Long Postcard Poems
Long Postcard Poems. Below are the most popular long Postcard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Postcard poems by poem length and keyword.
Today was finally that day as they were all headed to Disney Land
Soon they would be on their way on a trip that was to be so grand
Hours and hours had they planned so many trips on that internet
And soon their plane would land, with such planning, all was set
For hour after hour had they spent searching for that perfect deal
So much this trip had meant, they couldn't even believe it was real
And what a great deal they had found the kids were filled with glee
Yeah they were Disney Land bound such a wonderful place to be
That week came and went and what a wonderful time they all had
I even got the postcard they sent and for all of them I was very glad
And a few weeks later we spoke for him and I are childhood friends
To him my religion is a joke least that's the message he often sends
To him I would later calmly quip in loudly telling a Jesus joke at me
"You spent all this time on a trip, spend a few hours on your eternity"
He laughed and said a few more things as to him I can't get through
But what I hope this poem brings is a new sense of urgency to YOU
Psalms 124:8
Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.
At one time,
(a time-scape so broad
that it knew no ownership),
the world was wide,
there were no nations, no distinctions,
just humans in a well clothed landscape.
Progress found a way to be prosperous,
agriculture could feed not just families
but many others
they built walled cities
to keep their prosperity safe,
and every wall was a demarcation.
The clothes they wore
became status symbols,
and so, not to starve,
the poor had to clothe the wealthy.
The world began to fracture,
the wide open
became the over-populated narrows.
until one side of a street
could wage war against the other side.
Free people still existed,
but they lived on the margins
surviving only at the tacit consent
of the crushed hordes
crowded into the narrows.
If a person really tried to be free
the people of the narrows
would make TV shows about them,
pretty soon
the free became curiosities,
trapped in ever narrowing images,
forced to be viewed
inside an edited picture frame,
in a landscape that was once frameless.
A picture postcard of narrowness
can now be purchased
in any city, while the few
who still live outside such walls,
with handmade knives, they whittle for pennies
the wooden effigies
of warring narrowminded gods
suspecting they are no longer free,
but only carving out
just another form of narrowing.
They treated me for bipolar disorder.
I wanted you to know.
Although the doctors later said
it was the Adipex-p and weed
mimicking
an up-and-down disease—
it hasn’t happened since.
I still think it was more than that.
Hard to believe
it’s been more than twenty years—
that fourth of July,
when I read your mind at the Washington Mall,
and ran off to watch fireworks
alone in the grass.
It was wet, and I could tell—
you thought I was magic.
You walked toward me
Christmas morning in the summer evening,
said, didn't think I’d ever find you.
You can see how the backdrop
of that moment conspired
to spell out fate: the night
convincing,
the air exploding in support of it,
I came to—
in a hospital,
you still looked like Clark Gable,
but your mythical gait
was just a limp—
you’d played baseball in college.
My ESP had just been synapses
cracking communal phrases inside my skull,
masquerading as serendipity
in wolf's clothing.
all of it—
an embarrassment.
You stopped returning
my messages, after I underlined
phrases at random
in a Chicago weekend newspaper,
then tried to get you to believe
with me.
I drew a picture of Ganesha
in the margins as further evidence
of our destiny as gods.
When the mind starts shuffling
everything it's ever touched
with Vegas-dealer speed,
it doesn’t take much to get to
a version of the story where we're Holy.
You could’ve easily taken advantage,
but you didn’t. I think you knew
I’d have let you.
Wish you were here.
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 spent two hours on the website trying to renew my license
new system installed in January
Much easier they said
My husband spent an hour on it
He brought me their phone number
Call them, he suggested
I could not get a person, only a recorded message
If you are in group A, press 1
If you are in group B, press 2
If you are in group C…..
I did not know what group I was in
That is on a teensy postcard we had accidentally thrown away
I resolved to try the next day
Spent half an hour on the phone when I noticed online help
I called the number
The lady talked me through steps one through eight.
I cannot help you past this step, she informed me.
It has to be the director of your group.
Which group are you in?
I am taking a journey on a train..
Auditory sounds of horns, whistles, and bells..
Sitting there I glance out the window..
Watching the scenery..
Lovely trees..
Lanscapes so beautiful..
So breathtaking
Picture perfect postcard it seems..
I often think about the ghosts from the past..
Whom once roamed the earth...
How was their life?
What have they accomplished in life?
One's reality is so versitile...
One's realitiy is so unique
So sweet..
So bitter..
A reality which is only created by the creator..
The creator of their own personal reality..
A spinning top spins ever so rapidly..
Often at times it slows down..
Other times it continues to spin
Full force..
High speed..
Going east
Going west
Going north
Going south
There are many destinations..
Taking a journey on a train..
I am..
The spinning top continues to spin
Where shall it go?
Whom controls the spinning top...
Controls the destination..
Creator of destination..
Of which is known..
Life has a way of changing your perspective
Because most of us know what we want
Most look for the definites
Whereas I, on the other hand,
Am wishing only for the possibility
Wanting only the chance of opportunity
While everyone wants to be world renowned
I only want the chance to have a stage
While everyone wants to be rich and wealthy
I only want the chance of a lifetime
So many others want to be cool
I just wish I have the chance to be myself
And no one wants to be a bum
But I long for the opportunity of struggle
They all want their face on a screen
I’m looking forward to the chance on a postcard
Millions want their names in lights
I hope I get chance for a bulletin board
Everybody wants to be in the love
I can settle for the chance to be a fling
And while every, single, one wants to be your one and only
I’m wishing for the possibility of rejection
When there’s nothing you can do but linger
In a good book, a movie or game…
Because the dear Lord used his gentle finger
To leave the country in a frosty sparkle,
Just like a wonderland, kissed perfection,
Moody hues of melancholy, blended beautiful,
In whispers of sunlit moments, silent reflection,
Erases all the fears, the tears, the discouragements.
Snow falls quietly, blinding the temptations,
Leaving a lonely ache, despite its gladness,
Joy for free in those who breathe fascinations,
Grace, hope and love that believe in always.
While we spend our moments, resting,
Smiling through tranquility – soft music
Coloring the moments in gold, protesting,
Will these snow days lessen our stress?
As the snowflakes drift through the night,
Spreading the beauty throughout our life,
Moments bleed joy with a peaceful light,
Reaching beyond the rivers of our worst strife.
Even though we often admire this creation,
All white and graceful like a postcard,
We fail to share thanks for this lovely sensation,
The melody of a moment built into destiny.
Yes, God, I’m grateful for the beauty of your light,
Caressing the soul with a blanket of hope,
Falling gently, soothing away the darkest night.
Reminding me why there are always blessings in life.
Snowy moments are precious to our soul.
Cascading miracles who hearten and make us whole.
Stars are at their peak
Giving each other pecks on the cheek
Telling friends watching in fantasy land what they speak
How wonderful it is
Being in television movie making biz
Having a Bah calling like Lady Liz
Miles down below
Workers nobody know
Are painting the background
Taking pictures around
Capturing the scenic mountainous sound
Goal showing characters in the town
When the friendly blonde knight
Not looking for a fight
Came upon the exciting artistic sight
Nothing was going in was the problematic plight
And things were not all right
Was everything through?
For those from Vancouver
Using a special lens
Moving photography Fed Ex picked up for send
Overnight received in morning by Director Ben
Our faithful knight had five nettings
Throughout the postcard settings
Only issue
Everyone needed a tissue
Since the trampolines did not save ‘Coyote’ the family jewel
Protected the community was priority and rule
Filmmakers thought this visual was not cool
Thinking avalanches are
Exciting talk at the bar
And enchanting as a dip in the melting snow pools
They were acting like unprepared fools
High above
Stars still in love
Not worried about the potential danger
Relaxing back east was the summer time ranger
Hanging out nothing to do
Waiting for their theatrical cue
Sitting, loitering, reading the updated script
Being freeloaders on the studio paid vacation trip
While hiking in the wooded brush
Finding a husband after a quick crush
Mrs. Knight felt the deadly threat
Horrific visions she could not forget
Not a good idea to tempt with a dare
Or there could be a serious scare
Wintry rumbles
And loose frozen tumbles
Creating all sorts of trouble
Often I had crossed her path. She had been on my mind; a natural beauty some might say. These thoughts of her came and went. Did she think of me, and if so, what was the meaning of this transcendence? With no voice to inspire me, all inner direction was lost. Restless visions materialized. My meditation grew weak. Unfinished poems I had thought had promise were discarded and I retreated. I breathed deeply, and in doing so, I tried to conjure up something to jot down, but she was too evasive to stir creative juices. Embattled for words, I had nothing to say. It was the height of frustration; an abrupt halt to what had just begun. I walked about lost in a fog of notions.
Searching for something, what was it I sought? I remembered a postcard from long ago, a picture of a beautiful visage painted on a bridge made of stone. I had been stricken. A muse, who was she? A muse is a gift, is it not? Why was it that I could not make her my very own? Feminine, glowing, naked for all to see, I was sure she wouldn’t have minded helping me continue my novel’s journey. I waited under the pass and listened to the silence, a hollow echoing resonated and took on a foreboding and haunting mood. I left the tunnel in a scurried urgency.
A lady I saw once on a granite arch came to me in a dream one night. An oak tree was present, sprouting from it were branches twisted and gnarled. An obscure figure appeared. Her body was painted pink, her hair raven. There she was seated, in between her legs the genus specie; what a presentation. I saw myself trekking towards her, what would I find? Why she beckoned me, I had no explanation. Then she cried, whispering something softly in my mind. She told me all her long-held secrets, grim and bright. A gift for you, she mused—you will recognize me in time. Now I patiently sit at my typewriter and write.