The year was 2021 and Christmas was fast approaching,
Fear and uncertainty were seeping into every corner of daily life,
Good will was at an all time low throughout the land,
With Covid spreading faster than the gossip surrounding it,
The people cried out in vain, many going insane,
Few safe in their own company for than a week.
With those in power throwing in the towel,
The situation was grim indeed,
Is this the end becoming the catch phrase?
Who would have thought that once again poets?,
Would be called upon to save the day,
With style and wit, the pens began scratching,
And keypads started overheating,
As out of the mist that hung over the many backwaters and lonely bye-ways,
Poems filled with the spirit of Christmas past began to appear.
As one after the other poets on the soup took up the call,
With other forums soon taking up the challenge,
To light another candle of positive thought,
And push back the darkness,
Saving Christmas for another year,
Giving those who threw in their towels,
Or failed to take sound advice,
Another chance to put things right in 2022.
Categories:
keypads, appreciation, baptism, care, character,
Form: Dramatic Verse
I work in the retail sector
and everyone's gone mad.
It's really very amusing.
It's really very sad.
Toilet paper and sanitizers
have flown right out the door.
Though everyone is asking
we've no idea when we'll get more.
The face masks of every type
are hoarded like they're gold.
Even the ones for dust or painting.
But those hoarders can't be told.
The painters and the contractors
are getting pretty mad
since the ones they need for their jobs
are no where to be had.
Panic is setting in
and everyone's afraid.
But off to work we go
because we just need to get paid.
The N-95 face masks
( the ones they really need)
are limited to six per customer,
a lot of whom can't read.
We wipe the counters diligently,
the keypads and scanners too.
We don't want the coronavirus
but we understand it's just a flu.
Wash your hands, don't touch your face.
It doesn't seem that tough,
and if you're sick, just stay home.
We can't emphasize this enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~
12/03/2020
Categories:
keypads, satire, sick, work,
Form: Rhyme
Writing
by Edmund Siejka
At 2 am
Writing is not for the meek
The mind is dull
Ideas are stale
The telephone is unplugged
Everyone in the house is asleep
Not a car on the street
You have what you wanted
Don’t you?
Uninterrupted quiet
A peaceful nook
For pen and paper.
So what holds you back?
Distracted
You turn
Listening to something outside
Rummaging through the garbage.
Turning back
To the blank screen
You try to focus
Characters hide
Tired
You ask yourself
What was it said about imagery?
Lines lurk in the shadows
The word dialogue sounds French
Your hands are weighed down
Fingers are heavy
It is then
You realize that keypads
Do not move by themselves.
Maybe, just maybe, an idea
Will step out of the darkness
In the night, trees move ever so slightly
Leaves rustle in the breeze
Tonight God
Has not smiled on you.
Inspiration is such a fleeting word.
Categories:
keypads, life,
Form: Narrative
Oh how well I do remember
Dear Miss McConnell’s typing class.
Fumbling fingers seeking home keys,
And so afraid I wouldn’t pass.
The quick brown fox jumps over the…..
I was assigned that exercise.
No lettering on the keypads,
My fingers had no help from eyes.
Dropping out was not an option,
In Miss McConnell’s typing class,
For she tolerated failure
About as well as she did sass.
So with real determination,
I had achieved to some degree
Enough success for Miss McConnell
To give a passing grade to me.
These were manual typewriters
A secretary’s tool for years.
There was no way to fix our errors
Than with whiteout and messy smears.
My expertise on the typewriter,
Won me a job and first pay check.
I was so happy Miss McConnell
Had saved me from the hunt and peck.
I was wary of electrics.
I didn’t like them very much.
They would stammer and keep typing
When they felt my heavy touch.
But of course one can't stop progress,
And my manual was replaced.
But not until today's great wonders
Could errors simply be erased.
Written April 16, 2013 for contest "The Typewriter"
Categories:
keypads, education, graduation, jobs, me,
Form: Quatrain
Some hot breathe beneath?
Can hell teach me heaven?
Can keypads piss me off?
Yes,
And yes.
Categories:
keypads, computer-internet, me,
Form: Free verse