotten the Sphinx’s autograph,
asks about whether
I’ve solved the riddle of existence.
A packet of seeds arrived in the mail last week
with no hint of what they were, or how to be grown.
With curiosity aroused by their mystique,
I wondered just what I would reap from what I'd sown.
The very next day, there appeared weird little sprouts,
wiggling like fingers, rising up from rain soaked ground.
That these things were edible, I was having doubts
when I heard from deep inside one, a gurgling sound.
If this was a prank or some sort of wicked joke
someone was making a mockery out of me.
My heart nearly stopped; thought I was having a stroke.
I needed a drink, or a bottle of Chablis.
Suddenly, tendrils grew into a climbing vine
with blooms of white flowers, overflowing with wine.
August 16, 2020
Mystery Seeds Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Carolyn Devonshire
Magazines have captured us and taken us hostage. We were easy.
Not realizing how fast they multiply. We are up in our knees in them now.
They must have litters overnight, maybe in the daytime also.
They crept up on us sneakily, one or two at a time.
Mail carriers brought them in.
My husband dumped them around the house.
At first they had just taken over the
living room. They are on the kitchen table now too,
in the closets, most of the bureau
drawers, and in all three bathrooms.
What are they doing here? Who has time to read? Not us.
They surround us now,
boxes and baskets and wastepaper barrels of them.
We have developed little paths,
but it does us no good when one slips down onto a floor.
We are too tired from our battles to move them,
so we begin stepping over them,
which makes us fall into the ones in the boxes.
They chastise us for not reading them.
They entice us with their colors, and they call us
names behind our backs.
We are too intimidated now to read them. Why do
we not just throw them away?
my husband asks. Is he kidding? Does he have
any idea how much money we have
paid for these interlopers?
A conflicted hostage, I begin to read.
Charley my wheel horse says that Jim is a yack, always jawing now.
They are both scrunchers, they nearly swallow their teeth on chow.
Jim is unsalted, but not lazy or slow, although he has trail dust grime.
He always responds well to “all hands and the cook” and in good time.
When the Mexican vaquero joins us, there is back slapping sure.
That’s when the biscuit roller trades in biscuits for tortillas, pure.
A ballyhoo? I do not think so, Bar dog. Can I get a John barley corn?
I would like to drink the cattle drive off my spurs, until it be morn.
How much does it cost to stay in the dice house tonight?
Don’t want to be honey-fuggled, so no Kansas sheep dip, all right?
a fresh mail order cowboy just entered the saloon, of course.
Don’t want to be a nosy parker, but did he just dismount the iron horse?
Did you see where I put my gelding smacker? I sleep with it naturally.
I am no lapper, but I could go for another John Barley Corn from thee.
Texas cakewalk tomorrow? Hmmm I wish I could stay but I am dragg’n.
Say hello to my cousin Sam, he drives the county’s meat wagon.
I kind of like a good hang’n when there’s a well-deserved California collar.
Was they horse thieves or murderers or what? Hey give my horse a holler.
I thought I saw a Cottonwood blossom when I rode into this place.
But there was no hellaballoo, so I wondered if it was the case.
Lights! Camera! Action!
Cue “My Sister Sam”
At first sight there was attraction
Fanboy’s heart was smitten—BAM!
As he watched her on TV
His infatuation grew
So he wrote her lots of fan mail
Her one response stirred obsession's brew
For a time all was serene
What came next was the prime factor
When he saw on the TV screen
Her in bed with another actor
Fanboy’s deep obsession exploded
Fueled by deviant perception
Thus her stalker he became
Led by massive misconception
Finally hired a private dick
To find out her current address
Paid him more to do it quick
Overwhelmed by sheer distress
He knocked on her apartment door
She said he was an unwanted guest
Called her”another Hollywood whore”
Then he shot her in the chest
Rebecca Schaeffer was pronounced dead
Robert John Bardo took her life
Obsession’s bitter harvest
Yielding hurt and endless strife
February 16, 2020
F T I obsession
Brian Strand, sponsor
Dearest Santa, my one wish may seem strange
but please do not interpret me as snide.
I wish this kindness so please do arrange
my Christmas gift of a mail order bride.
Surely she would lighten my hard work load,
help with the children and spousal demands.
She can be pretty or favor a toad
as long as it’s English she understands.
I fail domestic perfection with house,
Mom affection with little ones each day
and attending His Lordship, my own spouse,
because my to-do list stays in the way.
Again, this may seem most unorthodox
but this is me thinking outside the box.
I know that you must judge, weigh and ponder
if I was a well-behaved girl this year:
I tried leaving home for the far yonder -
my car died before even driveway clear;
I lace my morning coffee with brandy;
hide my husband’s tickets to pro baseball;
stuff chips under chairs when comes Priest Andy;
I oft ignore my children when they call;
sometimes I name dust bunnies on our floor;
sarcasm is my first go to coping tool;
I cheat at cards when adding up my score;
and June just past, I peed in a pal's pool.
I work hard without reward all day long,
so sometimes, yeah, I get this life all wrong.
I wish to remember why I am here;
recall romantic love that started all.
I could succeed if I had a wife-peer
helping with spousal gall and toddler brawls.
I want more than bathtubs layered with dirt
and stinking trash bordering on a spill.
Let someone else produce an ironed shirt
and seek deep sleep as an ambitious thrill.
I want memories of kids where I smile
and husband conversations standing still.
I seek family love to feel worthwhile
lest I seek happy docs with happy pills.
One or both of us can wed my wished bride,
just, please, Santa, in my favor decide.