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m h John Jun 2019
i sent a postcard today
it must’ve not made it
past the clouds
and to the golden gate
where you await
happy national writing day!
Max Mar 2019
It’s a goodbye to the birdies
It’s a goodbye to the car
It’s a goodbye to the bridges
That have taken us too far

You’re a flag behind my window
You’re a shadow on the wall
And if I break what I play with
Guess I shouldn’t play at all

And you’ve been to Montenegro
Where the sun has touched your face
All the vehicles and buildings
Synchronized to match your pace

Had your voice tracks for a weapon
Had your picture for a guide
Now there are men behind my doors
And they won’t let me go outside

So let the land be yours
All beneath your feet
Be a current flow
An electric heat
Be the rising sound
Be the river deep

And when the wicked, twisted ways have led me here
I’m standing tall
Wave a flag behind my window
Cast a shadow on my wall
Hadiy Syakir Nov 2017
Ride the bus every day
till the sun makes its way
out of chaos,
the temperamental blues
like a dog going after
the isolated leaf
searching for the breath
of eternal grief.

send me over
a postcard
of tense yesterday
push me further
than where you departed
during the doomsday
hallelujah is the last hurrah.

Another day, another way
till summer rain, till winter sane
drifting away, drifting away,
way, way further,
way, way further.
hailey visscher Sep 2016
cold. blurry blinking blue
back in light glistening iridescent white
crested waves crashing to a tide pulled under

below the surface swimming
soft sway current sweeping shells
fishes bubble breathing

mountainous shores sandy shallows
washed in crystal casper
and silk sails in the sky
soft laughter.

joy-filled jubilation
splashing smile simply bubbling
beckoning back to be beneath
the sea.
Terry Collett May 2016
It’s hot and you don’t feel
Like sitting down to write
The postcard to the parents,

But it has to be done or they’ll
Worry and Father will have
One of his turns and Mother

Will be flapping round like
A **** hen with no head, so
You take a chair by the window

Of the Hotel Cuba and think
What to write, what to put
Down in the limited space

Allowed, and not to write
Anything that’ll stir Father’s
Christian sensibilities or

Mother’s little world of tea
And visits and afternoon naps
And speaking to the canary

Who doesn’t speak back.
You wait for Humphrey to
Come back from the bar

Hoping he’ll come up with
Things to say, but he doesn’t
Show and its getting late

And it’s been a busy day and
The night looms large and
You want Humphrey at his

Best, not too boozed, not
Distracted, and on the whole
He’s quite a fair catch, knows

How to please a girl, keep her
On her toes and back and that
Thing he does with the…Dear

Father and Mother, Cuba’s quite
A place…there was this man
Who kissed my hand and Dear

Humphrey said…the sun’s warm
And the food is out of this world
…I can dance the latest dances

Here, nothing that is suspect or
Need worry you…I will send this
Postcard in the morning, God I’m

Tired, keep on yawning, must be
The heat… You sit back and put
Down the pen and look up as

Humphrey returns doing some
Movements with his feet to some
Music playing and he smiles and

Winks and does a twirl…Sleep tight
Parents…it’s going to be one of
Those night for she's a naughty girl.
Jack Gladstone Jul 2014
A wind that blows through closed windows is felt but doesn't move a thing.

I stepped out in the storm, the lightning didn't hit so i guess tomorrow's comin after all.

we use words that only Germans understand to describe journeys we will never take.

so now let's do the things we're never done before.

we'll finally get passports. we'll go to the airport and get our ***** finally outta here.

so just go. don't even tell them so. just go. send a postcard when ya get there.
I wrote you-
A postcard.

Sat it by the toaster-
Where I saw your reflection.

I wrote you-
A post card.

I wrote you-
In warm regards.

— The End —