Long Postage stamp Poems
Long Postage stamp Poems. Below are the most popular long Postage stamp by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Postage stamp poems by poem length and keyword.
With peals of laughter rushing from
The basement of my writing soul,
I penned that letter.
With the warmth of early August, I summoned
The joy to welcome restless fingers that write,
That scribble —oh, that empowering flame of youth
That rages within us young tendrils who hide
In fragile, lily-livered shades
From the scorching heat of reality!
Hmm!
I wrote all day and all seasons, cramming words
Extirpated from the gardens of the four seasons together
Into the walls of serrated sheets of paper, just to prove a point.
And I had begun with the word Dear, like all
Who had written before me, including Shakespeare —observing all
Protocols under the spell of the eavesdropping sun.
But the letter got astray in the post.
Vanished in the naked air, with the enormous weight of its
Titillating message.
Hiding between pillar and post, and with
A postage stamp licked with spittle of expensive love,
It strayed forever and ever.
Gone.
The post office swears allegiance to its innocence
Posts run free when callused hands rough-handle them,
Leaking swarming, pillaging sweats underneath.
“But this is serious. Seriously different,” the postman insists
“It’s lost indeed. But have you searched your soul?
Did the words ever leave the confines of your soul?”
I battle the scrimmage within me —of people and letters —
Scattered and rearranged . . .
Written or unwritten, did the letters form one imaginary line
Like the Equator, which divides the writer and the receiver,
North and South?
Or did I write in haste and afterwards posted through the anus of
A hurricane?
Not every Christmas card arrives during the Yuletide;
Some arise and shine through the line of birth of the New Year,
Equal to the crowned-initiation of a reformed destiny.
I console myself.
But how long shall I wait for the response from a missing letter —
In my case, a lost letter?
Missing within me.
Lost in the vaults of my consciousness.
Happy two thousand nineteenth birthday Autumn - September 23, 2019!
Despite twittering, uber
sputtering kickstarting
onset of cool weather
argh, another brief daily spate
re: forecasting blistering,
nauseating, sweltering...
ninety degree plus Fahrenheit
temperature forecast
(along eastern seaboard)
courtesy mister summer,
who will overstay his welcome
hoop fully a more seasonable
cooling trend rounds out ninth month
(according to Gregorian calendar)
I eagerly look forward
to crisp refreshing air
much more comfortable
to weather being outdoors
within/out this sequestered enclave
postage stamp size geographical area
offers respite versus metropolitan
denser population centers,
the former disappearing open space
rather disheartening, but urbanization -
purportedly the definition of progress
finds once open farmland
less than fifty years back
crumbling barns now tombstones
testimony when people
farmed the land, and lived
linkedin with rhythms of nature,
which only found courtesy said vestiges
inevitably razed (similar to boyhood home
324 Level Road) finds yours truly
brooding fast paced instant
credit karma gratification
twenty first century, which
small, medium forces at large
outfox the time tested imprimatur
i.e. latent powers planet Earth
unleashes (thank you global warming)
decrees final curtain call
*****sapiens runs rampant
wreaking havoc all points of compass
already inundated with scorching,
melting ice caps, flooding...
future generations, yet unborn
might avoid predicated on
dramatic alternatives fossil fuels
already showered Gaia
with carbon dioxide
as well other noxious poisons
though vibrant advocacy
evident among students
vocally demonstrating against
irrevocable damage, whereby environment
and countries situated
near sea level take heavy hit,
nonetheless... cautious optimism flickers
inducing mandatory one hundred eighty degree
reorientation regarding eco friendly
methodologies to lo mein, maintain,
sustain... technological civilization,
else quaint existence of thee
will be read about
in digitized history books.
I say I don’t care
Running fingers through my hair
Stopping in the corner to stare
Ignoring any sign to beware
No country for old men
No state for young love beginning again
No postage stamp for me to send
Nothing special except hoping to mend
Bruised soul, broken heart
Preparing myself for a new place to depart
Living again somewhere far apart
From an existence far beyond hopes of a start
Sorry to say, my emotions I must obey
Invigorated by a sense that resounds betray
Yet I lift my chin and face the sunny day
Waiting for the sorrow to pass away
Yes I must forge the words that I care
This is not the evidence of a dare
Not the account of the clothes I wear
Just heart pounding and mind glare
You were all that mattered
Forgotten footsteps of a baby’s patter
Lost promises of a love canvas’ torn tatter
As I watch the paint cry in a somber splatter
Many years ago, I was in a down-heartened funk, after deciding to get a little bit drunk.
Beer guzzling queens won’t tell you, but liquor tastes bad going down and coming back up is truly no joy.
Some will tell you how great drinking liquor makes them feel, happy, and wonderful. But they’re full of bunk
Being wasted, angry, crying, and a bit mean is no way to meet any kind of a man or dating boy
And if you are completely silly, to hug, or touch or god forbid fore take in a sloppy drunk kiss
I must tell you the story of a naïve woman who got herself in a real pickle in St. Croix
If you are already completely wasted, and angry, and mean, this warning you will probably dismiss
This sordid tale of a girl, a boy, a golden pony, a red flute that laughed, and a shiny green Shamrock
The way this tale was told to me, by my gram, it entered my ears totally unbiased and Faultless
There was a pipe, and a honey bee, and a well-intentioned, prettied up edible pink and plump Ham hock
I do remember someone laughing, and a foot being broken, and a yellow three cent postage stamp.
There was a nickel’s worth of lead, and an angry man, and a princess in a lavender and pink Frock
The men crowded around to watch Trixie Lou dance, for she was a well-known, conniving, trickster of a Vamp
In my inebriated state, I can recall but one bit of the story that has any bearing now.
Grandpa’s dream girl was a devious witch of a woman according to Big Ma, a hard-hearted Tramp
Told by Big Ma, Trixie was a flaunter, a floozy, a conniver, a flute-playing nasty old cow,
She had pink cheeks, sky blue eyes, and she wore her red curls pinned with green shamrocks; she was all kinds of pretty.
This information was slipped to me in whispers by Grandpa, who considered Trixie a giant wow.
1.
observing the ardent eagerness of the wind
it is clearly understood
that nascent pollens are overflowing
the niche of her heart
in response to the signals of the river
she keeps on ringing
all long the month of earth-quakes
the bench of the rail-station
wants to hug her
the medicine-counter of the ***-end of the day
beckons her with the hand to come nearer
in the assembly-hall for musical demonstration
adorned with ash-trays
going on the rehearsal of her dancing and singing
she also distributes some life
to the meticulous dressing
of the magnolia
2.
let the swimming pool be fully absorbed
with its dark-room
when the feather of your fore-finger
becomes green
the merchant of venice
will leave his business of photo-coping machine
to start walking directly
in search of new earnings
evening sets in
on the boiler of the delta
putting on yellow-dress comes
the water-vessel of the paper-balloon
there is no singing bird
shivering with cold
in the fold of the dear bed-sheet
it is possible that the boldness of the metro-railway
may give some wood of tamarisk
on the expanded palms
yet oh the western page of night
do tell today
why so much tamed polythene
are here in our cohabitation
3.
after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows
they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward
they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey
sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers
though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point
then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward
why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish
truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand
I have traveled the world
Across the oceans and great lands
I have seen this earth from high above
A majestic orb in clouded beauty
From afar the pain of man, unseen
I have exposed myself
Like a naked Rembrandt on display
I was seen in the museum of the common man
As I journeyed far and wide
No one took any notice, of my quiet observations
All my voyages have ended
So now I sit tranquil in the corner
One day, someone will discover me
And see, the stories I have to tell
Of kings and Queens, and lovers lost
I may even tell a tale of woe
A sad story, buried in old archives
Of a love that was both great and sad
For those in love who never knew
The love letter lost, postage due
The college town of Evanston was where we first met.
It was the summer of 1970, when Mr. Nixon was president.
It would be two years later before we’d be married;
And we were forced to be long distance lovers.
Before the internet and wide use of cell phones, we made expensive landline calls, or otherwise wrote letters.
Yes, we did ‘the otherwise’ and wrote letters between the lakes.
My lake? Lake Michigan in Chicago. And hers? Winona Lake, Indiana.
The letters are most revealing of two people engaged to be married.
They portray simple facts, figures, people, places, and things.
One of the envelopes reveals a postal date of March 8, 1972, and a .08 postage stamp with the face of President Eisenhower.
My future wife indicated that it arrived the very next day.
This was long before Fed Ex and US Postal Next Day Express.
It seems that some things, like mail, take longer now and rises in price;
But life and love were simple and beautiful then, as we read our letters.
Between weekends; between two lakes; and between two states;
Love and romance were sweet, even though separated by some 90 miles.
Long before Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, there was love and romance.
Long before the instant gratification of email, there was long distant love.
Yes. The love was tried, but it thrived. The time and space were long.
Moreover, the love not only survived, but has lasted more than 40 years.
10122016 PS Contest, Long Distant Love, Nicola Byrne. 5P
I suppose I'm revealin' my age as I compose this little ditty,
But as I compare costs today with yesteryear I exclaim, "What a pity!"
Gas cost 30 cents per gallon and hamburger was 19 cents a pound,
And a buck would atone my sins when collection plates were passed around!
I remember when a haircut cost two-bits at Harry's Barbershop,
And a hotdog cost 15 cents and ya paid a nickel fer a Nehi pop.
A dollar twenty-five bought a lunch of meatloaf and mashed pertaters,
That included a slab of cherry pie and a side of salad with termaters!
It cost a quarter to see 'Gone With The Wind' at the movin' pitcher show,
And fer a tub of popcorn and a coke ya needn't spend a ton of dough!
Double scoop ice cream cones cost a dime and a nickel fer a candy bar.
I remember that a loaf of bread cost 12 cents and a nickel bought a fine cigar!
Ya could buy a suit of clothes and a pair of shoes fer twenty bucks er so,
And a dime would buy ya a couple of donuts to dunk in yer cuppa joe.
A postage stamp cost 3 cents and fer a nickel ya could guzzle a glass of beer,
And a college education cost about 300 smackaroos per academic year!
Fer about 4 bucks ya could treat yer date to a show and banana split,
And later steal a smooch which would cost ya not one whit!
Nowadays fer such necessaries ya must work yer fingers to the bone,
And to keep apace with inflation, find a friendly banker to float a loan!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Who, or what, do you think you are?
A Bollywood star
A Turkish bazaar
An iron crowbar
A permanent scar
A late-model NASCAR
An all-night Delhi darbar
A cowardly lion, ala Bert Lahr
A late-night replacement for Jack Paar
A postage stamp from the territory of Saar
A scene from MASH featuring Jamie Faar
An imported Swiss candy bar
A peripatetic avatar
A native of Madigascar
A powerful drug czar
A tractor-driver from Navistar
A pro golfer who can't even break par
An empty peanut butter jar
An unwritten memoir
A smelly, old cigar
A boring academic seminar
An unidentified flying object on radar
A diplomat from Myanmar
A fancy antique boudoir
A hardy-har-har-har!
I remember it very well.
It was before the birth of email.
It was a real 'show and tell, and
It rings in my heart like a bell.
Mankind has always found bigger
And better ways to communicate.
Over time and space, such avenues
Have been greatly excellerated.
In the early 70's, cell phones were large
and rare, but landline phones were everywhere.
Those landline phones helped to communicate
The love and romance that were in the air,
And to tell a lover how much you cared.
But for me, and much more importantly,
There was a US POSTAGE STAMP in 1972,
First issued in 1971. I used a few of them
To send love letters to my wife to be. Although
The price of the stamp was low, it was not free.
There are no proofs of the phone calls or the
Automobile drives from Chicago to Northern
Indiana, but thanks to the 8 cent Dwight
Eisenhower postage stamp, there are many
Love letters to prove how romance was kept alive
By the connection provided by a postal stamp.
Dwight D. Eisenhower's picture was on that stamp.
The pose was inspiring and a rather stately one,
I might add. That stately stamp helped to shine
Light upon our young lives like a lamp.
That Eisenhower stamp is a most memorable
And vital part of my life's story. Its been 50 plus
Years now, but my wife and I still have many
Of those love letters. And when we read them,
It always makes us feel so much better.