Tore Carefully The Edge, Open, Of The Thing
1
a New York, perhaps, story
drunken, again, postmaster/
mistress deposits, months,
your long sent gift into the wrong
mailbox downstairs, tenant of
said mailbox on vacation long away
only just arrived from Barcelona
only just got to his mail, found your
gift for me delivered at my surprised,
happily, door only this dull morning
making/waking up the coffee cup
which, too, was flat until the surprise
knocked, arrived, tore carefully the
edge of the thing, which
brought/brings me still surprise,
joy, eyes, scanning in the images/words
and I am greatly in the
entrance/in-trance of the
unfolding
and elusive eventing of it.
Thank you.
2
Just let you know:
I have written, angry, a note
to the post office, this, late
gift arriving not on time but
timely, blame is no good thing,
yes, to waste on minor salvation
at the door
when two filthy floors below,
just, a note post haste, landlord's,
on tenant door, yellowed paper,
scribbled, declaring, now premised,
BED BUGS
such tenement woes,
now go forth, I, afraid to
touch walls, fast walk
wide away, around, from
it, hard done,
the narrow
stair too
close it is,
fearing what
lives, skin
crawl, therein
and creeping
up,
now,
the
stair
3
That said, nearby flit,
I am in a thorough, now,
(enough) read/study of that
your arrival which would have
eluded me as, once, a young
man, now, yields if one can get
through the densities and
immense, his own, narcissism
but there is, clear, some
greatness therein, it, yielding,
for which Narcissus can
justly be stroked and fond-ed.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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.”
“I” tried your game
this morning
it didn’t budge or
even squeak.
I could sit there all day
long opening mailboxes
till I’m blue in the face,
NO movement from my
mailbox not even a trace.
See last week you were
in my mailbox
and you took the 1st note out,
you were scared
without a doubt.
See the mailman put
mail in after that,
so this week you went
on your little rant.
You called the cops
and stated your false case,
then put a note outside my place.
Making me take the note out
before the mailman got there
the very next day,
so that I would think
the mailman took the
first note last week away.
But SEE the mail did come today,
and guess what the note did STAY.
So how did you know the note was
still in my mailbox today
and why would you care?
Because you are GUILTY
and so you dared.
You looked again—what a fool—
Like you think I’m stupid?
No, I’m on to you.
Now take your old dog
and your lying ____
and move out
while you still have
the chance.
Written on March 15,2011 by Christina Sunrise
poem by Christina Sunrise
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October the Post Office Cat
Some thought she was a stray
That had come for scraps along the way
That might be left from the lunch
Of the post office staff; a kindly bunch.
But others knew her for what she was,
October the Post Office Cat.
She had a duty like any employee
To be on time and serve the public daily
And as any other as all know,
Had an official position just so.
October the Post Office Cat.
As soon as the walks were swept
And the doors were opened for the daily visits,
She found her space upon the walk
A bit removed so that none would balk
As they came to do their task or mail whatever.
October the Post Office Cat.
She often times was given the duty
Of minding some child whose custodian
Had business to attend
In dealing with the letters or packages within,
So she laid there carefully in the sun
Till end of day when her work was done.
October the Post Office Cat.
She was known by all who came along that way
Parking carefully throughout the day
Making sure that she was not disturbed
As she, her duties did perform.
Watching and listening to the sounds of pleasure
That only can be bestowed on one to treasure.
Yet adults knew not how to measure.
October the Post Office Cat.
On the post across the way
A yellow sign was placed on display
By the lady who ran the insurance office
Who wanted to be sure that others notice
That this was the path taken each day
As the cat came to begin her official stay.
October the Post Office Cat.
There came a time when she did not appear
And it was certainly a time to fear
That something had befallen this special one
Who worked so hard to please everyone
And the sign was removed so that all would know
That she wouldn't be there anymore.
October the Post Office Cat.
Then mysteriously the sign reappeared
On the post for all to read
Which proclaimed that this was the crossing
Reserved for the cat that all were missing.
And it's said that she comes each day
Although never seen by adults on their way
But the children know that she is there.
October the Post Office Cat.
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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The Stairs....
the stairs show us
a door, and we focus
to the moment when
we arrive at the very
doorstep
anticipating about
a day of an opening
and see finally what is next
what is there
we step upon each
plank
ascend every next
stair
each stair
and the next stair
all the days of our
lives
spending time
with little rest
and sometimes with
nothing at all
sooner we feel
so deceived
having spent so much
time already
ascending
habitually
but not really getting near
that attractive door
and when we notice that
it is too late
our faces have given birth
to all the wrinkles
our heads have grown
all the white hairs
and silences by all means
have sewn our lips
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For A Very Special Lady Called Melvina
As we travel along our many different roads,
we meet people, sometimes face to face and sometimes not.
They influence us through their words,
and change us in someway.
This poem is written for one such person,
a very special person whose name
is none other than PH’s Melvina Germain.
I’ve often stated that it was through her poetry
that brought me here to PH.
On my arrival, I was very confused,
even poor Mel couldn't read
the mixed signals that I was giving.
However, as the weeks turned into months
her inspiration brought me to my senses,
and after a long absence, I began to write again,
stronger and wiser than before.
However that wasn’t the only thing she gave to me,
though I don’t think she ever realised.
She gave me a greater gift,
which was my faith in God back.
I had lost and was wandering
like a lost and vacant soul.
With the guidance through her writing,
I was soon put back on track, and derailed no more.
She was to give me one more gift,
which I adore her for.
The greatest gift one person can give another,
the gift of friendship.
There is more I would to tell you about her,
but then, this poetic tribute would end up
as a poem without end.
So I am going to end by saying,
Melvina, there are a lot of things
I would never have without you.
You picked me up when I needed it the most.
For that, I will always be in your debt.
Although this poem is not
all that good as it should be.
Please take it anyway
for all the esteem I hold for thee.
God bless you Mel.
(For Melvina Germain/18 August 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Southbound Jericho Parkway
Bobby bond
There was a man whose memories were made up,
Of nothing.
He pushed the elevator button, and go home,
To nothing.
Yes his business had prospered but women get lonely sometimes, now she has the house
His son in college had dropped out,
To expand his mind.
And sarah, his daughter had not spoken to him.
Maybe hed raised her the wrong way.
He wondered.
He checked his mailbox, with fingers a-tremblin
No mail, from anyone.
Im home he said softly, as he opened the door
And gazed at his empty apartment.
Aching, thinking.
Southbound jericho parkway
Is what you call a one-way street.
Southbound jericho parkway
Is what you call a one-way street.
At 7.20, monday after new year,
Mister henry johnson leaned against the pedal
Aimed his lincoln steady and drove himself into a wall.
How could a thing sush as this ever happen.
All the community said it was shame.
He was a good man,he was a clean man yeah,
Thats what he was a good and clean man
And his landlady said he was an exemplary tenant.
Theyre always nice and quiet when theyre all alone
At his age.
The young man sat, on a small woven mat.
While the silken smoke it cirlcled over head.
The cigarettes were there to prove he didnt care
bout the contents of the telegram hed just read.
Father, father, father.
You always seemed to be so out of reach.
And the psychedelyc sign read: peace.
Apartment in new york, a girl closes the door,
And leans against it with her head bowed low.
Thoughts raced through her mind
Of when she was a child.
Raised warmly by a man she didnt know.
Father, father, father.
She wished she had phoned him yesterday
There were so many things she had to say
Henry, the check is in my hands
Brought by the insurance man to cover all my plans
Well have flowers, your broker will be there
And sarah, if she cares, and our boy with all his hair
And the sun rose,and the sunset
As it always has,
And people yet unknown, were busy being born,
And time when past.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With A Happiness Attack
I awakened this morning,
With a happiness attack.
I wasn't sure what it was.
So I laid quietly on my back.
When I fell asleep last night,
I didn't expect to wake up...
Not like that!
And when I opened my eyes,
I was surprised to feel so good.
So the next thing I did,
Was to thank God...
Like I should!
Unexpectedly I received my 'gift',
Delivered from God...
As only God could!
I awakened this morning,
With a happiness attack.
I wasn't sure what it was.
So I laid quietly on my back.
Making sure it was not the nightmare...
Many have become addicted to share.
And I had left staring in disbelief,
That I was not grieving with it!
And leaving it there.
On the other side of my door,
Where it was abandoned...
The day before!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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New Warm Skin (demo)
One fatal gift
Arrived here today
Heavenly sent
From the beauticians that pray
Here comes that face
And it's a textural treat
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
New
Warm
Skin
New
Warm
Expensive to touch
It's a novocaine skin
Beauty; this beast
Is transparent and thin
This sun can be cruel
I don't want to melt
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
New Warm Skin
New Warm Skin
New Warm Skin
New Warm
One fatal gift
Arrived here today
Contorted dreams
Of the beauticians that pray
Crawling out of this heat
And drifting this way
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
New Warm Skin
New Warm Skin
New Warm Skin
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Opera or Ballet
Oh joyous delight - finally reached the end of
my lovely Agreement, it should be an opera
sung to the music of Carmina Burana - if a
ballet, danced to the courtiers’ march in
Romeo and Juliet, the climax amazing
The tenant should fund the bill for drafting and
signing the serious contract, the self-satisfied
landlord can inspect and evict as he likes, the
effacing tenant had better beware - I see two
men in Victorian clothing - fencing
About the nefarious terms, no favours shall
nullify the terms by which the landlord can
pocket the deposit, any wrong step made
by the tenant shall render beneficial
occupation impossible - Should the
tenant improve the premises, no advantage
shall accrue to him, should the place burn
down - it will be seen as a scheme and he
shall be held responsible, the end to be
perfect - The angry tenant
shall kill the overbearing landlord with one
blow, then enjoy exercising his right to
beneficial occupation indefinitely - at
least, in the opera or ballet
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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New Warm Skin
One fatal gift
Arrived here today
Heavenly sent
From the beauticians that pray
Here comes that face
And its a textural treat
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
New
Warm
Skin
New
Warm
Expensive to touch
Its a novocaine skin
Beauty; this beast
Is transparent and thin
This sun can be cruel
I dont want to melt
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
New warm skin
New warm skin
New warm skin
New warm
One fatal gift
Arrived here today
Contorted dreams
Of the beauticians that pray
Crawling out of this heat
And drifting this way
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
New warm skin
New warm skin
New warm skin
Is this a war?
Is this a god?
Lyrics : j kerr music : simple minds (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life's A Gift
Life’s a gift for you to send
Life’s a gift for god to end
Life’s a gift now you’re with me
Life’s a gift for all to see
Life’s a gift when love is true
Life’s a gift when times look blue
Life’s a gift with the one you trust
Life’s a gift even if UN just
Life’s a gift a ray of sun
Life’s a gift though your heads held to a gun
Life’s a gift when its handed on a tray
Life’s a gift even though it’s always on display
Life’s a gift it’s hard to understand how
Life’s a gift so take advantage of it now
poem by SharonAnn Dawson
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Abandoned heart
I haven’t been to my heart since you were last there
I haveng found the courage to since I had lost your care
But now its time to go back as its been too long
I think I am ready now but I am afraid to be wrong
I reluctantly enter through that narrow tunnel
over every mountain and cave on my camel
I hadn’t thought that this much would change
I feel like I barely recognise it, everything feels strange
spider webs, echoes and darkness
two chairs knocked over by emptiness
two cups of cofee with a little left
rapping paper on the floor, wait there is a gift
I hear our voices and I can hear us shouting and laughing
I see reflections of our crowns when we used to be queen and king
I try to recall what happened then find a goodbye note
it’s not a familiar handwriting it must be one that destiny wrote
poem by Ayesha Sartawi
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Contemplation On The Climbing Of The Stairs...
as i climb the stair
i always think what is up there
when i arrive there
the door is closed
and i am thinking why
contemplating on the other possibilities
shall i open the door
and ask myself in
what if there is nobody there
what if it is just a door and there is nothing inside
i sit on the the last step
and i think again
what if it is not the stair after all
but only the ground
or the pebble or the grass
what if it is only myself and there is nobody else
what if i am just dreaming
what if i am nothing at all
but a thought
without weight without volume
what if this is all about air
a breath a hush a slip?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shatterproof
I see those newly weds
Their eyes wide and believing
They bill and coo at the mention of chez nous
Appearances can be deceiving
Its just a door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
A door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
We papered over all the cracks
And painted a cats lick and a promise
The landlord was a man of few words
And most of them were ominous
Its just a door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
A door and a window
Four walls and a roof
But a home of your own would be shatterproof
It was nothing really to write home about
Then one day it all appears too much
Here comes my little hammer and its shatterproof touch
He said, be practical,
These are most unreasonable demands.
Forget about the broken spectacles
And the damage to your hand.
Its just a door and a window
Four walls and a roof
And the doctors say Im almost shatterproof
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One That Was Not Sought
A gift is given...
Without an ego displayed,
By the giver attached.
The receiver of the gift...
Believing there to be more,
To this giving...
Than something as simple,
As that!
And...
The gift given is given back.
With sarcastic remarks...
And other unnecessary verbal attacks.
The giver of the gift,
Although offended by this...
Keeps a head straight on shoulders.
And makes only forward steps.
With a lesson learned...
And not a temper to display,
The gift giver never shows a disappointment.
Or has a thing to say.
Knowing that a wisdom,
Came as a surprise lesson taught.
From a teacher in disguise.
And from one that was not sought.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Tall Story
There was a knock on my front door, an angel stood outside!
I looked in shock, dropped to the floor, the door still opened wide.
The angel sighed and then flew in and put the kettle on,
Aware our talk would soon begin when fainting spells had gone.
The tea was ready there for me, he pointed to the cup.
So I drank my hot tea slowly, until that time was up.
He pointed to the living room, where both of us sat down,
My mind still felt a sense of doom and gloom sure makes you frown.
The angel told me, 'Get a pen and get some paper, too! '
So I stood up, right there and then, this very thing to do.
'Write down the words that I recite, when done, I'll have to leave.'
When I began, my face was white and I could hardly breathe.
He took his time and so did I, for twenty pages long,
When done, I heaved a quiet sigh... Were my words right or wrong?
He read it all and was impressed, 'Well done, I'll leave it here.
Please get it published. Do your best. The meaning's crystal clear.'
Then he stood up, walked to the door and so I let him go.
He said, 'God bless! ' and then no more, what more was there to know?
He flew away, past roofs and trees and reached the nearby hill
And soared up higher with such ease, yes, higher, higher still.
When my scanner scanned the pages, it left me quite perplexed,
As it must have taken ages to recognise the text.
I emailed every single word, my publisher replied,
He said he'd never been so stirred, I must've been inspired.
Of course, I couldn't tell him then! He'd get me locked away!
'I met this angel, ten foot ten, at home, this very day! '
So I kept quiet, private like... The published work sold well.
I bought a laptop and a bike, but one day, off I fell.
No guardian angel raised alarm that ice was on the road,
When I fell off, I broke my arm and said, 'Well, I'll be blowed.'
When I got home, I made the tea, got fish and chips that night
And got in bed quite carefully, then prayed with all my might!
The angel knocked upon my door, I sighed then let him in.
This time, because I knew the score, I chose not to begin.
'I'll use the laptop, type it out, then save the text that way.'
The angel looked at me so proud, God's wisdom to relay.
'Well done, please get it published soon! ' I walked him to the door,
He healed my arm, flew past the moon, I waved to him with awe.
That angel's words were good as gold, he certainly had skill.
It's only now my story's told... Make of it what you will...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The House That Does Not Speak About Anything...
how time swiftly flies without wings of birds
i wake up at dawn lacking sleep
into writing, into deeper thoughts on soundless hours
and how fast, how fast has morning arrived
i am innocent
how stupid can i be
inventing hope and trying to modify the shape of my days
the lights of the door and the kitchen are not turned off
the neighbors are worried
i am home but i am not opening the windows and the door
i am into writing, into the deeper thoughts of my soundless hours
let the neighbors think that i am on vacation again
for weeks
i am into a waking slumber gathering dreams, ripe fruits of sleep
of the waking and sleeping again and again
i love a house that doesn't speak about anything that cannot
remember anybody
the dark loves me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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She's Leaving Home
Wednesday morning at five o'clock
As the day begins
Silently closing her bedroom door
Leaving the note that she hoped would say more
She goes downstairs to the kitchen
Clutching her handkerchief
Quietly turning the back door key
Stepping outside she is free
She (we gave her most of our lives)
Is leaving (sacrificed most of our lives)
Home (we gave her everything money could buy)
She's leaving home after living alone for
So many years (bye bye)
Father snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown
Picks up the letter that's lying there
Standing alone at the top of the stairs
She breaks down and cries to her husband
Daddy our baby's gone
Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly
How could she do this to me
She (We never thought of ourselves)
Is leaving (never a thought for ourselves)
Home (we struggled hard all our lives to get by)
She's leaving home after living alone for
So many years (bye bye)
Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away
Waiting to keep the appointment she made
Meeting a man from the motor trade
She (what did we do that was wrong)
Is having (we didn't know it was wrong)
Fun (fun is the one thing that money can't buy)
Something inside that was always denied for
So many years (bye bye)
She's leaving home (bye bye)
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Gift Of Love
When you were born
There in your mother's arms
An angel told me always you will be
A gift of love from God to me
Though your road is long
I'll be right by your side
Through changes you'll see always you will be
A gift of love from God to me
Love took flight the day you came into my life
There is magic in the way I feel
Hearts opened wide gazing into your eyes
I'll be there for you
As long as I am alive
I have never loved
More than I love you
A gift for free always you will be
A gift of love from God to me
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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L'Ancien Regime
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king all kings above?
A young girl brought him love;
And he dowered her with shame,
With a sort of infamous fame,
And then with lonely years
Of penance and bitter tears --
Love is scarcely the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A statesman brought him planned
Justice for all the land;
And he in recompense got
Fierce struggle with brigue and plot,
Then a fall from lofty place
Into exile and disgrace --
Justice is never the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A writer brought him truth;
And first he imprisoned the youth,
And then he bestowed a free pyre
That the works might have plenty of fire,
And also to cure the pain
Of the headache called thought in the brain --
Truth is a very bad thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
The people brought their sure
Loyalty fervid and pure;
And he gave them bountiful spoil
Of taxes and hunger and toil,
Ignorance, brutish plight,
And wholesale slaughter in fight --
Loyalty's quite the worst thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A courtier brought to his feet
Servility graceful and sweet,
With an ever ready smile
And an ever supple guile;
And he got in reward the place
Of the statesman in disgrace --
Servility's always a thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A soldier brought him war,
La gloire, la victoire,
Ravage and carnage and groans,
For the pious Te Deum tones;
And he got in return for himself
Rank and honors and pelf --
War is a very fine thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king?
A harlot brought him her flesh,
Her lusts, and the manifold mesh
Of her wiles intervolved with caprice;
And he gave her his realm to fleece,
To corrupt, to ruin, and gave
Himself for her toy and her slave
Harlotry's just the thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king who fears to die?
A priest brought him a lie,
The blackness of hell uprolled
In heaven's shining gold;
And he got as guerdon for that
A see and a cardinal's hat --
A lie is an excellent thing
To bring as a gift for our king.
Has any one yet a thing
For a gift to our lord the king?
The country gave him a tomb,
A magnificent sleeping-room;
And for this it obtained some rest,
Clear riddance of many a pest,
And a hope which it much enjoyed
That the throne would continue void --
A tomb is the very best thing
For a gift to our lord the king.
poem by James Thomson
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Michael Picasso
(ian hunter)
(transcribed by justin purington)
Once upon a time
Not so long ago
People used to stand and stare
At the spider with the platinum hair
They thought you were immortal
We had our ups and downs
Like brothers often do
But I was there for him
He was always there for me
And we were there for you
How can I put into words
What my heart feels?
Its the deepest thing
When somebody you love dies
I just wanted
To give something back to you
Gift to gift
Michael, michael picasso good night
You used to love our house
You said it was relaxing
Now I walk in the places you walk
I talk in all the spaces you talk
It still hasnt sunk in
Are the words real
That come into my head
On a morning walk?
Do the shadows
Play tricks with my mind?
For it feels like
Nothing has changed
But I know it has
Michael, michael picasso
Good night
Heal me
Wont you
Heal me?
Nothing lasts forever
Set me free
Heal me
Wont you
Heal me?
Im the one whos left here
Heal me
Heal me
Heal me
You turned into a ghost
Surrounded by your pain
And the thing that I liked the least
Was sitting round hasker street
Lying about the future
And we all sit
In a room full of tears
On a windy day
And I looked out
But none of these words seem right
I just wanted
To give something back to you
Gift to gift
Michael, michael picasso
Good night
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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