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.
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.
In the days of old
A story told
Found it's way to paper
The spice of life
Or better strife
Neatly born on typewriters
The mysterious deeds and detectives pleas
And facts of sports are given
The small details as big as whales
Reviel the secrets that are hidden
The mind, the facts and a little time
Along with creative splinder
A reporter trying to find the angle
That will make a story bigger
The ancient keys
Of a dying machine
With ribbon and metal letters
A story told on pages that fold
With pictures and adds from sellers
A magnificant machine
That made all words clean
Provided correct the speller
Along with letters
And puncuation as feathers
Communication was much better
A combination of high technology
With artistic values of high quality
A solimnity mixed with wise cracks
And facts
The writers best ability to discribe
A certian act
And the typewriter
With it's standard theme
Letters all perfect punctuation clean
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...
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.
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.
pop ups appear on my screen
annoying me
who are you voting for?
This is America
I do not have to tell anyone
new pop ups
Can we ask you a question?
no
And please stop popping up
The more I see your logo
The less likely I am to ever get a loan from you guys
pop ups slide from the left
pop ups slide from the top
pop ups, pop ups, pop ups.
Give me the old-fashioned typewriters
Where you got to type everything sixty-five times
and use white paint in seventeen places where you had an error.
My eyes roll back as I remember this frustrating task.
I have not even amused myself with this one.
I use my computer, spell check and grammar check.
Welcoming the pop ups.
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.
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... (^_^)
Fish are named
Lazarus and Carl Jung
they swim in the library, art studio,
that spare room
where I write, paint.
Their eyes are the size
of their stomachs.
They mouth dreams
in silence behind glass.
I stare back, envious
of graceful slow motion angel gills
immersed in a tank of tears
gathered from heaven,
capped by corporations,
lugged home from the Dollar Store
to keep the tank full….
On the other side
a breeze streams
over book shelves,
antique typewriters, canvas and paint.
Lazarus and Carl watch me
write, brush colors
and nap...
turn, twist, snore, dream,
dream more….
surreal, real,
really you? here in the deep?
Oh lovely waves of sleep. So many fish in this sea, oh, oh, yes, yes,
you, you, you …with me.
You, evaporate.
Eyes open empty and starved.
Lips spit at the sunrise
as it blinds, blocks out
infinite oceans of you.
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