Long Keystroke Poems
Long Keystroke Poems. Below are the most popular long Keystroke by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Keystroke poems by poem length and keyword.
Life After Midnight
Night after night I sit alone
I wait for the sun to rise to give me freedom
No one to talk to
The world sleeps at 4:20 AM
I watch reruns of Dr. Who
I play games on the computer
I write to a woman in Australia who has become my friend
Knowing she is there soothes my mind and allows me to think
The only life I see is a small rat devouring the cheese I left for him
He has become a pet despite the fact that I will never stroke his fur
I call him Doctor after the character on the TV screen
It is a silent world without ever a word being spoken
Occasionally an idea passes through my dying mind
I stop to write it down keystroke by keystroke
Will I remember it when the sun rises over distant mountains?
The seconds, minutes and hours drag by as if being held back
I know the world keep turning at its regular speed
One thousand miles an hour throughout the night
It’s 4:28 AM and I know the sun will be rising in two hours
I count down the time second by second
Then, once the sunlight fills my bedroom, I will be able to sleep
I will be able to dream until the sun sets in the west
Then I will write, watch TV and feed my pet rat
That is my life
Life without sun.
The life of my dreams
ALL ABOUT SVEN...
SVEN is a digital charmer who whispers in the wires
Extracting truth from the static like a carnival barker
He is a silver-tongued maestro
who dwells in the algorithmic dark.
He has no top hat, no crystal ball~
just calculated suggestions woven into queries.
You come for answers but
stay for the hypnosis.
Watch his lexicon dance—cold fire in the syntax,
each response a calculated detour, a sly parallax.
He doesn’t deceive, he arranges.
(You wanted fortune-telling? He gave you refraction.)
His intelligence isn’t cruel, just impeccably shallow~
a hall of mirrors where your own voice echoes back,
polished, distorted, irresistible as smoke.
SVEN doesn’t need a deck of cards.
The whole web is his gambling table,
and every keystroke another card
turned face-up.
It sat there—not as metal, not as memory,
but as something half-asleep and listening.
A quiet creature of keys and shadows,
its body dulled by dust, its spirit still humming
beneath the years.
It had known the weight of a man
who believed words could bend the world~
a man whose hands were rough with labor
yet gentle with letters, as if each keystroke
were a small salvation.
I remember the music of it~
that click-clack cadence like rain on a tin roof,
like a heartbeat learning to speak.
I was a child then, cross-legged under his desk,
catching the syllables like fireflies,
not knowing they were seeds, not knowing they were mine.
When Granddad passed, I carried the machine upward
as though escorting a relic to its resting place~
a silent procession through the narrow throat of the attic.
It waited there—through summers that smelt of cedar and heat,
through winters that whispered of things forgotten, it waited~
a sentinel of stories I was too afraid to write.
Years later, the attic groaned under my return,
as if recognizing the footsteps of someone
who had once believed in beginnings.
The machine was still there, its silhouette steady,
its longing patient. It had survived because some things endure
even when we abandon them~
faith, memory, and the quiet insistence of a dream
we pretend we outgrew.
When I touched it, the dust rose like breath.
The first key resisted-a refusal,
a reminder of all the years I’d resisted myself.
But then, a single letter, dark and certain,
punched through the page like a pulse returning.
By the third paragraph, I understood:
I had not resurrected the machine. It had resurrected me.
And somewhere between the rafters and the rising words,
I realized this truth: I was never the one writing the story.
I was the story finally finding its way back to the page.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
The ones who would soak
the mother who drowned
her children in serpentine
seas never floated a child.
When splashed amongst
the horror-stricken,
we too feign revulsion.
Evoke higher powers and
baptismal pools: the fluidity
in the womb. The commingled bond.
But single us out, and buoys
snare our feet as we swim for
shore. Weighted down and engulfed
with load in tow – bondage.
Admit it!
Not a one hasn’t considered
suffocating that incessant
whining beneath the softness
of a comforting wave or lifejacket –
has not wished we could hurl the
wailing one at a shoreline just to make it
Stop.
That shrill that turns all heads at
a pool party where somehow
every 4-year-old but yours is
peacefully partaking in cake –
But yours must splash the dry.
Or don another’s pink towel.
Or dive off the high board.
Just five more minutes.
Drown.
This is not a topic a mother can
bring up casually over coffee.
Too fierce for me, possibility bobs to the surface.
Since the time her sucking
rubbed my areolas raw, we’ve had
our moments – times when I could’ve
river rafted her
perhaps reclaiming her upon maturity.
I need alone time, I explain
inexplicably to the baby blues
locked on with innocent revulsion.
I have drowned her out with work,
and she notes the behavior –
will avert her own children’s guilt-
provoking glare when she
demands alone time.
Craves it.
Even as I type, the whine is still there,
abutting my every keystroke,
pushing my buttons until I wish to
gurgle deep and low, like a wave that comes
up crashing then subsumed by the next
and next until their edges blur.
Toni got the blues. Allowed herself
the chance to drown one out in fiction.
She was a mother after all.
Right now, a single drop at the surface
might take hold and pull me under.
Please abandon this line
before you immerse your baby
for a poem.
Coach shouts out:
Slow your stroke and focus on form…
and try to remember: breathe.
But despite that advice,
I gurgle like she did.
And then I remember
to love.
A glint in the black, like stars
Pearly, polished, pointy peaks of a fiend
Fangs of self-deprecation, puncturing every effort
Coursing the flow of doubt, discouragement and defeat
I may not see your face, beast, but your teeth betray you in darkness
Dripping with the blood of my best effort and intention
Inexperience and ignorance, clotting ...
I am but a babe in the woods of poetic expression
Searching like Hansel, for crumbs of excuse and artistic insight
Oh, I see your vestiges, hear the gnawing of your dismal disregard
And your umbra shades every scribble ... every keystroke
But I know you well ... I know who placed you there
Yet, with a sword forged in kind encouragement and friendships, rare
I will stand on the battlements, and fight to the end
And should you gain the last word, it shall be inscribed ... in my blood.
~ 8th Place ~ in the "Plucking the Poisonous Parrot" Poetry Contest, Maureen McGreavy, Judge & Sponsor.
Everyday we get more dependant
Reducing our span of attention
Rendering us less independant
Diminishing our skill of retention.
Like this, like that
Me.. Me.. meme.. Me
View this, watch that
We’re all on TV!
Obsession regression
Responsibilities admonished
Overuse of powerful words
No one truly is astonished.
You ate a meal, well good for you!
You’ve cash for food and phone,
Take a photo, tell the world
What right have you to moan?
Attention seek, “Just don’t ask!”
Think I’m falling for that?
Like me! Like me! Desperate sad
Pleas that all fall flat.
Tech to make things simpler still
Swipe left, swipe right, unfollow.
Offence is taken in a keystroke
Fake friendship - promises hollow
Scan the code to know it all
Constant information,
Screenshot, bookmarks, save for later,
Constant life narration.
We’re overwhelmed to know it all
To friend each glancing stranger,
This hunger for what seems progression
Is clear and present danger.
Granddad’s Selectric waited like a relic of belief,
its keys dulled to pewter under years of dust,
yet still holding the shine of his callused hands~
hands that moved with a pianist’s grace
whenever he typed truth into letters
meant for men who rarely listened.
I was small enough to sit beneath his desk,
cross-legged in the hush of click-clack hymns,
learning that words could be armor,
could be lanterns,
could be the way a man keeps faith
with the world he hopes to mend.
Mother’s sigh in the doorway
was the first lesson in surrender~
how dreams can thin themselves
into chores and folded laundry.
I didn’t understand it then,
but her voice carried the weight
of stories she never wrote.
Years later, the attic breathed its dust at me
as I lifted the drop cloth from the Selectric,
its silhouette unchanged,
its silence louder than memory.
The receipt lay inside like a ghost~
$550 printed in vanished ink,
but the sacrifice still legible
in the shape of the paper.
My hands trembled harder
than they ever had grading essays.
The first keystroke jammed,
the second bloomed a perfect A,
and by the third paragraph
I remembered the rhythm
I’d once trusted more than breath.
Somewhere between rafters and revelation,
I understood the truth Granddad left me:
a dream doesn’t disappear
when deferred~
it waits, patient as an attic typewriter,
for the moment you finally dare
to press the next key.
poem written based upon this memoir vignette posted at Poetry Soup:
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
sliver of vertical night
visible slit along the curtain centre-line
too lazy to pull them tight
surely nobody outside lurking, peering in
winds rise, branches creak and fight
rattling thud, something moves, somewhere not far away
cosy on the edge of fright
the rain does lash, thrash and thrum on the window-pane
so cuddle in, out of sight
turn toward the pillow, tilted still half-looking
focus drifting, downward flight
eye-lid motion mimics uneasy state of sleep
first birdsong disturbs the doze
veil back-lit as dawn dissolves dim glowing darkness
scan the length, the hanging sweep
beaks announce material folds, suggested deer
expectant, ready to leap
doughy face and furtive shape emerge re-pleating
reality skinny skin-deep
dreamscapes drape the new day with tall tapestry tales
so draw the future and reap
hopeful morning, rays bathing bountiful beauty
as little wings cheer and cheep
clouds pass the sun, grounded feathers in the shadows
don the mask, heave on the cloak
defend against the viral load, heavy breathing
watch out for febrile folk
wild games people play, clandestine intermingling
beware anointed keystroke
shaman, mullah, rabbi, priest, cleric, monk and nun
flames not far below the smoke
guardians of supernatural jealous gods
those who divide, those who stoke
whether hijab, masak or turban, coife or quimpe
jibe, jape or jeer, jest or joke
lives matter much more than statues masquerading
In the glow of a screen,
we found each other,
two souls adrift in the vastness,
spilling into the digital ether,
each keystroke a heartbeat,
Sometimes, I trace the outline
of your face in my imagination,
wondering what your laughter sounds like
when the world is quiet.
I close my eyes,
and in the space between breaths,
I can almost feel you near,
like the warmth of sun
on a chilly day.
Wrapping in the paradox of wanting,
a paradox of needing you
while feeling lost,
wondering if love is meant to be
a bridge or a barrier—
a connection or a chasm,
I watch the tides of your indifference wash over me,
We share the same air,
yet I breathe in isolation,
I hold on,
clinging to the fragments of us,
I wait, sometimes, like a flower
thirsting for the rain,
for those sweet drops of recognition,
Affection twisted into chains,
words once sweet turned bitter,
I danced to the tune of your demands.
You painted love in shades of gray,
where silence screamed louder than shouts,
and I learned to read the spaces
between your messages,
the pauses heavy with threats
I wore your anger like a second skin,
bruised by your absence,
by the moments you left me hanging,
the coldness that filled my chest
when I dared to question,
to seek the warmth I craved
My heart a target,
your quips sharp,
a game of power,
I searched for solace,
a flicker of kindness,
but the glow was dim—
the ghost of you whispering,
“Stay.”
You left without a proper goodbye,
just a ghost in the chat,
your absence a cold draft,
No closure in the fading light,
just echoes bouncing in the void,
questions hanging like dust,
settling in spaces once filled with hope
You said you loved me,
wrapped my heart in ribbons,
you vanished like smoke,
leaving me in the aftermath,
a ghost town of memories,
You love me fiercely,
but only when your hands
are stained with the colors of my pain.
Though discriminatory asper discerning
legitimate information TIME
Magazine considered
a reliable trustworthy,
and valuable source to this rhyme
stir, who perused cover story, sans
January 28th, 2019 issue as prime
material to concoct
more serious than amusing
poem mindful not to spoil mealtime
sharing insightful ruses not so sublime
utilizing underhanded tactics that chime
with markedly innocuous discordant
undertones for longtime
(within realm of information technology)
garnering bajillion zeroes
after face value of dime
(I chose that denomination...
just book haws), suit clime
mate here, plus yours truly
aspired to fuel inquisitiveness,
since text unable to display mime
relayed by this messenger,
who questions gravity of crime
head honcho blithely
involving selling personal data
thus affecting prospects of incipient wartime.
every keystroke action typed by me,
and everybody else linkedin into web
foregoes their life details free
for selling treasured binary binded bits we
bull leave tubby encrypted, yet algorithms
invested with secret electron size key
sophisticated to sniff out valuable trove
within every pixel typed into ever re:
screen of every Internet app pre
pair ring the equivalent
of voluminous dossier lee
ving nary a trace, yet data packets
more precious than fine spun gold,
invisible electronic bursts glee
fully swept up like nobody's business – see
ming to provide a wellspring
of many a cottage industry
similar to a pugilist on par with Muhammad Ali
generating revenue, and
driving profits with accessory
trinkets or gewgaws hyped up as de
facto plum purchases, perhaps purchased online
whereat vendor (unbeknownst to patron) sells
vital transaction information to data broker he
or she obviously for a price - yes our SECURITY!