Long Postcards Poems
Long Postcards Poems. Below are the most popular long Postcards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Postcards poems by poem length and keyword.
~*~*~*~*~
A little girl with dark brown braids.
White blouse, gold-colored wool skirt
and patent leather Mary Janes.
An only child with a wired haired fox
terrier that lived with Grandpa,
Mother and Father.
Her Mother, sweet, who saw to it
that she had ballet lessons, went
to a private school and Mother read
her poetry for hours.
A book collection she did have and
loved to read even before she really
could.
Playing with friends, riding her bike,
loved sparklers on warm, July Fourth
nights.
Saw men proud to wear a uniform,
who never came back from the war.
She did not understand when someone
stole her Teddy Bear during one of
many blackouts during the war.
Whoever would do such a thing?
No TV, no technology, just cut-outs,
crayons and she was taught to salute
the flag, because she lived in the land
of the free.
Children were safe, could go on the
train downtown.
But she cherished it the most when
hiding like a cub, under her Mother's
warm coat. The snow sticking to train
windows, peeking in.
Swimming at small lakes in summer how
she loved that the most. So suntanned,
she, the color of warm toast.
The girl knew song lyrics, she never forgot.
They live in her mind and heart and cannot
be turned off.
Years passed, the autumns and summers.
Family now almost all gone, yet somehow,
she remains young.
Always desirous of being herself, you won't
find the braided girl wanting to belong to
any crowd.
The music, the dance, her life, somehow
made her become a poetess.
Surely, not the best!
Being genuine is the gold standard for
all she writes. It must past this test!
She does not write to impress with great
finesse. Just to keep it simple as can be.
Thus~you will experience her poetry!
September 12, 2020
8pm PST
Remembering holidays by the seaside
Those endless wonderful days.
The seagulls in the distance
Hovering above the waves.
Looking towards the horizon
As the sun begins to rise.
Glimmering on the water
Its beauty fills my eyes.
A walk along the shore
Gives me peace of mind
Away from the hustle of city life
The sound of the sea helps me unwind.
Ice cream cones and candy floss
A walk along the pier
Sticks of rock,saucy postcards
Innuendos fill the air.
Punch and Judy,donkey rides
Building castles in the sand.
Old and young together as one
Fun and laughter with Mum and Nan.
I love the sounds of the sea
As it caresses the golden sands.
I have so many happy memories
In vision and in sound.
The twilight, like a gentle lover, wraps the world in a soft embrace.
Its colors blend and bleed, creating a canvas painted with hues of dreams and memories.
Each stroke of dusk is a whispered promise, a secret shared between the fading day and the emerging night.
The moon, that celestial wanderer,
tosses its silver coin across the vast expanse of sky.
It dances with the stars, those ancient companions who listen intently to its murmured confessions.
They exchange cryptic messages, like cosmic postcards, bridging the gap between infinity and our mortal existence.
The ocean, forever restless, is a lover who kisses the shore with salty lips.
Each wave carries a love letter, etching its frothy ink upon the sands.
Seagulls, those winged poets, pirouette on the edge of existence.
Their delicate feathers brush against eternity, leaving traces of flight in the wind.
Mountains stand as stoic guardians, their rugged faces etched by the hands of time.
They hold forgotten tales and whispered legends within their stony hearts. Their peaks reach for the heavens, daring the gods to descend and join their ancient dance.
Earth and sky entwine, and we watch, mere mortals, from below.
And we, like threads in a cosmic loom, weave our fragile stories.
Laughter, tears, and longing blend together, creating verses in the symphony of existence.
Our notes resonate across the expanse, fleeting moments of grace that linger in the memory of the universe.
In this grand tapestry of life, we are both artists and observers,
adding our brushstrokes to the canvas of time.
one thread
unravels
quietly
from the cuff
of yesterday—
loose and golden,
tugged gently
by wind
or memory.
another thread,
silver-fine,
winds forward
into what might be
tomorrow,
still unwoven,
still soft with
silence.
time does not run;
it is stitched—
moment to moment,
strand to strand,
through every glance,
every breath,
every choice
you never realized
you were making.
there are knots:
places where two lives
touch and tighten.
places where
the pattern breaks,
frays, forgets itself—
and others
where it mends
with color.
the past is not gone;
it is threaded through you,
hidden in the seams
of your skin,
tucked in the hem
of your voice
when you say their name.
you walk wrapped
in stories
you don't remember telling,
stitched tight with the
hands of those
you never knew.
(and still,
somehow,
you knew them)
the threads twist—
through journals and old songs,
through maps and postcards,
through laughter echoed
across generations—
they pass through rings,
through cracked clocks,
through names etched
in notebooks
and photographs.
time does not move forward.
it weaves.
in loops and overlaps,
in tangles and designs
we can only see
when we stop
and trace
with wonder.
so pull a thread,
any thread—
and feel the hum
of centuries
beneath
your fingertips.
It is unfathomable, I say.
Chance, the village repeater, says, “UnFAM-IT-BLE!” and smiles at me.
Louder than I was, but with more feeling.
I cringe, pre-seeing how this village meeting might unfold.
“Incomprehensible!” I announce, watching for eye movements.
An avid proponent of psttacism, Chance yells,”com-Rad-Visible!”
“Which means?” I ask him. He shrugs, flashing a mouth full of teeth, except one.
“It is unconscionable!” I holler, wondering what he will do with this.
“YEAH!” he says, giving a fist pump.
I grin, seeing fist bump go swiftly into two thumbs up.
Chance is my biggest supporter, and coincidentally, the only
Villager who has attended my maybe-not-so-well-advertised press conference.
The reporter from Nothing-town says “Anything else?”
I shake my head, and thank him for coming.
“News was slow in No-town,” he replied. “No big deal.”
“Will we be on the news?” Chance asks.
He shakes his head. “Depends on whether or not my boss cares about
Opossum neutering,” he says. “It is hard to tell.”
Besties now, I invite Chance to lunch.
He is my biggest supporter, after all.
My favorite supporter.
The gift of psttacism was a happy unexpected bonus.
We both received postcards for years from people
Who could not stop laughing at us.
I get pretty picture postcards
from faraway places,
not many but over time
they accumulate
on walls, fridges
and marking pages in books.
Mostly from old girlfriends
writing to prove
they are still alive.
"Amazing scenery, wonderful people,
haven't had a decent cup of coffee since Montreal,
watch out for the water in ice cubes.
Wish you were here (Not!)
all my love xxxx"
Still on a dull grey morning,
a message from Mexico, Italy,
Vietnam or New Zealand
is at least intriguing.
Me, I never send postcards
as I never go anywhere
but I get pretty picture postcards
from faraway long ago bitches
every now and then.
The Coming of Fall
~
Crape myrtle highlights
in chartreuse diversions,
oak tree decisions along brittle stem
Maple leaf push pins and ash scented postcards
Autumn approaches, its fingers to send
Northern now breezes
as petals start falling,
blending the colors of October dreams
Days count much shorter and windows are open,
change in direction a’ dance on the streams
Standing behind me now
caught in the mirror,
reflections of summer and hummingbird song
Leaves painted softer in patterns of wishes,
butterfly tickles may happen along
Warm apple cider
and scarves plaid and woolen,
hang from the pegs in the entryway hall
Come again welcomes on echoes of sunlight,
send out the greeting, the coming of fall
Vagabond Reveries
I awoke one apple-ripe autumn afternoon,
While shifting my necessity to care, dreaming,
To gaze upon the twisting trail in reveries of untethered reality
A quest for halcyon enigmas that chased me into cloudy castles.
And glancing back over fields of maize and green apple trees
I dreamt of meandering - suntanned faces, gentle eyes,
Campfire stories told in stargazer mists on childhood summer nights
Country roads and country stores with squeaky hinged screen doors.
I saw through mists kaleidoscopes of skyscraping cities, living postcards,
Steaming, groaning, sweating-swaying -
Crowded avenues named aspiration and pipedreams of working faces
Pushed into honeycombs of question’s smoke reflecting my reflection.
Through gossamer fleeting fragments rumbled symphonies
In movements of freight cars and highway hum
Vagabonds of REM sleeping tugged at chugging feasts
Of my winter-spring planned fetes and wakes and festival jubilees.
A wispy scent of reminisce felt the rushing, ever rushing, sun
Dashing headlong ahead of earth in my wishing stars
Pulling earth like a dawdling toddler running into chimeras of
Fleeting dawns and uncatchable dusky time in taunted moonlit glee.
Stormy darkness of gypsy memories throbbed in lightning flashes
Illuminated my godless thundering regrets
On wild midnights stumbling through windswept briar tangled valleys,
Soul soaking rains of prodigal shame, and I remember waking to grace.
9-4-21
Contest: "V" New or Old
Sponsor: Constance La France
1-23-23
Contest: Poetry Marathon Mile 24
Sponsor: Mark Toney
24 Lines
I hate the Trocadéro,
symbol of a world that ignores me.
The Eiffel Tower has never dazzled me;
it sparkles above misery,
above empty bellies and torn pockets.
On the Champ de Mars,
I see only cannibal rats,
reflections of men consumed by hunger,
forced smiles before silent despair.
I am an undocumented immigrant,
condemned to live without a name, without rights, without rest.
I will never be a tourist,
for I know the reverse side of their postcards.
When my eyes rise toward the Eiffel Tower,
I see only the bars of human zoos,
where once our ancestors were displayed,
and where we are still observed,
as relics of a foreign humanity.
I dwell in a decaying building,
a refuge for souls dazed by overcrowding,
where the walls ooze mold,
and the pipes carry the limestone of shame.
While migrants drown in the Mediterranean,
it is the filth of others my toilets regurgitate.
I tell myself the sea and my latrines
share the same memory:
that of our rejected bodies.
Too much ugliness adorns my daily life,
too much ugliness lives in their gaze.
I have slept under bridges, fled without papers,
like millions of erased foreigners,
by the scornful silence of Western nations.
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.