Long Typewriter Poems
Long Typewriter Poems. Below are the most popular long Typewriter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Typewriter poems by poem length and keyword.
"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words,
after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost,
something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry."
— Mary Oliver
I neither studied, searched for, nor found poetry.
Poetry found me as I wandered in the wilderness.
It was not a beautiful poem that I read.
It was a defining poem that read me.
I was angry, disoriented, confused, and lost.
In school, I was not fond of poetry.
I thought that it was of the abstract.
The pen, paper, and typewriter were already
friends of mine, but not for writing poetry.
Some 15-plus years ago, I wrote a poem that
was meant to help save a marriage. My friend
and his wife divorced anyway. The power of
the pen was too late for them.
The second poem I wrote demonstrated to me
that poetry is indeed a live and powerful tool.
Imaginary words from a dying one brought comfort
and embraced the family of the deceased. That poem
has led to more than 2000 additional poems.
111822PSCtest, Poetry is a life-cherishing force.
Sotto Poet, sponsor. 2P
This morning's sidewalk is cold and gray,
traffic sparse.
Coffee awaits, if my secretary remembers.
My head circulating thoughts from a case,
I reluctantly took on yesterday.
I'm usually more particular,
I don't like cases involving blonds and their men,
but, I needed the money.
As I enter my office, the strong odor of coffee hits me,
she remembered, this time.
The steam was rising from the pot,
the widows were also steaming,
with lines of water rolling down each pane.
We need curtains.
Julie my secretary says I have a visitor,
a blond, same one from yesterday.
Says she's wearing a single gold earring,
dried blood on the other ear.
I toss my fedora on Julie's typewriter,
with a not to be disturbed look.
Closed the door.
She was pacing back and forth,
trying not to look up.
Says when she got home she found an ashtray,
filled with cigarette butts, some with lipstick,
two empty glasses and a half filled bottle of whiskey,
sitting next to an airline ticket to Hong Kong,
for a flight at midnight.
They argued, he slapped her a few times, until,
a shot came through the front window.
She's frightened, frightened of the police,
frightened of the truth, both run through my head.
I told her to stay here until I find some things out.
But, it will cost another couple of hundred.
After all I am a detective.
My name, Humphrey M Falcon.
contest Copped III
I can’t write today
my tongue is stuck in my cheek
the pen’s dry
powdered ink like sifting sand
on greased paper flees.
The well is dry.
Pump priming is required
and my feet are stuck
with my mind and **** to the inside
of a dry mouth.
Click, click, click
the false keys chirp
mimicking the old black
typewriter..
chitter chatter.
Sunbeams have lost their perk
caffeine has lost its BUZZ
the dust bunnies are playing stick ball
between my post caterpillar eyebrows
even flaxseed oil doesn’t damp the dry mouth.
Perhaps, I’ll have a cold one poured?
Prime numero uno..
grease the wheels of mediocrity?
Sharpen the nib of my font?
“Oh do stop that incessant gibber!”
He was destined to live in this castle for all of eternity
with all the cobwebs and ghosts and things of ambiguous energy
Although death did not become him the contract did stipulate
that unless another individual died in one of these old cavernous
rooms, he was to remain between the walls of Charleville castle
forever and a day...
Jordan madly typed away at his typewriter
it was to be a letter of suicide left behind
he wanted to go home he wasn't a fighter
if he had to live one more day he'd go blind
Then the doorbell rang and he opened it, ensconced in hope
she shot a furtive glance towards the room then queried,
"how many rooms does this castle own ?"
"a thousand " he replied with a croak in his voice
unleashing centuries of forever in one single bound;
He invited her into the castle then gave her a nebulous drink
"how would you like to live forever?" he asked
through drug induced eyes replied,
"well, how long is forever?"
"Sometimes just one second," he replied
then while he fanned her face just so,
she turned her lovely neck and died.
February 3, 2020
A remarkable suicide
Johan Borgen
had an elegant pen and a charming story near his typewriter, but he was also a serious writer who deeply plowed furrow in the landscape of the mind
His masterwork was “Lillelord” exploring the unexplained lyssa that often follows gifted people
who often sink into depression and suicide
It was as a dandified storyteller he was best known by the public; in my time as a seafarer when the merchant fleet was large and a career choice and
had no place for losers, the welfare people came
with books that were exchanged with the ship's own library.
Johan Borgen's was a popular select
what we readers didn't know, although what some suspected, the writer suffered very much from
depression and sudden violent thoughts, so much so
when he was in his seventies decided to take his own life
This deadly seance consisted of bottles of wine and champagne, poisonous pills, and friends to come
drink and witness his demise, which they did several times before Johan sank into a coma and drifted away as the morning broke
It was a sad affair at the time of his suicide, he was
in his middle seventies, physically healthy
could have lived another 15 years
Bouncing from piles of baby powder grains,
ballerina feet firm balance establishing
Addictive activity pulls challenger audacious
Amidst busy Aussie city, solo gull glide coast
Butterflies rise sucked cyclonic as lottery balls
flung zealously in cage of their time confine
Rustle, shuffle moves obscured by shifting parasols
Underfoot troughs of leaf strewn crayons crunch
All tail torso helicopter hover dragonfly drones
hyper typewriter praised as stained glass panes
Rolling straw pale star spike weeds lodge like spurs
Saddle a galloping goanna, zig zag slapstick speed
Wing span suspending wind buffet blows up lungs
- tyre dug furrows tie semi second sand shoes
Lips hardly part to pant, patted with chest sweat
Gym of God's choreography lifts in limber stealth
Jet propulsion medusa arm eight cylinders sucker
adhere to embankments, grapple with sea grapes
Befriending crevices, cracked turquoise tracks
Grippy point toe tentacles clamber over cavities
Southport beach
Isolated city beauty
Exercise 18th November
(This time I've quoted my own poem titles. Everything in quotes is a title.)
"Dear reader," again, this monolog persists.
We're no longer "sparring" with figurative fists.
"The blood of an Englishman" is my last token,
"cursive curtsies" for "love unspoken."
"The magic of your arms" is now "unattainable,"
"man glitter"'s sloughing unexplainable.
"Footprints in time" lead to your "home garden,"
now overgrown with common weeds to pardon.
"This is the place" where "pruning" is "timeless,"
and "ballroom backgrounds" are forever rhymeless.
Briars pull me close with roaming stickers.
"The stars in the sky" "wake me" with sharp "flickers."
Doves' worn "coos" sound more like "snoring."
"The shape of water" is a tsunami pouring.
"The balcony bows" like "uncommon courtesy,"
"bolstered" hardwood buckling to be free.
"A safe place to hide" is looking vastly glum.
I cling to the shadows like "coffee table gum."
"Winter contemplations" are an everyday thing,
like "blackout poetry---detached," a missing ring.
"Forsaken" "spiderwebs" hold your "signature scent,"
though they are as broken as bent.
"Winter twigs wither" like a limp "paper boat"
immersed in a "defenseless," old moat.
"All that remains" "for the headstrong and wrong"
is a broken cassette withholding our song.
"I will care for you" like a "scarecrow in still life."
"The widow's pew" has gained a haggard wife.
"Birds through obscurity" perceptively lag.
"Goodbye, love..." I impart to you "freedom's flag."
Don't "call back the curtain" to yesterday.
"Installments of lost time" are impossible to pay.
I'll be as strong and "brave" as the mighty ant.
Then came the "thought thief..." "Will I if I can't?"
"No proper goodbye" would satisfy my "appetite."
A morsel on the path to "winter's endless night."
"Maybe" the "earth meets firmament" on the brink.
A "snow globe refreshment" will be my last drink.
The "typewriter" points "westward," and there it shines,
"clinging to (these last) undulating lines."
9-25-2023
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
Free verse is great any day of the week, it is here to stay. Your poems may be a mixture of styles you know, that is what makes a writer grow. Learning to mix their words each day, makes for shorter nights-hooray.
A true poet is here to stay, they write with ink from an old typewriter each day. They look through the past and into the future, they need all that inspiration.
I started out loving all rhyme, that was to pass the time as I typed. As I have grown up, I am now into acrostic. So now back to words, lets type away. The next great poem is on it's way, a win here and a win there. Maybe one day I will be famous, then I will say hooray.
Written Date: 1/14/2020
Second Place You've got style Contest Judged: 1/15/2020 Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Born in era of
rotary phones and
Western Union telegrams,
my fingers now dance
on glass—no dial tone~
a frequent user of Facetime.
I carry the memory
and weight
of paper maps,
while satellites whisper
turn left, turn back.
My hands remember card catalogs,
my breath still holds
the scent of old book glue,
but my eyes keep adjusting
to the glare of forever screens.
My fingers recollect
the shudder of a manual typewriter
as it punched its teeth
into the blank white throat of tomorrow.
I recall when cloud meant rain,
when stream was a small river with fish.
Now my hands ache from phantom keyboards,
my dreams buffer between decades.
I am a bridge, a relic, a traveler,
carrying the 20th century
like loose change in my pocket,
spending it carefully
in this bright,
impatient 21st century.