Long Mailbox Poems
Long Mailbox Poems. Below are the most popular long Mailbox by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mailbox poems by poem length and keyword.
All of my hopes in those flower pots
And you
They died, just like that.
I’ve not had roses die like that.
Granted, I bought them almost dead.
I am not trying to make a comparison, however.
Out there the dead roses are all still in those pots.
Out there is you.
I was sick right after those roses died. Injured really.
I could barely walk or move. The pain was a 9.
I thought you’d take care of me, come over and make me
Lie down. Tell me to sleep. Tuck the covers up around my neck.
Bring me ice.
Something.
You didn’t do that.
You read my new magazines though, fresh from the mailbox.
The New Yorker.
I never get to read it.
I cleaned up the kitchen and scooped the litter boxes while you sat fresh
And proper in my bed.
It took me so long to do the before bed chores because I couldn’t really bend.
The pain.
I did not sleep that night because the pain was unbearable.
We have this problem. I work really hard. I have to.
Working hard is my thing though.
There aren’t many opportunities to step-in.
Then the roses died.
Then my injury.
It’s not your fault. I do find it sort of like those roses I planted –
Dying on me.
You could work hard at something.
My parents send me postcards
As they jet set around the world
So that I have a little piece of them
I save the cards like I would exotic pearls
I'd like to tell them that I'm okay
Although both of them I miss
I often think of writing back
But have no forwarding address
I have cards from Paris, France
Amsterdam and on the Rhine
China along with Africa
I'm happy to see they're doing fine
I keep an atlas by my bed
So I can see where they are at any given time
I only wish my mom was here
To hold me as I cry
I travel to my mailbox
Lonely along the way
Looking for that postcard
To see where my parents are today
I write each letter by hand in careful cursive.
I want every sentence to be pretty,
to look feminine and delicate -
to soften the ugliness you face everyday.
After each line, I let the ink dry.
You don't deserve smudges.
You don't deserve any of this.
My words are foolish,
full of meaningless descriptions
of meaningless events.
But I can't sit here at this polished desk -
in this cozy room in this quiet house
on this peaceful street
and write what I'm really thinking.
I can't be selfish.
So I keep writing my careful cursive
on my pretty stationary.
I keep sending my meaningless letters
into the ugly world - to wherever you are.
And no matter how many times
I open the mailbox, I'm never prepared
for that hideous stamp,
that heartless phrase:
"Return to Sender."
Written: 1/27/2013
For Michael's "Boomerang" contest
I swear, my parents act like they were never teens in a pandemic growing up.
I was watching “Perry Mason,” an HBO show set in the 1930s. Perry gets mail out of his mailbox and I think “no GLOVES??” This pandemic has a hold of me.
6:30am I’m finishing my shower - wrapping my hair in a towel.
Mom: *from my room* “I have something for you!”
Me: “OK.” (I’m curious)
I step out of the shower, wrap on a towel, and my mom steps up and gives me a flu shot without so much as a “by your leave.” Dr. Surprise strikes again.
My arm hurts =/
Writing a paper, on my computer, in class - I try to use the perfect word but I spell it so badly the spell checker gives up and in effect, says “I got nothin’.” I switch words.
Telling a girl to calm down is like trying to put a cat in a tub.
My parents think every guy I talk to is my boyfriend.
If I’m texting and smiling my parents think I have a boyfriend.
I say, I don’t know” when I don’t care.
For ALL of its downsides virtual school is better because:
My two BFF and I have a facetime call going ALL school day so we can say
snarky things..
I can listen to music on my headphones during classes.
I have multiple screens so I can web-surf during classes.
I don’t have to wear shoes or a skirt!
I can put a video up so it looks like I’m paying attention.
I can snack/take a bathroom break whenever I want to.
I don’t have to carry a backpack or make locker stops.
I can be late or leave early and blame it on “tech issues”.
My black cat accompanies me
Home from the mailbox
As if to make sure that
The peach-colored pink moon
Won’t choose tonight
To take me
It peeks, head tilted
From behind the old church
Justly fearful of my familiar
Who sashays among the shadows
I want to say to him
You may be made of darkness,
My pet, but you do not belong
To the night, as I do
There is a brief interlude
In which God creates
The lights of the heavens again
Lest I forget
And I am back on my porch
The moon is higher now
Its blush gone
No longer shy, it lies cradled
In bare branches
Cat inside, I linger alone
And wonder
If I could ever belong to the light.
What do you see? you see me. You see me going by, going right up into the sky. You see me telling puppy dog tales, the tales just went into the mail. Oh my, what did I do? I just wrote to you. The mailbox is crying, so now I am sighing. My tongue is retiring, so I will stop trying.
Date: 1/12/20/20 Written
Sunsets putting stars to shame
As I pray to the you in the Lord’s name.
I would have written you a letter or mailed you a card
But finding heavens address was a bit too hard.
There’s no golden mailbox for this special envelope
So that He will translate this message to you,
I can only forever hope.
It’s April 18th, your special day
But there’s just one thing in the way…
So tonight I’ll pray to you under the sun
About how you left just as your life had begun
I miss you so much more than I thought I ever would,
And as I go more days without you
I miss you more than I thought I ever could.
I just wanted one more birthday with you
But I guess this year a prayer will have to do.
I’ll wish you happy birthday through this special spoken note,
That I felt your presence as I tearfully wrote.
“Happy Birthday, Easton, don’t party too hard in heaven,”
although I know you’ll be forever eleven.
Disappearing Art
Not many people send
Handwritten letters any more.
We used to go the mailbox
Full of high hopes.
Maybe a favorite aunt wrote
That she was coming for a visit,
Or we discovered a letter
From that special person, and
We’d tear it open right there!
After we’d read them, often
We tied the letters in packets
With a piece of blue string,
To be reread and savored
Later, over and over again.
Sadly, now that we can send e-mails
Nearly anywhere in the world
And expect a quick reply,
Written letters seem old-fashioned.
And yet, we’ve learned so much
About the past from letters
That helped us understand
The letter-writers and their times -
Letters from a president, a statesman,
A prairie mother, a soldier overseas.
What of the correspondents of today?
Will museums display their e-mails?
I wonder how great will be the loss –
All the stories that will never be written
And all the history we will never know.
I see it every day
Everyone wants to tell me something:
I'm the best in test!
You must surely have ....
One is colorful another bit boring
Excellent deal!
Buy two get one free
Very cheap .. You save a lot of money
You MUST have it!
Buy today .... pay in 3 months
This is my mailbox
Commercials
21.11.2012
A-L Andresen :)
[Verse 1]
He wore the tie like a hand-me-down,
Swore he'd make it big in some glass-wall town.
But his mind kept drifting to that red clay bend,
Where the river runs slow and the line don’t end.
The lights were bright, but they hurt his eyes,
And no skyline ever beat a Tuscaloosa sky.
He laughed on cue, played the part just fine,
But he missed the quiet and his Granddad’s pine.
[Chorus 1]
Take him back where the stars still shine,
Where the porch swings creak and the air smells pine.
Where the coffee’s thick and the biscuits burn,
And you learn your faith more than you earn.
Just a one-way ride to the place he knows,
Where they say your name at the Texaco.
Let him breathe where the silence feels like home.
[Verse 2]
He carried the weight like a Sunday lie,
Told himself it’s just a phase, it'll pass on by.
But the cracks ran deep through a polished life,
And he never once cried for the things he liked.
He’d pray in traffic, curse at red lights,
Dig for hope in sleepless nights.
Tryin’ to be more than his old man’s name,
But all that tryin’ just fed the flame.
[Chorus 2]
Take him back where the roads don’t care,
Where the cotton fields stretch like a whispered prayer.
Where the work is hard but the pay feels fair,
And God don’t seem so far from there.
Just a one-way ride to a mailbox leanin’,
Where “how ya been?” really means meanin’.
Let him rest where the world don’t chase his name.
[Bridge]
He ain't lost — just run too fast,
Lookin’ for peace in a place that don’t last.
It ain’t on a map and it sure ain’t fame —
It’s in muddy boots and your mama’s name.
[Final Chorus]
Bring him home where the stillness heals,
Where grace feels real and the hurt unpeels.
Where the heart remembers what matters most—
Not the job he left, but the Holy Ghost.
Just a one-way ride to the life he missed,
Where a front porch hymn still brings you bliss.
That’s the freedom he was always running toward.
[Outro]
He didn’t run ‘cause he lost the fight —
He just got tired of sleepin’ through the light.
Paradise ain't paved or paid —
It’s found in surrender, down in Sweet Home clay.
He didn’t run from life or from the pain —
He ran to grace… and walked out changed.