"letterbox" poems
Keys. Shoved through the letterbox
before I got up-
in an envelope with a note:
Could I (please) feed the cat…
Gone away? Good for her!
Car on the drive. Took a taxi. I think.
To the airport? Didn’t say.
******* with rain-
still, had best leave my shoes on the step just the same.
Obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene-
that’s why he left.
Who, in their right mind, puts cream-coloured carpet in a…?
Door. Not locked. Nearly fell through it.
Strange. She forgot?
Kitchen. Freezer’s empty, switched off.
No cereal. No tins.
Utility room. Spotlessly clean-
twelve! two-kilogram bags of Go-Cat Complete.
Planning to be gone quite a while. I think.
Playroom. Packed up. Kids staying with Nan.
She wants to redecorate before they come home?
Great. A fresh start. I think.
Bedroom. Suitcase on the wardrobe.
Bought a new one? Smaller. Lighter perhaps.
Makes sense. After all- she is travelling alone. I think.
Bathroom. Pristine. Almost empty.
Almost. Macleans and a toothbrush,
in a glass on the sill.
I didn’t think about that.
Until now.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
There is a young lady called Anna. She is a loner. She lives alone with her two cats. They are her world. I am a cat lover myself and have 2 little cuties in my nest. But these cats are just plain feral. They terrorise the other cats in the neighbourhood and **** in all the neighbours’ garden.
She works Monday to Friday for a recruitment company. She leaves her flat in a purple Mazda convertible which is renowned for being a Hairdresser’s (AKA dumb **** car. Every day she leaves at 7.30am on the dot and every day she arrives home at 7.15pm on the dot.
Once at home she turns on her TV cinema system (sub), just to watch the TV.
*****
At the weekend she also leaves her stinking putrid ******* bags out in the communal hallway.
*****
She ignores her neighbour’s knocking on her door. She ignores the notes that they put through her letterbox.
*****
So as Anna was not willing to speak to her neighbours directly. They had no other way to turn apart from to report her to Environmental Health for playing her TV cinema system (sub) too loudly and also for the disgusting ******* that she regularly leaves out in the communal hallway.
*****
In which she returns the compliment by reporting them (said neighbours) to the Environmental Health for:
1) Shouting at each other,
2) Talking too loudly,
3) Banging kitchen utensils on the floor when she is in her kitchen
How deluded is this *****
At the same time that her neighbours reported Anna to the Environmental Health they also spoke to the Community Support Officer. They advised them to contact the Mediators in their local area. Which of course they did. The Mediators arranged to visit one evening. Unbeknownst to them they parked in Anna’s allocated parking space. Once they had finished with her neighbours, the Mediators returned to their car. Just as they were about to reverse their car, Anna arrived home in her Mazda convertible and blocked them in.
*****
When she got out of the Mazda convertible, with attitude I might add, she asked the Mediators who they were. They then introduced themselves. Once she knew who they were, she invited them into her flat to hear her side on the story.
YES I AM HER ******* NEIGHBOUR AND YES I AM STILL WAITING TO HEAR BACK FROM THE MEDIATORS……
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
You bought the house with lavender
seeded in the front porch.
The scent flutters between the doorsill
and through the letterbox
like bills overdue and invoices outstanding. A postal aroma,
envelope glue smells like flowers to me.
I was never granted the privilege of rearranging flowers
You said, there was more to life than flora,
these emerald, sap dripping, saturated stems
Swelling petals fascinated under my untried eyes,
You said I must not even graze the things.
I longed for a taste of the forbidden flora.
Did buds taste like honey? Were they sour like you told me?
Would they poison these supple
and innocent lips, turn them pink to grey?
Could tastebuds kiss the perennial vines,
the posies, the spray of efflorescence
A taste of simple sweetness -
I remember when you ripped the front-porch-lavender.
The roots could not resist your claws.
You sweat to mutilate strained flowers,
You always work harder. Verdure spoiled.
Ravaged, ruptured, tanked soil.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
i have little cat and he lives with me
he his very clever a clever cat is he
one day i went shopping and i had lost my key
i looked everywhere but my key i couldnt see
i thought about my cat being all alone
i was stuck outside stood there on my own
but my cat was clever and noticed my spare key
he opened up the letterbox and handed it to me
next time i go out i shall leave my key next door
then i can still get in and lose my key no more
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
My new neighbour depression,
lives in a house rotting in the ground,
scarred wood torn away and roof tiles scattered,
with garden flowers withering away,
trees cracking at the slightest move of the wind.
Ever since he moved in a storm cloud
hangs low over the neighbourhood,
soaking my lawn and treading on my grass.
My neighbour depression
throws heavy stones to crack my windows,
leaves untidily scrawled messages of hatred in my letterbox,
leaving a trail of black paint up to his backgate.
My neighbour depression
takes advantage of my protection of thin walls,
and each day attempts to crash through them like a wrecking ball,
slowly dimming my lights and making shadows in my room
appear darker and bigger.
My neighbour depression
walks down the street like a black hole,
******* out all the sound around him.
And my neighbour depression
is starting to make me forget what my voice sounded like.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Do you want a small mystery?
Should I make the postman history?
What is in that letterbox?
Yet more bills, quite a shock.
Or do you want a big mystery?
Why are we here? Ask history....
Good question that,
We just are, that's that,
(Now I sound like ***
Dumb question that, I guess,
So, next, that small mystery,
When do I make the postman history?
I guess it's all mystery to me........
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:04 PM UTC
I just posted my heart to you
in the letterbox of love
I'd send you my all
but I could not get inside
The park was greener then green
clouds with golden seams
was this all a dream
a letterbox of love
It stood there on the street corner
throbbing pink and pulsing
leaping as if it was my heart
that crazy letterbox of love
It took me nearly an hour
to post my heart to thee
I wish I'd had the instinctive insight
and tied that letterbox to a tree
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
*sense is seen
when scents on scene*
1.
jaunty-laddie walked and grabbed the sun out the sky
hid it leisurely in his back-pocket
while the candy jumped out the sweet-jar
and the farmer fed the dog to the food
2.
an elm-tree nearby coughed nervously at the encroaching-air
as the letterbox chatted lively to the ivy-hedge
the wind popped by and whistled out a papery-sigh
that the clouds caught and flung into a blue swing-lasso
3.
working out moves in ab-struck-shin
sweaters and jumpers at the local gym got all scratchy
and went on strike to protest against the über-cool fridge
and gravity took a break
and we all
flew
a way..!
woof-woof
S T - 26th of October, is it?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
This house was washed away weeks ago.
Freak storm or tidal wave or something;
One of those natural disasters.
I was sleeping, so I didn’t notice.
Look out of the window and you’ll see I’m right.
We’re mid-Atlantic now perhaps,
Not beyond help, yet too far to be seen,
The visible invisible.
I’ve gotten to love these waves,
The lap, lapping sway and the cabin headache,
The bluster of wind and spume, flung against cold glass
Like snow from a gun.
It floats, obviously, this house,
And the watermark is lower than the letterbox,
So everything’s fine, just fine,
And there’s not the slightest chance of drowning.
‘Solid construction, energy efficient, built to last’ –
Those builders knew their stuff inside out,
And I have enough supplies to last until tomorrow,
Which is all that matters, isn’t it?
Do you fancy a cuppa? I’ll put the kettle on.
I’ve thought of everything, you see.
It’s just as well I turned the house inside out
Before the weather changed.
Vicki Watson © 2014
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
She asked for my new address,
around my birthday
Today
you have to scroll a lot,
on my FB page
To find a super belated wish
Yet, twice a day,
I merrily pick a small key
Acknowledge the faint flutter within
and check the empty letterbox
Coz I am pragmatic,
not a hopeless romantic
I check the empty letterbox,
coz I have already bought
a lovely red Thank You card
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
The mystery deepens with slow steps
down the drive to that green mystery box
that holds the secrets of the universe within its grasp.
Besides the bills that need attention
invitations to church services
'fresh cuts' from butcher going down
products the clothing store discounts
power bills powering me up
water bills wetting me down
local rags headlining unknown street corners
filled with rage and graffiti
police searching for crims
(not on my street-No)
preachers discounting heaven for a tithe
car license rebirth
warrant remake
local school financial support
what else is new?
I've recently installed another box next
standing beside green box
flip all of the above next box
for recycling.
I only keep the one
which says in small print
No ******* collections on Labour Day.
Author Notes
Do you have the same problem and solution
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 months ago
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Oh my petite,
You're a five-course dinner with the works
and a lovesick tantrum.
Your affection
like a hummingbird,
with how it pecks and pecks and
pecks.
Lips faster than one-sixtieth of a second
when you say
You don't love me anymore
But darling, I've got a
letterbox heart
Iron locks and
Silver casts
Filled with postcards
to no address.
Open me up and find
your name scrawled inside
over and
over
and
over.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
Every time something new and exciting happens,
I'd write a letter to mumma,
ever since I was six.
New Ma and Pa gave me a pen and paper
one day, and an envelope with a unfamiliar adress,
they said, "Write 'til your hearts content, sweetheart."
My first letter had terrible spelling,
with backwards letters,
But it had meaning,
it read, "Where are you mumma?"
I wrote a letter for each week,
and New Ma would let me put it in the box,
down by the train station,
I'd run home as fast as I could
and Pa told me that if I sit by the letterbox
too much, a patch of grass next to it would die,
so I sat at the door step waiting instead.
As I grew up,
The amount of letters I'd write would
slowly decline, I'd write more in depth
than one sentence, but only once a month.
At the age of 17, I'd write only 2 letters a year,
Christmas and what they told me was her birthday.
I'm 29 now, I still write her a letter
whenever I have time,
and somedays, when I feel lost,
or empty inside,
I'll still sit by the dusty letterbox
and wait.
***Dear Mumma,
I'm 29 today, are you proud?
How are you?
Are you fine?
Are you fascinated by stars?
I watch them tonight,
As I write to you.
Mumma, I have some sad news,
New Pa had been terribly ill for weeks,
Months maybe, but it all seemed too quick.
He passed away last week, Mum.
Pa was a beautiful man,
I wish you met him, Mum,
You would have liked him,
Every one did.
At the end of Pa's funeral,
New Ma handed me a shoe box
covered in tear drops
and her shaky hands were so pale.
But, Mum, do you know what was inside?
The box held every single one of my letters
That I had sent you,
All were stamped with "RETURN TO SENDER".
On sunny days,
I still wait for you at parks, Mum.
From your forgotten daughter,
Florence.
I love you.***
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
Before I hide myself away
for another night awake,
I'll look up between letterbox gaps in the broken blind
to see the moon shift six degrees southeasterly and think that
in the next seven hours soft eleven light will leak through as
an alarm-clock-call no one asked for.
Before I walk out the door
for another day of yesterday,
I'll look for the wind coming down the road
to ask it if it's bringing me something new on its coattails.
Ikebana dalliance?
A chance blur with her?
Or something old and the same as before?
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
colors of green
upon strange dark shapes
reflect off a mood
moving me
sounds to ****
a hard working animal
not quite a lullaby
but still,
moving me
a scarf draped over
an old man's letterbox
old coins stuck
in the sidewalk
things I miss
but still look to see
don't mean a lot
yet all is
moving me
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
When he tells you
That you see through the eyes of a poet,
When you see the evening traffic
Like a string of glistening pearls in the sparkling cold of a wintry night,
When you hear the steel letterbox snap like a mousetrap
And the mail flop behind your door like a dead rat,
When your finger traces the days’ old dust on your coffee table
And your eyes trail in the wake of a churning steamboat ,
When you say you accept chaos and it’s underlying order
And vice versa,
When he brings you coffee and you say “Thanks”
He tells you
That you see through the eyes of a poet
And what he is saying is...
You Are Mad.
And you realise why you see him as blank verse -
Prose pretending to be poetry.
Dec 15, 2009
Dec 15, 2009 at 1:03 AM UTC
An unexpected caller came
in the middle of the night.
Had me traipsing downstairs,
guided by candlelight.
(I’d suffered a power cut
sometime earlier in the day,
A temporary arrangement
until I arranged to pay.)
“Who is it?” I calmly asked,
trembling behind the door,
Cold striking up my legs
from the clay-tiled floor.
“Who is it?” I asked again
with cautious trepidation,
Fighting back the fear of
an unwanted confrontation.
No one answered back,
not one single, solitary, peep,
from the unexpected caller
who’d ruined my beauty sleep.
The letterbox then rattled again
giving me something of a start!
Jumping flame-lit shadows
jumping in my fluttering heart.
The identity of the caller rolled
around my searching brain.
The ghostly rattling letterbox
then startled me again!
Carefully, I opened the door
with safety chain in place.
Prepared to slam it shut again
you know, just in case.
What greeted me was not
something that needed sorting.
Just my amorous cat, returning
from a nights, hectic courting.
(Lucky thing.)
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
Remind me that
one day
I will visit the planet
Zog
Where sleepy people
parade in duvets
instead of clothes.
Good morning
to them means nothing.
Sleepy people come from Zog.
Is it where rude animals live?
That make a mess with
food in their dish
oh sorry they eat
off the floor.
Spend their time
distributing hairs to
every corner of a room,
Then they go in the
shoe cupboard and
choose the nicest shoe
and goes to the toilet on
the sole of it. Nice.
A dog comes from Zog.
Moths
their one purpose in life
to spread eagle on your car window
with a shcoked look.
Or drape themselves to the grill
on the front of your car.
They come from Zog.
The postman that looks
at the address on the envelope
looks at the number on the
front door.
Do they match?
No they do not.
It is next door's mail.
But hey ** just for the thrill of it
it goes in the letterbox.
That postman comes from Zog.
The teaspoon from the cutlery drawer
having its daily laugh.
Refusing to comform
wont go with the rest, oh no
It stays in the washing up water
and tries to abscond down the plughole.
Teaspoons are from Zog.
Here endeth my rant.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Rat tat tat...footsteps in the dark.
Trotting down the passageway.
Shakes...Walking away.
Walking back.
Letterbox rattles.
Door handle rattles.
Entire door shakes.
Dashes away.
Comes back again.
Up the alley.
Down the alley.
Hear the handle move.
The lock jams.
Was it locked.
In some flustered turmoil he came and went.
Seemed like a million times in a morning.
Finally satisfied.
He left.
Habitual morning's OCD.
Here he goes again.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
I'm a writer.
I pick up my pen
I'm playing again
And my world is just a packet of words.
That packet is an envelope.
Stuck it in the letterbox.
A letterbox full of magic tricks.
(C) Livvi
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
My brain is a locked door
and I've misplaced the keys.
Nothing will go in and
nothing substantial will come out.
I've knocked and I've rung,
but all to no avail.
The only response is the letterbox
hurling out junk mail
and words I've used before.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Now mail comes through the letterbox,
Not as often as before,
Now it’s just bills and other shocks,
That rock me to the core.
Now calls come by the telephone,
Not as often as before,
Mostly it’s just the dialling tone,
Voicemail just as before.
Visitors come and ring the bell,
Not as often as before,
Now just the salesmen come to sell,
Not the ones I adore.
Now I live here just on my own,
Not just as it was before,
Lovers and family have all gone,
They visit me no more.
Invites out come now and again,
Not as often as before,
Kids and grandkids don’t see the pain,
The suffering and the sore.
I fall asleep so well at night,
Not as often as before,
Comfortable in my bed by right,
But resting is so poor.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
You said this,
that I gave more than you wanted
that I surrounded you,
smothered you with plumped up pillows
and forced you into swaddling clothes,
too tight for a grown man.
You were wrong.
And now I wear bedsocks to stave off a chill that
has nothing to do with barometric pressure,
mocked by a too big duvet in an aftershave scented bed.
I take my usual route and stare at the downturned faces
of busy people who don’t wish to look my way,
no matter, they haven’t realised how special I am.
I’m here to win you back.
I’ll come at you with perfumed cards.
Accost you with sugary tokens.
Stab at you with flowered stems.
Your letterbox is your eyes and ears
and I’m jamming myself into it,
waiting for you to come home.
Dec 19, 2010
Dec 19, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
The cry for help broke my balance
my legs buckled, I fell to the ground
I felt the dead walk through me
and my soul seemed to splinter
Like a crack crazed puppet
I span around on my knees
crawled up to the door
beating it hard with my fists
Inside they howled like Banshees
willing me to break them out
my fists, blooded from the pounding
imbedded with glass, yet I had no care
I saw little plastic hands
banging on the leaded windows,
through the silver letterbox
pale hands tried to egg me on
Their frantic screaming
their hollow lives
their desperate hour
calling me to save them
Wanting freedom from this most unholy shop
for all within were the souls of the living
those who had sinned
and deemed unforgiven
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
A pensioner's long walk today,
Yes, the mailman's been, no yah!
What bills did arrive this way?
Postman, postman, stay away,
I am putting up a sign,
"BAN THE BILLS!' about frigging time!
If all bill payers went on strike,
Bills would go down, not upwards hike,
Yes, it's that dreaded long walk again,
Should I throw the bills down the drain?
A gutter too far, or in the bin?
Bringing us bills is the postman's great sin,
Can't afford that, can't afford that,
"I'll shoot you, postman, now don't come back!"
Is shooting postmen a capital offence?
"BAN THE BILLS!" on everyone's fence!
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC