Receipts Poems

The Last Indulgence, Or Maybe The First?

I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.

The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.

When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.

I take long baths,
the water climbing like hours,
the body softening, rehearsing its exit.

Every errand feels ceremonial:
the grocer weighing apples,
the cashier stamping receipts—
as if recording my presence
before the page turns blank.

I buy the trinket, the sugared cake,
because why shouldn’t the condemned
glitter a little,
lick the spoon clean?

The hours leer,
their faces blindfolded.
Any minute the rope could tighten—
a phone could ring with pardon.

So I go on feeding myself,
scraping honey from the jar,
gilding my throat
for the last song or the first acquittal,
as though I might vanish mid-bite,
or else be called back,
my name suddenly rinsed clean
from the record.

my purse

three inhalers
two bottles with one pill each
six receipts from dollar stores
one bedraggled checkbook
straw wrapper
three pairs of glasses, all smudged
I-phone
sunglasses missing one lens
twenty-three pennies
two nickels
twenty-seven dollars in a small coin purse
Kleenex
three credit cards
Medicare card
reminder to pay a bill from three months ago
I get rid of the pennies
hoping my purse will be lighter

Who Needs Holidays

Do we really need a holiday to say i love you
Do we really need a date to do the things we do
Spend money on a gift anytime of the year
Do we really need the fourth of July to relax and have a beer
Valentine's Day is here so you express your love
Any day is priceless when it comes to kisses and hugs
Mothers day should be everyday not just a day in May   
Call her or send a card and express your love in different ways
I guess the month of June is a set time for your father
If this is the only time you cherish your parents why even bother
Parents spend time with their kids and give out candy most feen
Is that the only close time you spend because its Halloween
Lets not talk about Christmas because Christ isn't getting the gifts
If its about him why complain, keep receipts and have misfits 
Thanksgiving is a meal that shouldn't be done annually but every week
So without holidays it seems family time would be bleak.

finding a forgotten purse

Inhaler
Dimes
Brown napkin
Three pairs of eye glasses
Two pencils, an eraser and a pen
Wallet with seventeen dollars and eighty-two cents
Comb, cracker, stale muffin, five receipts, toothpicks
Tiny piece of pink ribbon, twenty-two allergy pills
Empty pill bottle
Sometimes finding a forgotten purse feels like Christmas

Introductions to my inside truth as a Writer and Speaker

My Inside Truth given a living soul of feelings in the inside body in my  inside mind in side my spirit soul my body framed the pictures and receipts with words. Speaking the my truth if no one else says so and in my truth all that is written is only my truth for me to study in a book! In the space of time always energy flowing from coast waters rivers flow back to the coast where energy of the soul be at that time a force in love in pleasure a force evermore  the kind you get from the Lord heavens what is gifted is given.And the soul breeze the taste of the seasons kisses melting with loving value and force and excitement force galore more and more The aroma of season changes becomes new breeze the energy of life again and again and again the soul till it is felt feel  sensations vibrationational energy singing your own song long feelings of the soul all thought and actions are pure and it will come back sometimes ten-fold blessing. One day will write about the difference of soul spirit and flesh! Thank you for listening for to listen to one self is sometimes hard! Thanks! The breeze is waiting for leadership!

Meet the Staff I

MysticMisfits™ Staff Directory

Staff Spotlight:The WanderPoet
Position: Ephemeral Verse Consultant
Clock-in Time: Unknown
Clock-out Time: Immediately After You Notice Him

You won’t see him arrive.
You might catch a glimpse--
a flicker of velvet,
a whisper that sounds like unfinished poetry.

He drifts between aisles,
scribbling stanzas on the backs of receipts,
leaving notes folded in teacups,
and misquoting love spells near the lip balm display.

He never applied for the job.
He just appears
right before a storm,
drops a single verse,
and vanishes before the ink dries.

We tried giving him a name tag once.
It wrote itself into a sonnet
and dissolved in moonlight.

Check back often. New employees arrive whenever the veil thins… or HR sneezes.

providers

providers
mothers provided homelessness
to get a job
and now
walk the streets, terrorizing men
what do we do

well you kill people
so you can go shopping
it is called shopping addiction
and little boys and girls who you hate
die in the receipts of your smile

you don't see, but we get abused
by the freedom we have
as you grow and multiply
the fat gross arms come flying
mouth flapping
disgust in your eye shadow
exhausting demons of news

desert mules trampling slaves

men fought this civil war, under many titles
so the gold and silver and logos of banking
would never touch our graves

and the beasts stampede, ugly and weak
blind justices of empty delivery
abandoned mirrors covered in shame

A Threesome in Sioux Falls South Dakota Josh Moore

Whisper is jealous of Josh's black leather boots and Katie's fur lined boots, so they have a threesome to make up for it. They frolic in the moonlight, playing the oboe, xylophone, and vacuum, drooling and spanking each other. Then, the platypus, jackal, and whale join in, hammering out a rhythm on the pajamas, racing the tortoise, and jumping the rabbit's tail. Suddenly, the clocks, magazines, and movies come alive, streaming dirty gray hounds, tungsten spigots, mothers' spleens, kidneys, and tonsils, and cannabis shouting at the moon. The saxophones vomit sand and the pianos strike Jacks, while clouds batter receipts and panty liners. Finally, the cantaloupe refrigerator seals the deal, and the night is filled with laughter.

i'll never get to shout, 'his excellency's horses!'

pants for watching -
as we wonder around the supermarket

my daughter pushes her own trolley
she's trying to give her brother's shins a wallop

he shouts at her - how dairy 
the trolley is confiscated; we look for the extra strong mints

there's a dog in a trolley
looking shell-shocked

we pass the ham
my son talks of hamlet 

my daughter, in the trolley; her cheeks scrape against
the frozen food doors

sweet chin music in the fruit aisle
i jump on the melons 

in snack limbo
we find the mints and confectionary

we can't find the car
cash and carry blues 

a trolley is rolling towards us at 20 mph
we're running out of thyme

traveling through my purse

I search my purse for money or credit cards.
Discovering four brochures from September
Receipts from the veterinarian clinic with dog tags
Twelve poem ideas jotted on a red napkin
A used toothpick with gum at the end of it
Four pens that do not write
One pen that writes which I can usually never find in this purse
A blue dog collar
Battered melted peanut butter cup
Sticky roll that has escaped a baggie
House key I do not remember having
Grandchild’s pink and yellow headband
Shot glass, but why? I do not drink.
Two outdated postage stamps
The popped pieces of an orange balloon
Should I clean this fiasco?
No.
I just found my credit cards.

For Those About To Die

they line the streets like forgotten bones,
clothes clinging thin, skin and bones,
as hollow as an unanswered prayer—
they die on corners, in alleys, out there
with eyes full of shadows no one dares see.

the city walks by with pockets stuffed deep,
suits and stares, faces blank as receipts,
and the doctors, their hands are slick with fees,
and hospitals open their jaws wide,
for those who can't pay, there's nowhere to hide.

the mercy we sing, the grace we sell—
it’s bartered in back rooms, lives ring the bell,
and the world, it watches, it shrugs, it sighs,
"what’s another soul in a thousand lives?"

this is a place for the lucky and bold,
where compassion is cold, money is gold,
and the streets are paved with stories untold.

lesser weevils

A rage results:
the orange dolt’s
been at the tweets.

Or truths they’re called -
I am appalled;
please bring receipts.

Then Harris talks -
word salad pox
from pre-typed sheets.

Oh, RFK
You had the day,
why the retreats?

—————

A Rhupunt of the form aaB ccB ddB with 4-syllable lines

Deadbeat Dad

Your age is not a piece 
Of this purple puzzle unique
To your lavished life 

You have cars that you give gas
But you ignore filling up little lad
Or little lady as a dad

So many fathers with less are bothered
Sacred fishing trips 
Creeks lakes in which take a dip

You’ve been selfish and elfish 
Your miniature application of affection 
Doesn’t match or make a connection

Love is an action word
Not just felt and heard
But received with red receipts 

How dare you never call
Never show up to talk
Never walk the holy walk despite flaws

Someone did father you
So you have a clue
What to do

There are men born of sin
Who had much less than
And they are awesome father’s awesome men

Don’t worry he was taught
To love you though you do not
Deserve that which you don’t give freely

You want a trophy
A son for cookouts and parties
When will you figure out you need

To start with an apology and 
A conversation so deep
It erases the negativity

You are forgetting
Your seed is a part of your destiny
You can’t keep running

Museum of Me

Diaries left open and letters framed,
chronological ink waving from a horizon, gone.
Clothes hung to recreate a wedding, a dance, a touch – 
enclosed in glass cases to trap the scent inside.

There’s a recording of his voice that skips 
back through time. Her handprint in clay, cracked.
That first glass of wine, now cobwebbed, stained red,
next to teenage car keys rusted.

A prescription acts as evidence I tried.

Sawdust forms a path between pets
and my Walkman makes youth balk; 
to them my VHS collection is alien.

Postcards curled from saltwater offer perfect snapshots
years before we scrolled for one.

A mortarboard on display alongside a bus pass, front door key and bank card.
A blade of Sefton Park grass pinned down like the wings of a butterfly.
Receipts of apologies. Candleholders waxed in missteps.

Maybe, one day, there’ll be a travelling exhibit where I finally get to meet you.
And the curator will add you, title card and all, to this museum of me.

An Idea Spots Cracks

As an idea it keeps spotting cracks,
Many beginning to lose their tracks,
Owner of the idea more brain racks
But the doomed wonder a lot still lacks...

Only his young wife the idea backs!
What more through an intact ego hacks?
Sam is sure of receipts of fresh knocks.
On his door a hostile view one tacks
"Samuel deserves sea water in bags
Ten of it or sound thought drags".

• Short Receipts Poems
• Famous Receipts Poems
• Best Receipts Poems
• Read Receipts Poems
• Long Receipts Poems
• Receipts Quotes