Long Typewriters Poems
Long Typewriters Poems. Below are the most popular long Typewriters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Typewriters poems by poem length and keyword.
In a store that sells antiques,
The past is much alive,
Including parts that we’d prefer
Did somehow not survive.
Some creepy dolls and ugly clothes
And jewelry I’d not wear
Forlornly grace the shelves without
Their one-time savoir faire.
But other items bring a smile
Or memory to bear –
A Popeye pin, some Beatles cards
And much Fiestaware.
Three typewriters with all their keys
Sit Royally encased
And lots of kitchen tools I wish
I never had replaced.
I troll the aisles quite aimlessly
For if you want the truth,
The only things I hope to find
Are traces of my youth.
" Tortured metaphors
spilling from tequila lips,
t i p t o e on my pulse ~
breaking in an arced smile
of the featherless eclipse,
where I waltz as a secluded steel-shine,
sobered s o f t l y
by the taste of satanic stars..."
I'm the loss of a leaf
from gold-dew aspens,
rippling upon
turquoise typewriters,
where drunk fingertips dance.
Turning to ashes,
my heart m e l t s
as a metallic grenade,
and no philosopher's stone
ever reverberating
in its silver-winged silence.
Seeking shelter from smoldering seas,
I curl up in the womb of a guardian willow ~
she's a weeping angel of n e v e r l a n d,
with an ornamented garland
of guns and roses,
enveloping me in the corpse of sunset.
Plunging from diamond cobwebs
into isles of champagne,
like a dynamite dove bloodthirsty for sun,
I l u r k along reefs
studded with rhinestones, unfurling –
lotus manuscripts
as poetic pearls s l i p and t w i r l,
snorkeling in an obsidian oasis.
I miss being
a purple-whisper prophecy,
threaded in fractured letters,
for now, my ink b l e e d s
in the marrow of moon,
where an alchemy is lost and found...
In the chronicles of carnelian clemency
and supernova sorcery,
I've seen arctic assonances
hibernating
in the throats of those,
holding lethal jewels
as a nightingale's neon noose.
So, if my soul is an opal widow
of your thistle-light affection,
a verse romanticised
will be my crystal coffin,
and in the caricatures
of kohl and karma,
our silent soliloquy
shall delicately be shifted.
Surfing in the splitting s i n s
of a salty saviour,
this whiskey damsel
shall evermore remain
a scentless phrase,
scrapped by pencilled brush-strokes,
i n v i s i b l e
in our paper-cut destiny...
I would like to see
and hear
and feel a peaceful day
and silent night
When guns
are as rare as typewriters
When partisan hate
is as extinct as flying dinosaurs
When ranting out of anger
to instill fear
is as astounding
as love letters
written on rice paper
in compassionate cursive.
I would like to hear
free speech
can't be hate preach
because anger
and fear
and dogmatic rage are limiting
and divisive
and rabidly dissonant,
dissociative
and myopically unfree
Conserving win/lose
endlessly expensive
back-and-forth debate
Which does not win/win
free mind and body
resiliently liberate.
Hate speech
costs our favorite EarthTribes
everything,
every healthy
and wealthy
relationship.
Free wealthy voice
and healthy choice
creates rich
resilient
resonant
musical and wise compositions,
civil literature,
love stories
flashmob repertory
Deliberating life
delivering creolizing communities,
purple and green families,
non-violent muse communications
to sing
our cooperative Truth
and dance
advance our co-invested Trust.
Dialogue,
Theater,
Arts of
muse-filled discussion
restores free peace
Co-empathic
co-invested
co-operative
non-violet deep compassions
Empowering multicultures
dwelling in enlightened wellbeing
Circles
and round cursive spirals
of community wellness danced
In public squares
and parks
Under shade trees
by day
and freely twinkling stars
by night.
I would like to see
and hear
and feel this peaceful day
and silent dancing
purple night
When automated guns
are as rare as electric typewriters
When impoverishing hate
and fear-provoking speech
are as extinct as predative dinosaurs.
I miss the tick-tock heartbeat, the chiming in the hall.
Watching the slow clock hands glide shadows on the wall.
The seconds hand circling, its clicks beating a song,
Time was something you watched; it carried you along.
I miss the clatter of typewriters, banging on their keys,
Whir of tape spools whining, vinyl discs spinning to please.
The flip calendar flopping forward, page after page,
When time was a living thing, not digits in a cage.
Now silence haunts the corners where ticking used to sing,
Digital screens of numbers flash cold, as unfeeling thing.
Yet I miss the winding, waiting, watching for the flow.
The rhythm, sounds, vision, and movement of times long ago.
Oh, how erred
the impressions of a life can be ...
we humans, with our lofty views of acumen,
pride ourselves on distinguishing a creature's habits
by merely appraising its footmarks in the sand.
And yet we fail to estimate the full relevance
of the imprints WE leave behind,
and what may be assumed by them,
right or wrong or indifferent.
Looking back, I try to focus on a pattern -
My prints in the muck ...
the only true wisdom gleaned
from an irreverent, sullied journey, is this:
such an existence,
while oft' feigning the emblems
Of mystery, adventure, and passion -
while sometimes gaining a wisdom of the dark
that only a burning ardor for the eventide can accord -
and while flesh and marrow may come to savor
the sublime anguish of extremes -
Such a life is NOT romantic,
or charming,
or even enviable ...
whatever bleeding typewriters may say
to the contrary.
~ Honorable Mention ~ in the "Strand Select K Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Little fingers, big fingers
Red fingers, blue fingers
One finger, 10 fingers
Long fingers, stubby fingers
Pointer finger, middle finger
Ring finger, wiggle finger
Leather fingers, soft fingers
Cold fingers, warm fingers
Stinky finger, slimy fingers
Fingers manicured with pretty painted fingernails
Fingers that can hold a pencil or a pen pal
Fingers that can tap on laptops or typewriters
Fingers that can tap tap tap on tabletops
While I transcribe or press “RECORD”
Poetry will always be the Midas touch to me
Bringing forth the Golden Age of Man
The Poet’s need to free the soul
Is as old as the knowledge of fire
Sometimes the Poet bleeds
With words beyond the funeral pyre
Never underestimate the Poet’s power
To create changes that are magically mystically miraculously
Spun into a reality that only poetry
Can inspire.
A 'Good Old Days Market' sign seen
With arrows that point to the scene;
There hidden by wall
Of stone, very tall,
I ventured and found behind screen,
Some tables with items arranged...
Such irony...somewhat deranged!
There spread out in view...
Still wanted by few...
Remains, by new tech, now estranged!
Typewriters galore, 'modern' style.
Old telephones that you must dial.
Flip cellphones that close...
Eight-track videos...
Oh, such a 'nostalgic' junk pile!
Some huge V H S movie cams,
The weight of two five-pounder hams.
Fax senders...hand fed...
Received...in hands read,
And heaps of outdated programs!
Old Apple computers, diskettes;
Recorders with lots of cassettes.
Fat TVs with tubes,
Old Kodaks, flashcubes...
Those 'good' old days? Gone! No regrets!
Sandra M. Haight
There is an antique writing desk
in my little study
handed-me-down
from generations of would-be
writers in my family
And there are ancient creatures
from days gone by
living in this old desk still
evil, larcenous little creatures
envious of literary skill
This explains much
Lately, I have caught them unawares
aghast, thought I imagined them
but they are really there
surly, sinister, repugnant creatures
in my writing desk
There's a putrid little jerk,
called Pernishicus who lurks
behind the piles on my desk
glorying in the mess
a malevolent, grimy-mauve gremlin
Who preys on newly created works
stealthily spraying them
with foul feculence
as soon as I commence
my writing-
...Sometimes missing slightly
and tagging my hand
making it hard to stand
myself (much less my writing)
for days on end
Then there's a creepy
mesmerizing fiend
they call Spelbadger
a translucent thing, quite obscene
who shifts in the shadows and purrs
With dark eyes deep- constantly changing
like stones from mood-rings
set in his skull
he psychically bullies,
intimidates and muddles
until my poor brain
is worn and dull
And perhaps worst of all
is that one, Grumblesleaze
with pale, glowering eyes diseased
a gray-green, mangy looking thing
whose famous quirk
is that he has the gall
to grouse about my work...
As he viciously shreds it
then glunshing and munching
greedily devours it all
leaving no note
or trace of remembrance
of my past brilliance
behind
Oh, out of spite
he might leave a few
of my ill-penned
unfortunate lines
I planned to cut anyway
or pull my worst attempts
from the waste-can
and lay them out
to remind me of my failures
Yes, this explains much
For there was only one before
our one lone ancestor
who was able to write
at this desk prolifically
tapping out volumes rather heroically
'Though tiresome and tedious
dry history and drivel
which, no doubt, shrank and shriveled
and lulled these creatures off
to sleep for years
Until we woke them up
broke their hibernation
with more interesting stories
and imagination, colorfully crafted
ingenious, piece after piece
Clicking and clacking away
on typewriters, keyboards
generation after generation
of irritatingly gifted writers
disturbing their peace
it had to cease...
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.
Oh, latest iPad, may I hang thee,
From the nearest garden tree!
A Grinch, thou art and nothing more.
Causing me, endless problems galore!
As always, Safari is to blame?
Almost a tune, that puts me to shame.
Why is it I , who is always at fault?
I dream of joyful days of saddleshoes
and malts.
Of humanity speaking, face to face.
And of being social, was of no disgrace!
Typewriters and mail, oh how I love!
This electronic age, hardly hand in my glove.
I miss the aroma of fresh, pencil shavings.
Thus goes, my off the wall nightly ravings.
People no longer look at the beauty of one
another.
Pasty- faced countenances adoring their beloved,
electronic other !
A ghost faced, global society?
Which dreams a worthless vaccine
can save humanity?
I despise propopganda with my entire being.
And on our devices, is all right we are seeeing.
9/30/2021