Best Typist Poems
I now type with only a finger
For neuropathy makes me lame
Muscle spasms in hands linger
My hands seem to ignore my brain
It’s as if I never was a typist
Who flew 65 words a minute
Now I’m limited my gripe is
Takes me longer to finish
You’d think I’d complain I’m not vain
My other deficiencies are worse
But who wants an artist who can’t paint
Or a poet too hurt to word verse
I know my lupus has no cure
My asthma is no fun to me
But give me fingers fast and pure
To delight in the writing with ease
When I try to play piano
Fudge fingers suck the air
Notes yell like silver Soprano
A melody ruined by despair
I have mixed feeling about it
We all have a cross to bare right
But with fingers like mine I doubt it
Could complain and moan all night
Dear poetess had hip surgery
And has persevered despite all
So I say what the nerve of me
To complain of finger pain small talk
Taking a course of being a secretary
Typewriter on the table is ready
My hands are aching to hit the letters
Speed depends on the movements of my fingers
A basic instrument of communication
You have to familiarize with the hands-on
Busy hands needs to type as many words
It’s like having a competition with swords
Manual way of making documents for you and for me
You have to be sure to type the words and letters correctly
Bond papers, liquid erasers, and a heavy type writer
The complete set to accomplish the mission as typist
Typewriters will be remembered as the years go by
Modern computers will not beat its quality even if I buy
April 25, 2013
For Craig's Contest "The Typewriter"
Note:
I worked as a secretary in an insurance company before and I used typewriter for making documents, letters, etc. and missed using it for a long time... (^_^)
-
I crossed the road in front of a red 1947 Oldsmobile. Horns
honking throughout the city. She sounded young and free on the
phone when she called last night. Not meaning to clip the wing
mirror I step on to the sidewalk. The driver tipped his hat as if
hoping I was fine but drove on anyway.
I had little on that day and let my typist off. These days money was slow
for private dectectives. Maybe I might hit on her or at least get good
expenses for the job. I pushed in the buiding's front door and unloaded my
mail box. No pay checks but a warning note. Who could have dropped off this
violent threat. Some low life shmuck prepared to do a cheap hit. Yeah.
I ascended the stairs to hispanic baby cries and creaking stairwells to
my office. I visioned her drapped across my desk brown pencil skirt nylons and
long blond hair. Available. Then a cry of Phillip. I quickly juggled my coffee and
donuts to same arm that had my coat and clicked the brass handled door.
Anticpation high. Excitable and sweaty in this downtown Los Angeles heat.
Bang. A bullet riochets off the door frame splintering the wood at right
angles.The broad was not available not suductive not a flowing blond.
But dead. I looked carefully at the victim. Her habit covered in blood.
Curtains blowing inward I realised it was too late for her and I had been
framed. Needless to say there would be no pay check here.
I. Daybreak
what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses
the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble
here the old Norges and RCAs
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard
the scattered habits of a mechanic
early chests exhale
crankshafts turn
Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb
II. Kids
dirt streaked
all our bellies were round
dirt streaked
consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs
dirt streaked
we all ate dirt
dug tunnels
played trucks
dirt streaked
the swing set whistled
rocking hard
in the recesses
of an afternoon
III. Locked
the day lost in some
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist
locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads
fixed like the eyes of the
police
it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking
why housewives keep doing
their laundry
IV. Production
nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out
come secretaries
run with the wolves again*
migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words
for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls
the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original
cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington
coal miners
dig loose the words
hiding under Kentucky
the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
the pot of a quiet army
let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms
* Taken from an old folktale
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
Early 70's suffered from post puberty traumatic stress
running to the school bus stop my belongings a mess
at times missing the bus and walking to school
enjoying my time alone and the suburban view
Graduated from my NY high school in 1975
worked a variety of jobs I was staying alive
took advantage of my typing and became a clerk typist
driving on the LIE everyday getting stuck in traffic
Went out dancing a bit with friends at times
working by day and trying to find the right guy
the Vietnam War had ended which was great
then onto gas shortages and the televised soap opera Watergate
Lived at home for awhile and paid rent to my parents
a blue collar working girl whose low salary was apparent
would have loved to have been more like Mary Tyler Moore
with my own apartment and friends knocking at my door
That decade on Long Island I had my share of ups and downs
a little flighty female trying to find my way around
a realistic dreamer trying to row merrily along in life's stream
on occasion putting my oars down conjuring up new dreams
2-22-19
___ Manual Typewriter At Work___
The keys clack aloud
As they strike the paper
The carriage lifts up
When the shift key is alter
The ping of the bell warns the typist
That she is nearing the end
Of the line and have to
Lift up her left hand
From the keyboard.
Swipe at the carriage returns lever.
Putting the carriage back to its normal position
Cause a 'Ziiip' noise scribe has to bear.
Olden days still not old
Computers come to being through it.
It is gold of many colors
That can best be traced by people of its age.
God Will Overlook
For God, would you want to go to work
As maybe quite a genius or plain old clerk
Milking many cows or working in a field
Hoping to produce a very good yield.
How about being plumber or a typist
Be in a beauty pageant and hard to resist
Or just judge sitting there who will wait
Then after best is chosen begin to celebrate.
As all my days increase and a poet may be
Always trying my best and others agree
Then God started administering His test
Discovered just being your self is the best.
Don't find yourself false, but to God be true
Even though on His test may miss a few
Come to think of it, I am a miserable cook
Thank goodness, my cooking He will overlook.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
I have been pre - oc
cupied
i have knot been per -
used to periodical nomanclature nor have I been be -
spectaled by the enormity of my
self
but have been painting numerous
simple questions to my
self:
under guises that I have flat
out
denied.
sorry if I have scared
you with this literal literary
banter, I didn't mean to impose or be too
daring, by posing
contests of painting the decanter
from this email poster...
to hear that the health
of you two
has improved
and sickness, and blues
are freed - form obtuse,
Once Pasteur once said:" It's not what yr eatin' -
It's what yr fed"
that I missed
yr visit and scared
you with my insecure
are you there? rambling exclamations
I sent you proof that I
am merely a typist
out in cyberspace...and that I was in need
of more than online conversation...
sorry sylvia, I will
no longer bother you, I am sorry
of my over - reaction, but not of the attraction
I sensed from you,
and never from the time spent between us 2
Valentine typist with the pretty smile.
Pecking out letters with a ick dick mick bick.
Boys are lined up to see you for a country mile.
You act like you don’t see them. You are totally slick.
I was asked to interview my husband's potential secretary.
Reluctant I was, but I got dressed and did it.
Using his office and his chair.
It was much too cumbersome for me.
I asked the third question and leaned back.
WHAM! My head and back were on the floor.
His executive chair had fallen over, and my feet were in the air.
I was wearing a suit with a skirt!
I crawled around and stood up, straightened myself.
I said "You are hired".
Her face could surely have been no more red than mine was.
Her eyes bugged out. She began to thank me profusely.
I found out later I had probably made a mistake.
She could only type 17 words a minute.
I type 85 words a minute, so I ended up doing all the work.
After we became friends I took her cat to raise.
I loaned her money, we became confidants.
I finally brought up the chair incident during a lunch.
She looked at me and we both began to laugh.
We laughed until we were crying; we were wailing now.
My husband had to ask us to calm down, but we couldn’t.
There was once a woman— not of vice,
Nice, she’d warm lonely beds for a price;
A poet hired her once...
He says, not for romance,
Get inspired, and no thanks, that'd suffice.
Poets pine for a muse,
Think, muse is of great use.
Still, of all by such a frosty ice?
The poet perhaps felt:
Ice, sooner than late melt!
______________________________________________________
What a job, getting into cold, lonely beds! An enterprising Russian woman (Victoria Ivachyova, 21) hit upon a profession— warming beds for a price at £65 per night (no physical contact). She was inspired by a book wherein a poet paid a female typist to warm his bed. It did help him regain his writing inspiration. Well, she must be a woman of ice, as this ditty feels.
Happenings | 03.02.2017 |
Not a Ladder step up
Typewriting keyboard set up
Hands on the keys
Typing letter after letter
Accuracy that matters
Speed will come
Practice makes perfect
Afterwhile, you will become a typing dynamo
You will be your own quick moving typing gizmo
Pace yourself
Be calm and patient
Don’t let anxiety get to you
In due time
Typist will be in you.
"...you could be the 'IBM704' or n'Auntie... which would you be...?"
I paused to think on it.
lol
With Love...
~Ooooh Steven...
Yeah, you hear,
in the 'Gates Motel'....
eyelash typist, I hope you're well. ;)
Tease I can at the squawk, Mr. Hawk,
You sent two men, to speak your talk.
And so we did.
~155... you're still alive~
Yes, I Am....
~Tonight I lay me down to sleep,
Was tempted by the darkest sheep,
but did I turn? Know, I kept the peace.
Digital voice, I hear you speak,
~ eyelash typist dared to peak.
Breaking code in an eight spoke chair,
Catching bubbles in between the air.
~ I see you there...
Ribbons high, vibrations low,
magnetic flash we call NeetO!
Then I wondered to myself,
"....and to where did he go?"
"Position Assigned" I heard it read.
I look about but Who did I see?
Just Me. Can it be....?
I'm an Auntie?
Shock, surprise, eyes wide in smile!
I checked it twice then cried awhile...
Not sure I applied, but then realized
it might be true after all...
Might be what the Leggos call
Life. In a nutshell.
But hey, if it is indeed to be
n'Auntie, then who better.
:) The best *I* do,
is write Love letters...
... And so it is...
Love Is.Peace
~Being, Peace.
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
Have you ever had the best ……… of the worst of the most ……….ordinary of the kindest …….. of days?
I am think-typing, so this is starting to annoy me.
What?
Have you ever had the ghost of …… a person of a kind …………..of a spirit of a juice?
Okay, this has gotten my attention.
I stop typing.
See those dots above? This is where I had successfully tuned this buffoon out, because I was thinking.
It amazes me that some people do not know how to respect you when you are think-typing.
When I am typing and someone asks, “Are you busy?”
The answer is yes.
When I am think-typing, and someone asks if they can turn on the music, because silence bothers them,
The answer is no.
Just sitting in the dark,
Pondering, and think-typing
In wonderful silence
Should not be interrupted
By those who have no
Idea how to do it.
Luckily, I leave these buffoons
at work. My husband
is a think-typist also,
and we know how to
tiptoe around each
other and when.