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Arisa Mar 7
I bet that man,
he with his white cap,
smashed my box against the wall
as he so carelessly
dumped
my package on the doorstep.
A little aggravated at the state of my packages.
Talis Ren Feb 20
Your mailbox grew tired of letters,
those crumpled, **** things
soaked in riddle and rhyme.

What can I say?
Only fools try closed doors,
and heaven helps no fools.

And I, a fool,
threw rocks at your window
and you left them warped on
frozen roads.

You shot me straight through the heart
and kept my head on a pike.

Didn’t they teach you
Not to **** the messenger?
Kewayne Wadley Nov 2018
She always had a knack
for catching me off guard.
To expect the unexpected.
My heart a doorbell-
Expectation the mat she stood.
Sometimes she'd wait patiently.
Other times she'd constantly press the button.
A sudden nudge of emotion,
The appeal of urgency
Knowing that not many will wait.
Her smile sent special delivery,
Opened on arrival.
She never came when I expected.
Often checking before she rang.
My lips sealed
In suspense of waiting.
Better late than never.
My heart rung last minute.
Pressed again and again.
Again and again.-
Indulged that she came
My lips sealed at the nook of hers.
My heart a doorbell-
Pressed in anticipation.
Met quickly in arrival.
Her finger against my heart a courtesy
The whole time the door unlocked
Waiting for her return
Cné Nov 2018

splattered in wet ink
sealed with a passionate kiss
deep connections link

Does anyone send postal mail anymore?
Kyle Summer Aug 2018
Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet only two of them are mine.

Time is rugged against the grain
of questions falling on white sand.
How come no one consciously believes in
anything except fractured light and filtered water?
He walks on broken heels and birttle bones,
but somehow always steps in time.

My only memory of Jesus
is in the aftermath of a forest fire.
We danced throughout destruction,
and her hollow laughter brought the rain.
She was the beginning of the rapture,
sometimes I think of her and pray.

I got lost six years ago,
on the way to change my name.
I wonder, how could I go missing
if I never locked the door?
Did anything really happen,
or does nothing ever change?

Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet none of them are mine.
the readers,
the critics,
the opinionated
are like cicadas,
you don’t hear
from them for a
while but when
the time is right,
they swarm together
and bring the noise.

and lately,
I’ve been receiving
an outpouring of hate mail
from my fellow correspondents
with passionate responses
to my writing that have
enthralled me,

not so much that
I’m writing poorly
but what l’m writing
about infuriates them.

their tongues swirling around
like vultures
in their perfect mouths to
quickly judge my take on the
subject matters of woman,
my drinking and my negative
outlook on life and work.

loosely painting describing
words in my direction,
calling me
a misogynist,
a pessimist and
a diseased drunk...

a misogynist? how so?
I love women and
I’m happily married to one
but you’d have a better
understanding if you met
the ***-crazed, pill-popping,
drug-induced alcoholic women
I once shacked up with.
I only illustrate the unbelievable
reality of it all.

next, my drunken poetry...
whether its drinking or writing
or both, it all feels like a
children’s tabernacle choir
of glory, singing hymns and
lifted by a celestial symphony
when there’s absolutely
nothing to do...
I keep my barstool warm
and my beer cold

and finally,
the pessimism in my poems.
I don’t live this life with a
white picket fence around me
where everything is positive
and delicate and bright.
art has a balance,
poetry has a balance
and there are two sides
to everything and how
I perceive in this world
and what I create is a
bit darker and uglier
than most grey hearts
with grey laughter,
laughing at nothing
and I brisk for the smile.
I wake up hungover and
I work a terrible job and
I’ve been served the
poisons of the world
and for that, I only have
myself to blame, but
all the trouble makes
for good writing
so I continue
to keep my head down,
chew my food with my
mouth closed and shine
the shoes for the living
that walk among
this desperate land.

the judgments seem to be
ill-fitting to the persona but
I’m very fortunate to receive
this kind of mail because it
whispers in my lonely ear
that I made someone feel
something in my writing,
whether the outcome was
to inspire or offend.
I’m happy to know
that they felt it
because I felt it too
and the blackbirds
of success
swoop down
and gobble up
the inch worm
of self-doubt
and failure.
George Krokos Jun 2018
If you’ve got a letterbox you’ll end up getting junk mail
which will usually be on a weekly basis and without fail.
_____
From "Simple Observations" ongoing writings since the early '90's
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