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.
Off to the cabin on the lake for a much need rest
Time to get away and experience nature at its best
The SUV is loaded let the journey begin
The kids in the back all with big grins
After a long and tiring drive time to put my feet up and kick back
Dinner by the campfire, but first firewood to stack
A chorus of songs fill the air as marshmallows start to ignite
The flames from the burning wood light up the night
The moon shines down brightly from high in the night sky
Wolves in the distance let out their welcoming cry
An evening of fun and excitement has come to an end
A picture postcard of our retreat ready to send
there’s a grey cat sitting on my shoulder
singing the drunken songs of the crying jag
so that’s why she finally didn’t come over?
with silver rings on her eyelashes
with green aurora in her sunglasses
should I be worried when walls slowly fade away?
leaving the crooked winds flood my hollow room
whatever, I’ll be glad with my form of clay
when there’s a thrill in the air, I assume
I’m nothing in nothingness
a hole in the void
and shards of her killing glance
made me schizoid
wave, wave and wave from afar
but leavings will always be bizarre
so long, adieu, goodbye (so far)
and don’t forget to send a postcard
Written: April 13, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "Let the water settle and you will see the moon and stars mirrored in your being," By Rumi
******************
Oat flakes float over the pale golden sky,
A white moon floats easily over land awry,
A shining reflection waltzes in your brown eye.
Your golden shade suits my dulcet face,
Glaucous clouds wrap seagulls as they pace,
Roses chilly hands ignite your heated place.
Soak it all in while I built a sandcastle—our empire,
A soft, wild cry from the coast, where we fire,
Seashells, salt and sand spats, our hearts wire.
Postcard-worthy memories cram my halcyon mind,
I'm catching a glimpse of moon face from behind.
(Dedication: For Anne-Lise Andresen.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Instant recognition
Blind attitude:
Sees more than enough
Despair reveals
An ugly side:
Indifference
Little by little
Sounds like a lot;
Hole in pocket
Witty lingo
Awkward tango;
Messy tempo
Learn quickly now
Wear a keen smile;
Screen faces you meet
Joy in sadness
Paradoxical frame;
Picture postcard sent
China in spring
Natural hymnal sounds;
No voice imitates
Peace in the valley
Nothing profound;
Extra plus ordinary fence
Haiku in season
Vivid frolic;
Wild things grow
Small child speaks
Profound sermon;
Hello uncle
Old uncle smiles:
How are you?
Small child hides face
Casual encounter
Familiar face pops up;
Crowded places fence
Birthday thoughts:
Song of morning --
Rapture illuminates
Fifty-nine revolutions
Around the sun;
Celebrate miracles
Leon Enriquez
08 July 2014
Singapore
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.
Ice shrouds over the hunched houses
where blood and flesh huddle and wait.
An ice ravaged
face rears up from an invisible earth
its fangs blackened by a tooth-aching light,
more flesh piercing incisors
dagger down from the clamped
and sunken roofs.
What wreckage there is, is buried
hidden from sight, but it is not
a clean landscape. Not a landscape at all
but a telltale footprint,
a restructuring of destruction.
What was once seen as a town
is gone. Not forever (drama makes
actors of us all), but we talk now
in a past tense language of 'back then'
and not of any postcard view of tomorrow -
not yet.
Postcard perfect- a picturesque town
Where the locals come to wind down
A hidden gem, a park of simplesse
An oasis, heavenly, it's beauty bequests
An art form to behold, a sculpture; nature's showpiece
Serene and tranquil in the heart of the city
A stream lined with a plethora of trees
Every color showcased upon their leaves
A vast variety, Each the opposite from the last
No comparison, within it's contrast
Harmoniously standing together
A strength against stormy weather
Surrounded by majestic abodes
So grand, each and all, becoming stories told
A backdrop- regal mountains- not seen before
Only Nature could compose such a musical score
Brownie Boy landed the first day of fall.
Gangly for Brownville, he was way too tall.
I hid him in my Neverland Mirror.
Knowing Peter soon would be here.
He was easy to please. Ate blouses and shoes.
I fed him my sister’s. She had plenty to lose.
At night he was the lead brownie, attacking the leaves.
During the day, we took him to the park where he did what he pleased.
Faerie Cowgirl Princess came along one November night.
Those two fell in love, practically on third sight.
They went to Arkansas where the leaves were still full.
We get a postcard from them yearly, two we barely even know.
She wore perfume that smelled like a Sunday lie,
And lips like rusted knives—
A woman like that don’t settle,
She just wanders through men’s lives.
I gave her my keys and my winter coat,
She gave me a goodbye note,
Hidden within a half-full bottle And a half-finished murder quote.
She was last seen by me at a pawnshop, Trading wedding rings for smokes—
She said love is just a shell game,
And I was her last broke joke.
Now I sleep with the window open,
Just in case her ghost blows in—
She was jazz in a needle,
Additionally, I sinned too slowly. She taught me how to ruin myself
With a crooked smile and class— And how to cry like a thief in church
in a town that doesn't merit the distance. Now I date my loneliness proper,
And wear my shame like a suit—
But I still keep that damn perfume bottle,
And a postcard she never wrote.
Poets
Why is it poetry, is a like dirty word and talked of in undertones?
It’s like a naughty postcard, more flesh than there are bones.
Poets tend to deny their art, “I’m not a poet, I’m a rhym-er”
Come on you lot get stuck in don’t be a poetry two-timer.
After a glass of alcohol some may admit-“I like a little verse”
“But no I m not into poetry…” It’s like a speech they did rehearse.
Now poems I’m getting good at, but famous poets I don’t know any
Don’t ask me if I’m a poet, because in wages I don’t earn a penny.
Now rhyme I am not bad at, but at free verse I would stink
As for haiku, senryu, and other forms, I stink I really think…
I listened to some so called poets; decry their art the other day
They denied their art while they listened, to what each other had to say.
Standing there with their poems held high, “I’m not a poet” they all said
Well get down from the microphone and let’s hear a poet instead…
They pass their poems around the table, like some black market currency
Not wanting anyone to see it, but they are at a reading for poetry.
So be loud and proud you poets stand firm for what you believe in
Tell them you are a poet, and just get used to all the teasing
I used to be a shy poet and I write verse with some frivolity
But the definition in my dictionary says “words with a pleasing quality.”
So now I am open to judgement from all of you wonderful poets
You have all commented on my work, but do you really know it?
You all have qualities that scare me, you really seem so clever
So can I finally admit to being a poet, from now on and forever?
~GG~ 27/09/2012