Long Telegram Poems
Long Telegram Poems. Below are the most popular long Telegram by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Telegram poems by poem length and keyword.
I could use a quill like shakespeare
to write this down.
Or send it in a old style telegram.
Dictate it straight from my soul
Or get it tattooed on my arm
forever more, and for all to see.
Paint it on a wall 10 feet high.
There's many ways to say we care
and make someones day.
mines frabbit mail , today.
HOPE YOU HAD A FANTASTIC DAY
frabbit mail 2
The sun will always shine
regardless of a clouded mind.
Bee's will pollunate
flowers germinate.
clear away the worries of your day
celebrate this brand new day
by reading frabbit mail.
Somewhere in a foreign land
sits a stranger pen in hand
writing prose, sending wishes
to people who he will never visit.
He truly hopes this little ditty
brings much joy and you smile a little.
as thats what frabbit mail is all about.
I do hope you found this most worth while
and so in closing I would like say
have a super frabbtastic day .
poem 3
Sticky fingers covered in glue
more stamps than dollars
what should Donna do.
Well shes the queen of frabbit mail.
She sends love and wishes
to those in need
plants little seeds
of karma that will grow
into to peace and loves for us all
she asks no thanks
gets no pay
shes the champion of frabbit mail
who else knows how to post a thought
an emotion or a hug
3 big cheers for frabbit mail
poem 4
There’s many stars in the night sky
But you’re star shines so bright
Behind every dark cloud
The sun is always shining bright
In rapids on a river
Boulders hide out of sight
Be a swan not a duckling
And sail smoothly through life
troubles are like waves on an ocean
ride them standing high
If you fall frabbits will save you
So ride the largest waves.
Face your biggest fears
Don’t let phobias give you a fright
Meditate on happy thoughts
And keep fighting the good fight
A Telegram from the Queen
An interview with Maisie Widdop,
On her very special day.
Her telegram from the queen has arrived,
and has something, she wants to say.
Maisie please tell our readers,
This most wonderful story of yours,
When you were but a small child,
A new world, was opening its doors.
"We are going on an adventure,
My Mother would frequently say to me.
A brand new life for all of us,
It will be marvellous, you wait and see.
Travelling in luxury and elegance,
Splendour, Grandeur will know no bounds,
Seven days of fun filled decadence,
Our feet won't touch the ground,
Nothing but the best for us,
Clever Daddy has taken good care.
You and me will want for nothing,
On his life he'd promise and swear.
We are sailing on the Tenth my love,
So we really must look our best,
Just in case the Captain invites us,
To his table, as special guests
I was just a Baby at the time,
My Father was taking us oversea.
A brave new world across the Pond,
He said, that's where work will be.
We were due to leave early April,
But I got a fever and couldn't sail.
Mother told Father "you go on ahead"
and we would follow soon, without fail.
Poor Father never reached New York,
On that fateful sailing ship.
So, we remained forever in England,
Never wanting to make the trip.
A twist of fate and I'm still here,
One hundred years old today.
Mother died back in Eighty-Three,
Ninety-Two when she passed away.
She told me this same heartfelt story,
From my birth, until the day she died.
Third class, sounded grand to her
But she knew; thought of Father and cried"
This leaves much to imagination
as I've still to reach this goal
still having thirty plus to go
waiting to see finding many a hole
At present with many an ache
by the century they'll be many more
trusting for my health to stay firm
hoping to still reach that upstairs door
Here in the U.K. we eager for the mail
on your 100th birthday receive a telegram
from her royal highness the Queen
makes one think I must stay calm
Think back on my birth
from this high lofty height
many years have past
thank God for his light
(I was challenged recently to think about what it would be like to look back on 100 years of life, obviously using much imagination!! as I've not reached my 70 years yet.)
The Telegraph
by Gabriel Magno © 2014
The baby wakes the puppy, as she twists its little nose,
the mother drinking coffee, mends a small run on her hose.
The mailman rings the doorbell, rising up she stops her chore,
a telegram presented slowly, she smiles and shuts the door.
As she reads quietly, a frightful look distorts her face,
and then a shrilling scream, as her heart begins to race.
“We’re sorry to inform you, of your husband’s loss of life”,
the message from the army, cuts her heart as with a knife.
Unsteady hands reach for the child, who lays atop the family dog,
her tears fall on baby's smiling face, her mind confused as in a fog.
The nights of making love, the days of sharing laughter,
come to a sudden painful end, from this day ever after.
The mailman returned once more, a telegram in hand,
“how it was stuck inside my bag, I just don’t understand”.
She thanked him, closed the door and wondered what it said,
silently she read the message, her husband was not dead.
“We’re happy to inform you, your husband’s still alive”,
the message read, “was one of few who did survive”.
“The battle in the shallow gorge, where many brave men laid”,
“accept our deep apology, this error in haste was made.”
And so the cloud had lifted from high above her head,
and soon again she’ll lay, beside her husband in their bed.
The mailman on his daily route, will once again bring to the door,
those telegrams, to wives and lovers, of those who live no more.
Amos made a promise, took a sip of wine,
Poured his heart out and he bowed his head.
Pledged to come back safely as Evangeline
Shed a tear for every word he said.
Polished as the buttons on his uniform,
Amos bowed to her and kissed her hand.
Gone to face the fury of the raging storm.
Hoped his lady love would understand.
Troopship cuts the water on a sea of glass.
Lookout taken with a homesick dream,
Focused on a vision of some cherry lass,
While a periscope lies dead abeam.
Walking down the corridor by candlelight
In a mansion full of silent rooms.
Loiters in her husband’s study every night
Where the presence of his absence looms.
Soldier comes one morning with a telegram
And a story of a ship gone down.
Sadly tips his hat and says, “I’m sorry, ma’am.
What a shame it is when brave men drown.”
Courage, honor, loyalty and songs of war,
Verse and chapter writ in martyrs’ blood;
Second-hand excuses from the time before,
Grand illusions worth their weight in mud.
Parents so proud four sons they raised
From the Highlands of Scotland in the pre-war days
On their crofts they worked morning till night
Unknown to them then of a future fight
The Germans have invaded a country so free
Poland was taken, the world shaken visually
Britain declares war as our men enlist
To rid the enemy as the fighting shifts
Europe's engulfed in a feverish war
Many are dying to comprehend what for
Four brothers sign up to fight
Soon a mother will pray every night
Campaigns they fight in, these theatres of war
Witnessing horrors never seen before
In their garden at home on the family crofts
Lies a bed of roses with petals so soft
Then one day with a passing glance
A pink rose dripping red in deathly stance
Their mother turns to the gate she looks
Telegram in hand from the postman she took
With trembling hands she opens with care
Upon reading the message in tear laden stare
Their eldest son in Africa was lost
As many many others deaths global cost
Every day as she passes the rose
It's pink petals bloom her tomorrow's fear grows.
.
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2014
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war4.php
Did my telegram never arrive?
Like the truth from your lips when you pushed it aside.
All those months in the darkness, you twisted the knife
Now claim clean hands, try to blind my eyes
I fell on the battlefield, then I bruised my mind
All the clues were left for you to find
But you never once looked at the damage you’d done,
To you it was over as soon as you begun
But I was scared to hear the door creak, scared to look you in the eye
Always waiting to hear your next crafted lie
So don’t try to reclaim us because I know the reason why
You’ve realised what you’ve lost and what you caused to die.
“Writing is about reality, about what men do, not what they imagine in some velvet-lined parlor,” Hemingway grumbled, his brow furrowed over a tumbler of gin.
Here is a fictional dialogue:
Wilde raised a manicured hand. “Reality? It's a dreary affair, vastly overrated. The charming veil of fiction is preferred, where one can truly be one's self.”
“Fiction is a lie that makes you believe the truth,” Hemingway retorted, gripping the glass tighter. “Your writing is all flourish, no bone, no muscle."
“And yours, Mr. Hemingway, is all bone and no soul,” Wilde countered with a saccharine smile. "You mistake brevity for depth, as if a skeleton could ever be as beautiful as a fully dressed man."
"A skeleton has truth," Hemingway growled, leaning in, "your pretty words are just a mask for fear."
"And your 'truth', Ernest, is merely the art of leaving out the interesting parts," Wilde said, a sharp glint in his eye. "You write to live, I live to write beautifully, "you write as if every verb were a boxing match and every adjective a wasted breath,” Oscar began, a languid hand gesturing toward a volume on the shelf. “Your prose is like a very long, very dull telegram."
Hemingway set down his glass heavily. “Better a telegram with true words, Oscar, than a cathedral of lies and cheap paradoxes. You talk about style, but I write about what is real: clean, strong sentences about life and death and hunger in a true place.”
Wilde smiled, a flash of emerald silk at his cuff. “Life, my dear Ernest, is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about."
"And art," Hemingway retorted, his voice low and hard, "is knowing when to stop talking and when to tell the truth with one clean stroke, not twenty just for the sound of them."
"Truth is rarely pure and never smple," Oscar murmured, adjusting a flower in his lapel. "Your heroes, they are all the same, mute men with silent anguish. You mistake a lack of vocabulary for a depth of soul."
GHOST ELEMENTAL
Lightning, currently water- currently fire, solid in spirit, ethereal flyer.
Vanishes upon completing its journey, by energys desire.
As a shapeshifter in exhale, flashing bare.
A streaker streaming in the light.
Fueled by its spirit airing its incorporeal lungs. God's trumpet
that turns on the night as you hear it, tingle your schlungs.
Fear it's song of judgment.
Kingdom come.
Plays on like a bassoon that meets a lyre, beats like a crash cymbal, pulses like creamy laser awakening Phoenix pyre.
Ghostly taser
with a breath of flare, saviour fare, it inhales, grinning bare.
Opening the seals. Waxing. Clean. Here to there, far to near.
Gods telegram on the wire. Natures tear.
It executes, judgment of the firmament, while darting out of site,
it warns, further encroachment,
like a woman allright.
One that just popped into the room with scorn, ready to fight.
Break out the holy water, no worries,
hell hath no fire. Valhalla no furies.
But now we have imagination to burn,
a reminder lesson we've urn ed.
As we scatter-worry. Repent in hybrid theory.
Of human elements ashes and dust,
purge a little purgatory, to learn or combust.
Once upon a time
I was, it seems like 100 years ago,
on an old fashion cargo ship, the carried all sorts
from potatoes, flour, machine parts, plastic flowers,
and tinned fruit, meat, and hats for the wife of the president
in Honduras.
For some reason, there was a door in my store room
it led into a cargo hold I filled the larder till it looked
like a corner shop. My task was to keep the cost of living down,
and the captain got a telegram from the company complimenting
me on keeping the cost down.
When the ship birthed in some obscure port, the unloading
took a long time and there was time to go ashore
have a bit of fun and a good steak with wine at a restaurant.
I was twenty-five and had a hell of a time, but nothing
lasts forever, the ship was sold to a Greek shipping company
and we all had to go home.