Quotes about mail, page 6
Just When I Thought I'd Seen It All
OK I know it's a liitle early
For Christmas poems
But the catalogues have been coming
By mail for weeks
So I'll keep this short
For those of you or
People on your shopping list
Who still have self-winding watches
Wrist that is
That need help getting wound
It's hard to believe
But they have come up with a cure
This machine $100 to $200
Holds one or up to four
Wrist watches - - - at last count
I only needed one
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poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Voice Mail and Rice A-Roni
Oh, voice mail.
Ok, I just wanted you to know
that when you come over
be ready
because I don't cook
or bake;
Think Inside The Box;
like Rice a-Roni or spaghetti.
And we can stay only a while
if you come early
because of my room mates-
the drive way-don't park.
Bob will be leaving for work
and he'll get blocked in.
Everything is so complicated.
No gifts please
[...] Read more
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Adventure
Out of the wood my White Knight came:
His eyes were bright with a bitter flame,
As I clung to his stirrup leather;
For I was only a dreaming lad,
Yet oh, what a wonderful faith I had!
And the song in my heart was never so glad,
As we took to the trail together.
"Friends and lovers, good-bye," I said;
Never once did I turn my head,
Though wickedly wild the weather
min were the rover's rags and scars,
And the rover's bed beneath the stars,
But never the shadow of prison bars,
As we ranged the world together.
Dreary and darkling was the trail,
But my Knight was clad in a gleaming mail,
And he plucked from his plume a feather.
And oh how foolishly proud was I!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
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Voice Mail From Mom
Voice Mail From Mom
Buzzing sound awakes me
I pull covers up over my head
Chiming ring irritates me
I burrow deeper in my bed
Voice mails chime finally placates me
Sleep returns in it’s stead
Alarm clock’s buzzing awakes me
To a day of despair that I dread
This day when my mom would be buried
To hear from, to see never more
Loneliness and regret overtake me
As I numbly start out of the door
The feel of the phone on my hip makes me recall
And remember the call from last night
When I look at the screen my jaw starts to fall
[...] Read more
poem by David Whalen
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Mailbox Opens By Itself?
How does a mailbox open all by itself?
No, it needed a human’s help.
You opened it, then looked in,
you saw the note,
you were caught again.
So you played Sherry
with your stupid little lie,
your made up false alibi.
“All the mailbox doors
open just like M.D’s.”
[...] Read more
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Wish List (votes for sale)
It’s election time again
Picture postcards in the mail
Election time again
On every campaign trail
Election time, election time, election time
It’s election time,
A photo opportunity everywhere
Yes election time,
Cleaner streets and cleaner air,
Election time, election time, election time
In every seat across the nation
Never seen so much enthusiasm
So many nice people wanting to shake my hand
Tell me they’ll do all they can
To fill my wish list
It’s election time,
And they’re all promising to do more
[...] Read more
poem by Colin Coplin
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Frank Gardiner
Oh Frank Gardiner is caught at last and lies in Sydney jail,
For wounding Sergeant Middleton and robbing the Mudgee mail.
For plundering of the gold escort, the Carcoar mail also;
And it was for gold he made so bold, and not so long ago.
His daring deeds surprised them all throughout the Sydney land,
And on his friends he gave a call, and quickly raised a band.
And fortune always favoured him, until this time of late,
Until Ben Hall and Gilbert met with their dreadful fate.
Young Vane, he has surrendered, Ben Hall's got his death wound,
And as for Johnny Gilbert, near Binalong was found,
He was all alone and lost his horse, three troopers came in sight,
And fought the three most manfully, got slaughtered in the fight.
Farewell, adieu, to outlawed Frank, he was the poor man's friend.
The Government has secured him, the laws he did offend.
He boldly stood his trial and answered in a breath,
'And do what you will, you can but kill; I have no fear of death!'
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poem by Anonymous Oceania
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Slither
Slither.
If you're a fellow sufferer,
you'll know exactly what I mean.
Is it worse for those who live by the word,
or those who hope to avoid it?
It's that pile of papers, CDs, books, leaflets,
sitting beside the PC, vital at the time
when time was of the essence;
soon covered like a game of impatient patience
with another vital document...
file everything after use? Who's that anal?
It's that pile of mail on the kitchen table
with a touch of marmalade between some items, that
you opened during many breakfasts (it's a cereal story, this)
and hope will answer itself.
Above all, it's the pile of mail-order catalogues
that come in cellophane wrappers
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Lost Letter
In the postoffice window was one broken pane;
In the wainscot there was one loosen'd board;
And conveniently near was the broad oaken table,
Where the mail from the bag had been pour'd,
'Twas a morning in May, with a sweet odor'd breeze;
And it happen'd unnotic'd by all,
That a most precious missive, that love laden letter,
Flutter'd down thro' the gap in the wall.
Two lives wreck'd by a zephyr!
Two hearts crush'd by the fall,
When that most precious missive, that love laden letter,
Flutter'd down thro' the gap in the wall.
Both were faithful and true, 'Twas a gossip's remark,
that had clouded loving hearts with concern.
Then, alas! came a quarrel; and she, in her anger,
Bade him go, nevermore to return.
Oh, how soon she repented! how great was her grief,
And how humbly she penn'd her recall!
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poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Travelling Post Office
The roving breezes come and go, the reed-beds sweep and sway,
The sleepy river murmers low,and loiters on its way,
It is the land of lots o'time along the Castlereagh.
. . .. . . . .
The old man's son had left the farm, he found it full and slow,
He drifted to the great North-west, where all the rovers go.
"He's gone so long," the old man said, "he's dropped right out of mind,
But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind;
He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray--
He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.
"The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow;
Tey may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow,
Or tramping down the black-soil flats across by Waddiwong;
But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong.
The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep;
It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep,'
For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray,
You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.'"
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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