Postcard Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
This poem is very long So long, in fact, that your attention span May be stretched to its very limits But that's okay It's what's so special about poetry See, poetry takes time We live in a time Call it our culture or society It doesn't matter to me cause neither one rhymes A time where most people don't want to listen Our throats wait like matchsticks waiting to catch fire Waiting until we can speak No patience to listen But this poem is long It's so long, in fact, that during the time of this poem You could've done any number of other wonderful things You could've called your father Call your father You could be writing a postcard right now Write a postcard When was the last time you wrote a postcard? You could be outside You're probably not too far away from a sunrise or a sunset Watch the sun rise Maybe you could've written your own poem A better poem You could have played a tune or sung a song You could have met your neighbor And memorized their name Memorize the name of your neighbor You could've drawn a picture (Or, at least, colored one in) You could've started a book Or finished a prayer You could've talked to God Pray When was the last time you prayed? Really prayed? This is a long poem So long, in fact, that you've already spent a minute with it When was the last time you hugged a friend for a minute? Or told them that you love them? Tell your friends you love them ... no, I mean it, tell them Say, I love you Say, you make life worth living Because that, is what friends do Of all of the wonderful things that you could've done During this very, very long poem You could have connected Maybe you are connecting Maybe we're connecting See, I believe that the only things that really matter In the grand scheme of life are God and people And if people are made in the image of God Then when you spend your time with people It's never wasted And in this very long poem I'm trying to let a poem do what a poem does: Make things simpler We don't need poems to make things more complicated We have each other for that We need poems to remind ourselves of the things that really matter To take time A long time To be alive for the sake of someone else for a single moment Or for many moments Cause we need each other To hold the hands of a broken person All you have to do is meet a person Shake their hand Look in their eyes They are you We are all broken together But these shattered pieces of our existence don't have to be a mess We just have to care enough to hold our tongues sometimes To sit and listen to a very long poem A story of a life The joy of a friend and the grief of friend To hold and be held And be quiet So, pray Write a postcard Call your parents and forgive them and then thank them Turn off the TV Create art as best as you can Share as much as possible, especially money Tell someone about a very long poem you once heard And how afterward it brought you to them

Colleen Hoover
Once on yellow sheet of paper with green lines, he wrote a poem and he called it 'Spot' because that was the name of his dog and that's what it was all about and his teacher gave him an 'A' and a big gold star and his mother hung it on the kitchen cupboard and showed it to his aunt and that was the year his sister was born-and his parents kissed all the time and the little girl around the corner sent him a postcard with a row of X's on it and his father tucked him into bed at night and was always there. Then on a white sheet of paper with blue lines, he wrote another poem and he called it 'Autumn' because that was the time of year and that's what it was all about and his teacher gave him an 'A' and told him to write more clearly and his mother told him not to hang it on the kitchen cupboard because it left marks and that was the year his sister got glasses and his parents never kissed anymore and the little girl around the corner laughed when he fell down with his bike and his father didn't tuck him in at night. So, on another piece of paper torn from a notebook he wrote another poem and he called it 'Absolutely Nothing' Because that's what it was all about and his teach gave him an 'A' and a hard searching look and he didn't show it to his mother and that was the year he caught his sister necking on the back porch and the little girl around the corner wore too much make-up so that he laughed when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway and he tucked himself in bed at three AM with his father snoring loudly in the next room Finally, on the inside of a matchbook he wrote another poem and he called it '?' because that's what it was all about And he gave himself an 'A' and a slash on each wrist and hung it on the bathroom mirror Because he couldn't make it to the kitchen.

Earl Reum
I'd like to share with you a parable: the parable of Bob the Angel. A girl was walking down a darkly lit city street late at night. A man jumped out from the shadows and attacked her, suddenly she was suffocating and disoriented as hands clasped around her neck and the force of his attack started to push her down. She tried to yell as she struggled to pull his arms from her neck while she crumpled backwards to the ground, 'God... help me!' The next thing she remembers-just as the fear consumed her, and right as she disappeared into the misery and despair of helplessness-was a loud crash and an explosion of glass which rained down upon her and her attacker. The assailant's lifeless body was suspended above her, held from collapsing on her by an unknown force, and then pulled away from hovering over her and dropped onto the pavement beside her. She opened her eyes in the faint shadowy light, to see black matted hair and a long, black beard framing the eyes of a man. The smell of alcohol on his breath would have knocked her out if the adrenaline was not still trilling through her veins. There he stood, God's angel, off-kilter and drunk, with a broken whiskey bottle in his hand. 'You probably shouldn't be walking through here this late at night, ' was all he said as he turned away. 'Wait! What's your name?' she asked, still stunned half sitting up on the ground. All she heard as he walked away was his trailing voice calling, 'Bob's as good as any... ' An angel is a messenger, and sometimes we only want letters sent in white envelopes with beautiful gold print, when sometimes a simple 'no' on the back of a gum wrapper is what we are offered. Every postcard from heaven does not come with a picture of the sunset there, nor should it. If it is an answer we want, an answer we will get. As far as pretty postcards, there are many others willing to send us that. If not harps and gold-tipped wings, what then is the mark of an angel? An answer which pierces your soul, and which inspires a question that invites you to look outside of yourself and up to God.

Michael Brent Jones
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