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.
This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
I was looking over my stuff here, and itseems I've lost the talents I once knew here.
I write ancedotes for my column. I do journalism- always some deadline or project that I work well under the pressure of it all.
Writing is what I truly love!
There is just so many varied types I do, my poetry is suffering.
I enjoy reading the great writers here.
Sometimes I do not comment or remark because it is art and I'm at a loss of words.
It's just been enlightening to live such a full life, and to be right here, right now amazes me. I'm searching for some old therapeutic writes. I was on alot of medications at one time.
A victim of spousal abuse.
I came back up North severly medicated, drolling and my family would whisper, she'll never be right again.
Post Tramatic Stress Disorder aint no joke.
To be me, knowing what I do, and how very long it took me to recover...
When some never do.
Many men were nice to me along the way, poetrysoup has the best men in the world, they will embrace your differences, and encourage you to keep your chin up, and keep your pen flowing.
Vince I love you! Frank, you are the best friend that a girl to ever have! You've sent me so many books of stamps to write you back and also send you the latest edition of the magazine I am featured in monthly. Everyone has those times in their life, when nothing goes right. How you knew without me saying a thing.
Are you alright? a concerned letter in the mail when I was having it rough- and the presents that made me cry. It may have been a framed poem, but it meant the world to me, and still does.
And lastly John,
Why oh why did I pick the most just man to give the hardest time to?
He has put up with so much from me over the years. I love him with everything in me. If not for being a true servant of God where would I be without him.
I remember 5 or six years ago, and his lady, whats your problem?!
Well John, you are the very sweetest man I've ever known in my life... without you I would still be cold to the Lord. So many years and mile stones along the way. I can leave here, but just like the sands of Florida, you'll always see me back.
Thank You All, for reading me, but more - to support the struggling writers that fall between the cracks in society.
I love you Frank. I love you John. Don't ask which one more, because John is single and Frank is not hehehehe
Form:
A fairyland fable is a magic table floating around but nit with a rallying cry. That is purely reserved for several synchronised cruise ships whose sunbathing missions thwart many a delivery driver. It is with great interest that an interest is neither a monetary aim at a bank or an inked out financial score singing a palate of possibilities. So go call the cat then. Go on. Meow meow. Dinner time. There you go. Fresh tuna is very scared now. Oh dear. And all the little flakes hard at work minced flesh in factories never really has a rest does it? Dilapidated dog during digging. And a great big wish from a ten thousand kilo cake is a celebrated glow in an outer solar sphere. Clap them all. Many cakes many spheres. Loud claps. And shouting at the mail is equivalent to eating beans on toast at several hundred miles an hour upside down in a bucket. It is in many weathers that a tall lanky snail circles a circuit in a rally car. Very very fast. Well done. There is a crown and a bursting champagne bottle whose antics on the plane were quite rude and non productive. However showering the podium with released bubble is quite a feat of engineering and requires precision mathematics too. So never ever become intoxicated if holding a compass, a text book, six lined sheets of paper, ten pencils and an organic cheeseburger with salad. Marketing making money moguls merry. And the swimming curry is out for the day in the lake occasionally resting on a Papadopoulos papadum boat who whips a papaya to create a cocktail. How rather quaint that is isn't it? How many radiuses are there in a pear? And how many tents can be made from a single pair of tights? These are highly significant questions to ask at a time when the antipepiscides are at the protest. Rioting. And tootling along the lane came a little green car whose plan was ever only to drink copious amounts of tea at the inn of then. Saviour not a sanctified secretion of a sweet set of stagnant striped silk. And enter no password of hi dee hi on a billboard for frames are allowing much to pass by over the cliffs. So watch out if carrying ten cars, a wobbly bus, and a twelfth century castle for it is the marksman who are marking a book from a diocese, a school and a university of agha banks. Couple that then. Great. Hahaha fantasy fig floating around hahaha banana bandana bringing bee balancing. Xxxxx metropolitans z
Form:
9904
9904
CharlaXFabels
Ninenintyfour
Autofixation
A Dialog Fabel
Mrs. Smithster: BOSS let me help you clean up your computor today the new
auto program disc is arrived in my snail mail box.
BOSS: OK just don't lose any of my contacts on the list the accounts are way too
important.
JUNE: to her self: an aside: GET HIM who does he THINK he is giving me that
guff so early in the mourning.
BOSS: Poor June is my secretary and eye love her like my sister but she is so
dense the bullits bounce off her like she is Superman, or wait no Supergirl
mabe.
Narrator Ed.Note: This is the twilight zoned for the next five minutiae you can not
understand anything but this fable you have been transported to the twilight
zone. This Lady Bosses Secretary one Mrs. June Smithster has been the
receiver of a program sent to her inside her snail mail marked as a FIXIT
program disc the entire story is now centered around what comes next let's
watch what happens…
Charlax the Narrator: June reached into the envelope slowly and opened the disc
cover reluctantly she was wondering now just where it had come from it was
compelling her to use it she could feel its message somewhere near her left toe
and the eye her left eye was twitching like a nervous wrecked her whole face was
letting go she had to she had to over and over like a ROBOT compulsion she
HAD to place the disc in the BOSSES computor NOW.
June: something is almost forcing me to use this new hardware it's an alien tech
rippoff of an image of the MOON it makes me want to dress up and wear my
cape out.
Charlax the Narrator: The Bosses Computor is slowly being eaten up by the disc
all the contacts on the every list are gone the moral of the CharlaXFabel number
9904 poor gentle reader ewe is never use a disc program to enable accounts not
meant to be edited by ewe. The computor is now gone the disc dropped to the
floor lets go back and see what happens now…
BOSS: walking in to his office to check on his computor and June Smithster: well
that is not funny did the android charlock pick up my computor for cleaning
again?
Charlax the Narrator: but there is only silence from the corner of the room where
June is laying down curled up in a ball of Supergirl costume her cape lay furled
around her like a hobo blanket cover…
Theme for collaboration suggested by Tim Smith
Two enormous old toads crossed the road
On Tom’s back lounged Thomasina toad
Both are ugly and warty
Thomasina’s so naughty
As her bowels on his back she’d download
06-16-17
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
When Thomasina toad dumped on old Tom
He thought her poop explosion was a bomb
He hopped in the air
gave her a mean stare
shouting, "I'm not taking you home to Mom!"
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Ribbit rubbit robbit 'n ro
this crazy toad has got to go
She's turning quite mean -
Fifty shades of green
No time to chat but still does crow
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
"Why don't we do it in the road?"
Said Thomas, the old horny toad
Thomasina hissed,
"Get a load of this!"
and a "blessing" on him bestowed
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
Thomasina was on a road trip
Her taxi was Tom's back she'd grip
But she strained as she held
And her bottom expelled
So she said "I've just left you a tip"
WRITTEN BY RAY GRIDLEY
Tom and Thomasina were the perfect pair
They were ancient toads without a care
He had a huge wart
She gives a mean fart
Anyone in her vicinity better beware!
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
Now Tom was an over achiever
He wanted the lady, not leave her
He sprayed his back with Scotch-Guard
and rubbed down with lots of lard
the dumper was now the receiver
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Tom gave Thomasina the boot
Got sick from the smell of her poot
told her to get lost
right after he tossed
She gave him the one finger salute
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Thomas and Thomasina loved to hear
the waterboatmen rubbing their gear
Thomas tried and started to croak
causing Thomasina to choke
you two will never get it right I fear
WRITTEN BY SEREN ROBERTS
When T'sina hopped on for a ride
Old Thomas reminded his bride,
"Though you're my sweet dish,
on the road we'll get squished",
"Just do it!" was her terse reply.
WRITTEN BY CRAIG CORNISH
Thomasina and Tom a heavy load
Lingered a little too long on the road
He could have kissed her all night
shocked at the oncoming lights
Croak and ribbit was heard; two flattened toads
WRITTEN BY EVE ROPER
PLEASE SOUP MAIL ME ANY SUBMISSIONS FOR THE COLLABORATION
06-16-17
Born Doris, named for our grandmother Doris Owens,
she is nothing much like grandma.
If anything, I am more like grandma
for my thrifty ways and down-to-earth practicality.
Doris, nicnamed Dorie, how we tease her when we hear
her name like the name of the spaced-out fish on “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who we teased as a child because she always dawdled,
always losing track of time; we never could guess why!
In that way, she never was like me, but was more like Dory
from “Finding Nemo.”
Dorie, who like me, is long-nosed and full-bosomed
and of all my sisters, has the most in common with myself.
Dorie, who got confused for me, particularly by our grandma,
the woman after whom Dorie had been named!
Dorie, who got to be the cheerleader I failed to be
but who majored in my field and never got to work as a teacher.
Instead she works today in a place for special needs adults,
working many hours now that she is divorced.
Dedicated, hard-working, studious and conscientious -
in those ways Dorie is the most like me
of all my other sisters.
Who else but Dorie would write me back 40 to 50-page letters
back in the day when all we had was snail mail!
My letters to Dorie I copied off each month as a record
of my hectic life when I was young in college and
also when I was dealing with my new role as a mother.
Dorie, my writing soul mate sister, who probably
does not write much any more and I doubt that she writes poetry!
She is busy working up to 60 hours a week!
But when she writes, her emails are long and detailed
just like mine.
Dorie, in whom I gradually saw differences from me.
More emotional, more hormonal, more maternal -
this is Dorie. More religious and in politics,
the opposite of me.
Despite all that, we love to chat.
We laugh and laugh, as I do with all my other sisters.
Dorie, who like our youngest sister Theadora,
shares with me a fascination for things such as nutrition,
all three of us sharing with each other our recipes
fitness hints, and special ways to boost metabolism!
Dorie, the sister who Mom says "leapt with joy"
inside our mother’s womb right before Mom went into labor
just for hearing the voice of me, her oldest sister.
I love all my sisters equally, but for many reasons,
Dorie is the sister most like me!
March 6, 2019 for the "What's In a Name" Contest of Kim Rodrigues
He had do fight all odds
A man of unbreakable idealism
Alone with his ideas
A mysterious death at high sea
The truth will never be known
--------------------------------------------------
Gegen alle Widerstände
Ein Mann mit ungebrochenem Idealismus
Alleine mit seinen Ideen
Mysteriöser Tod auf hoher Sea
Die Wahrheit wird niemand erfahren
-------------------------------------------------
En lucha contra todas probabilidades
Un hombre de idealismo irrompible
Solo con sus ideas
Una muerte misteriosa en alta mar
La verdad nunca será conocida
Note: Rudolf Christian Karl Diesel, 1858-1913, was a German engineer and the inventor of
the Diesel engine. He spent his youth until 1870 in Paris and surroundings. When being
extradited after the start of the German-French-War in 1870, Diesel and his family left for
London. He as a child travelled alone to Augsburg, Germany were he lived for five years
with his uncle and went to school there. He started studies of mechanical engineering in
1875 in Munich and applied for a patent of a „New and economical power engine“ at the
Emperial Patent-Office in Berlin. From 1908 on he developed the first functional model of
his engine with the financial assistance of the Krupp company. In January 1898 the first
factory for Diesel engines was built in Augsburg, Germany. A Diesel Engine Company was
inaugurated by autumn 1900 in London. The first motor vessels with a Diesel engine were
built in 1903. Diesel was at a state of bad health due to numerous patent-lawsuits. He was
not a good businessman and lost his complete fortune. On September 29th Diesel boarded the
mail-vessel Dresden to cross the Channel for Harwich to participate in a meeting of the
„Consolidated Diesel Manufacturing Ltd.“ in London. He seemed to be in a good manner when
he was last seen on board of the ship. On October 10th 1913 the crew of a Dutch
government pilot ship saw a body drifting in the water at heavy sea. As the body was
highly decomposed, the crew only got hold of some personal belongings (a pastille box,
purse, pocket knife and a spectacle case) which were later identified as Diesel's
belongings by his son Eugen. The real cause of his death was never clarified and his
dependants never believed in suicide, but in murder to steal Diesel's ideas. So his death
is still remains a mystery.
Friends , while reading the History of the Incas , I came across the wonderous story of their
mail runners , the 'chasquis' ! Kindly read their story !
THE MAIL RUNNERS - ON THE INCA TRAIL !
(COURIER SERVICE)
The Inca Empire during their hey-days, *
Controlled a large Empire of an elongated
shape!
On the western coast of Latin America, -
All the way from parts of Ecuador and Colombia!
With parts of Brazil in the east;
Including Chile and Bolivia in the south and
south-east;
While the Pacific Ocean washed their long western
beach!
Where the great Andes range like a raised spine, -
appeared out of reach!
Yet on the central verge of this Andes’ range,
Was located their capital Cuzco with its grand
defence !
The Incas had no horses or wheels to facilitate
communication,
But had an efficient courier service within their
nation!
They relied entirely on their ‘chasquis’, - those
valiant mail runners,
For sending messages within the Inca Empire!
These runners ran on that historic ‘Inca Trail’,
Crossing gorges(pogos) and mountain tracks, -
before night fell!
And rested at ‘tambos’** during their segmented
race!
Those Incas had no written scripts those days,
And used knots in ropes as coded messages!
These ‘quipus’ at relay stations changed hands,
While their runners took them to the remotes corners
of Inca land!
Their suspension bridges with ropes indigenously
made,
Formed their roadways as their Empire spread!
And those bridges were maintained every year,
By villagers rendering public service to the Inca
Empire!
Those valiant runners could run in a day, -
A distance of 250 miles , as experts say !
And could put to shame the Marathon runners
of our day!
I salute those sturdy Incas for their unique stone
architectures,
Who honored their Gods and their ancestors!
Their ‘chasquis’, those valiant mail runners and
their nimble feet;
Without horses and wheels the Incas ruled a mighty
Empire complete !
-Raj Nandy
Notes :-
* During the fifteenth century Incas were at height of
their power!
**Tambos’= relay stations , for the Mail Runner (chasqui)
to rest and handover the ‘quipu’ containing coded
messages to the next runner - to follow the Inca Trail!
Thanks for reading ! - Raj Nandy
We lived about a hundred miles Northwest of Chicago It was the winter of '73, and snow was covering the roads
In the land of cheese and phesants, the air was crisp and cold Surely, I must have been bored; or more likely, I was a lunatic
I should have relaxed on that quiet day with my lovely and wise wife who pleaded with me not to drive on such icy roadways.
I was convinced that duty demanded I balance the books. I deemed myself important and vital for the success of our
drug prevention program. Yes, I was obsessed with my work and blind to any and everything else that tried to change me.
I was in love with my wife, but I was also having an unhealthy affair. I had heard of extra marital affairs, but no one told this 23 year old about obsessive affairs on the side. How could my premarital counsellor
have overlooked such crucial fine print and denied me of such vital details? Why wasn't I informed that I could be driven by an unseen combustible
engine inside my brain, compelling me to committ forbidden and obsessive actions? How was I to know that I could be so wrapped up by my job?
Not to be denied though, I would soon learned the hard way which is probably
the only way I was going to learn anyway. Less than a mile up the icy road, my vehicle's tire blew; I went into a spin, knocking down a mail box; and the next voice I heard was not an audible one, but my own mind speaking. "You should have listened to your wife!!!". I was all ears and sitting quietly in my 'upside down vehicle'. The only injury was my bruised pride.
That was my first bout with my form of obsessive compulsive behavior which was before the term was even invented.
71917PSContest, Obsessions, Silent One, P2
Contained within a simple poem, a few words could never describe my mother.
A child bride at seventeen; a city girl became a farmer's wife.
She never complained about tending the fields, one row after another.
My mom loved her new husband and her new way of life.
A mother at nineteen, thank goodness for my Aunt Chloe.
"No hospital for me," my young mother said. "I will not go!"
Delivered by my granny, I was told Mom kissed my head to show
she loved me though I'd caused her cries of pain and woe.
Cooking was not Mom's forte'. She burned so many meals,
but Dad loved her anyway for giving him two girls and a boy.
Times were often rough but to us it was not a big deal.
We were happy to be loved, a gift better than any game or toy.
Mom was always cheerful, except when we did something wrong.
A spanking was on the agenda, and we knew it was deserved.
A smack or two was all she delivered, then she sang us a song.
No lack of love did mom have for me, it was never reserved.
Farming was not an easy life...crops ruined by summer hail.
In just a few minutes everything was lost, but Mom wore a smile.
"Don't worry. It'll be okay. I'm getting a job delivering the mail."
She left early in the morning, walking to mail boxes mile after mile.
Bereaved as a widow, my mother cried softly upon my shoulder.
I gave her comfort as she did me for the loss of husband and dad.
Always close in times of need, I took care of Mom when I was older.
Hurricane Katrina took her house, but not the memories she had.
I moved away for several years but came home to visit in June.
Mom's hazel eyes reflected her love for me and the man I married.
Six months later, I sat on the porch gazing at the full moon.
My sister called, but her voice was sad. I knew why she tarried.
I knew what she couldn't put into words. Mom had passed away.
Oh, the agony of not being there... my tears fall as I write.
To my mom, the beautiful young wife and mother, I'd say,
I pray you knew how much I loved you...
A star fell from the sky tonight.
_______________________
December 25th, 2015
About My Mom Contest
Sponsor: Judy Konos