Under a yellow lamp I wrote a letter,
Poured my heart on a paper,
The ink I used was my own blood,
A red crimson on a white pearl,
I placed it under a purple envelope,
Fold it with great adoration,
Let me pour the hot wax and seal it with precious florals
It was adorned with jems and stones,
The most shiny thing I could thought off
I post it using the postbox, but it was never received as the address was missing,
A letter without a home like a rose without it's thorns,
But I will keep sending my pieces of heart,
Until it can found a way back home.
Categories:
postbox, fate, hope, longing, lost
Form: Rhyme
I remember the words I wrote;
most of them,
some of them.
Angry scrawls spewing out;
a pen scratching
spitting ink.
Blood from my eyes
attacking the note.
Bourbon spilling
on a pounded table;
the scent of livid indignation
saturating the paper.
Crumpled, tossed,
retrieved, flattened,
torn apart.
Abruptly
stuck together
with yellowed sellotape;
captured fingerprints
and pubic hairs.
The envelope sealed
with a finger
moistened
by bitter tears.
Dropped into a postbox
with smug satisfaction.
Categories:
postbox, anger,
Form: Free verse
Before the electronic mail we have now
snail mail was the only postal means
write a letter, stick a stamp, envelope sealed
into the postbox it goes my forever dreams
My first love Jean for a year
did write to each other every week
looked forward to that post come
it meant so much without it all's bleak
But then post stopped we dated
fell in love so very very much
got wed for we were the match
but Jean passed away by God's touch
My second love Christine loved mail
regularly we penned to one another
really got to know each other well
so wondered if we could go further
Then I got chickenpox out of the blue
so Christine sent me a get well card
that clicked us so we started to date
got wed 9 months later, our love starred
So mail has a loving touch
shows its hand to a live connect
I can vouch truly for that
twice it helped me, love select
(This is written looking back on mail and it's effect on my love life as it twice had a effectual lasting proof on it.)
Categories:
postbox, feelings, love, romance,
Form: Rhyme
A sweet little seaside village
with red postbox on the corner.
I could settle there,
I could, myself and my daughters.
I would buy and read the papers
in the local park,
and enjoy a chat with people
as long as they did not smoke.
I would count my pennies carefully
and make sure I did not spend
better than was good for me,
and never think of END.
And if the END did rear its head,
I wouldn't go in a corner...
I'd pray to God I'd keep my head
and pray as in times former.
---------------------------------------
10/14/2015
The Doesn't fit Contest
Sponsor - Carol Eastman
1st place win
Categories:
postbox, future, happy, prayer,
Form: Verse
Forwarding Address
by Odin Roark
Don’t forget to make out the postal card
‘Cause when you’re there
You’ll want all those
Parcels
Mail
Flyers
New phone books
And the precious junk mail
You’ll take your body
That burden you carry about
Of noticeable change
Avoiding mirrors
The one
Whose insides
Woven between brittle bones
Know muscle atrophy
Blood vessel collapse
Bowels contraction-in-waiting—again
Kidneys dreading more martinis
Heart and lungs wondering
WTF gimme some air
Some living blood
Et al
But still
You’ll drag your weary ass
Down the walk
Lick your lips
Open the lid
And voila
Postbox full of…yeah
Junk mail
Just like the good ol’ days
Back at the house
Before the damn retirement scam
Got your attention
C’mon
At least the complex has postboxes galore
What would it be like
With no daily stroll
To check for a card
A letter
A brown-wrapped gift?
It’d be like
The final reality
No need for
A forwarding address
Ever again
Categories:
postbox, life,
Form: Free verse
Services Rendered
On the side street, where the poet
took his nightly walk, shots resonated,
yelling, and a car driving fast;
on the pavement a man´s blood
was running into the gutter.
The police asked what he had seen?
Nothing!
You must have seen something?
I saw a waterfall running down
a mountainside in spring and
the air was pure.
Gangland murder?
Weeks later an envelope in his
postbox, five thousand dollars.
The poet smiled at last someone
had paid him for his poetry
Categories:
postbox, parody, visionary,
Form: Blank verse