Long Typist Poems
Long Typist Poems. Below are the most popular long Typist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Typist poems by poem length and keyword.
I. Daybreak
what glint of morning
is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences
cuts the turf of rowhouses
the weeds still talk with the legs
of crickets as the post-dawn moon
fades like a bubble
here the old Norges and RCAs
the transmissions extracted like tongues
make tombstones in the yard
the scattered habits of a mechanic
early chests exhale
crankshafts turn
Chevrolets on storm
are fused to the moment
breaking thunder from the curb
II. Kids
dirt streaked
all our bellies were round
dirt streaked
consulting our nerves with
wide open lungs
dirt streaked
we all ate dirt
dug tunnels
played trucks
dirt streaked
the swing set whistled
rocking hard
in the recesses
of an afternoon
III. Locked
the day lost in some
file of physical laws
was locked like the hands of the typist
locked like beer cans on the porch
where a laborer reads want ads
fixed like the eyes of the
police
it’s why chained dogs
never stop barking
why housewives keep doing
their laundry
IV. Production
nothing to lose
come welders with your brilliant rods
disarm the dark where the cracks of hell
leak out
come secretaries
run with the wolves again*
migrant workers sing
the bosses don’t know the words
for the prints of innocent men
still grip the prison walls
the halls of high schools
still murder the breath
of the original
cab drivers
pocket the secrets of Washington
coal miners
dig loose the words
hiding under Kentucky
the graveyard shift will begin
when the city simmers
the pot of a quiet army
let them tell
no loss but the threat
of collectors
no loss but the sweat of
your palms
* Taken from an old folktale
Published Black Buzzard Press 1982
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... (^_^)
I was asked to interview my husband's potential secretary.
Reluctant I was, but I got dressed and did it.
Using his office and his chair.
It was much too cumbersome for me.
I asked the third question and leaned back.
WHAM! My head and back were on the floor.
His executive chair had fallen over, and my feet were in the air.
I was wearing a suit with a skirt!
I crawled around and stood up, straightened myself.
I said "You are hired".
Her face could surely have been no more red than mine was.
Her eyes bugged out. She began to thank me profusely.
I found out later I had probably made a mistake.
She could only type 17 words a minute.
I type 85 words a minute, so I ended up doing all the work.
After we became friends I took her cat to raise.
I loaned her money, we became confidants.
I finally brought up the chair incident during a lunch.
She looked at me and we both began to laugh.
We laughed until we were crying; we were wailing now.
My husband had to ask us to calm down, but we couldn’t.
There was once a woman— not of vice,
Nice, she’d warm lonely beds for a price;
A poet hired her once...
He says, not for romance,
Get inspired, and no thanks, that'd suffice.
Poets pine for a muse,
Think, muse is of great use.
Still, of all by such a frosty ice?
The poet perhaps felt:
Ice, sooner than late melt!
______________________________________________________
What a job, getting into cold, lonely beds! An enterprising Russian woman (Victoria Ivachyova, 21) hit upon a profession— warming beds for a price at £65 per night (no physical contact). She was inspired by a book wherein a poet paid a female typist to warm his bed. It did help him regain his writing inspiration. Well, she must be a woman of ice, as this ditty feels.
Happenings | 03.02.2017 |
"...you could be the 'IBM704' or n'Auntie... which would you be...?"
I paused to think on it.
lol
With Love...
~Ooooh Steven...
Yeah, you hear,
in the 'Gates Motel'....
eyelash typist, I hope you're well. ;)
Tease I can at the squawk, Mr. Hawk,
You sent two men, to speak your talk.
And so we did.
~155... you're still alive~
Yes, I Am....
~Tonight I lay me down to sleep,
Was tempted by the darkest sheep,
but did I turn? Know, I kept the peace.
Digital voice, I hear you speak,
~ eyelash typist dared to peak.
Breaking code in an eight spoke chair,
Catching bubbles in between the air.
~ I see you there...
Ribbons high, vibrations low,
magnetic flash we call NeetO!
Then I wondered to myself,
"....and to where did he go?"
"Position Assigned" I heard it read.
I look about but Who did I see?
Just Me. Can it be....?
I'm an Auntie?
Shock, surprise, eyes wide in smile!
I checked it twice then cried awhile...
Not sure I applied, but then realized
it might be true after all...
Might be what the Leggos call
Life. In a nutshell.
But hey, if it is indeed to be
n'Auntie, then who better.
:) The best *I* do,
is write Love letters...
... And so it is...
Love Is.Peace
~Being, Peace.
Form:
In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.
Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?
Repose is something grinding-study denies her.
Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like we’re going there?
What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist
Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig up Caesar, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up
I now type with only a finger
For neuropathy makes me lame
Muscle spasms in hands linger
My hands seem to ignore my brain
It’s as if I never was a typist
Who flew 65 words a minute
Now I’m limited my gripe is
Takes me longer to finish
You’d think I’d complain I’m not vain
My other deficiencies are worse
But who wants an artist who can’t paint
Or a poet too hurt to word verse
I know my lupus has no cure
My asthma is no fun to me
But give me fingers fast and pure
To delight in the writing with ease
When I try to play piano
Fudge fingers suck the air
Notes yell like silver Soprano
A melody ruined by despair
I have mixed feeling about it
We all have a cross to bare right
But with fingers like mine I doubt it
Could complain and moan all night
Dear poetess had hip surgery
And has persevered despite all
So I say what the nerve of me
To complain of finger pain small talk
My muse has gone on vacation
Leaves me in a situation
So many contests with fun themes
I can’t come up with anything
An idea rolls in my head
Then looses life goes dead
Perhaps I must patiently wait
Until the idea forms into shape
Too I’m stressing about my hopes
That by Christmas I meet a goal
To have the book at least printed
The line editor was great and consented
After the minor changes were typed
I sat up all of the other night
But I saw an error or two
Sent it back for a redo
So by my birthday I’m hoping that
Once the typist sends it back
All will be well and I’ll proceed
To get it printed with holiday glee
What Makes Me Smile book
Is now a 50 page look
With a goal to encourage souls
Written by poets we know
So my muse is preoccupied
But perhaps too busy tonight
I hope to deliver this December
As I promised I do remember
Have you ever had the best ……… of the worst of the most ……….ordinary of the kindest …….. of days?
I am think-typing, so this is starting to annoy me.
What?
Have you ever had the ghost of …… a person of a kind …………..of a spirit of a juice?
Okay, this has gotten my attention.
I stop typing.
See those dots above? This is where I had successfully tuned this buffoon out, because I was thinking.
It amazes me that some people do not know how to respect you when you are think-typing.
When I am typing and someone asks, “Are you busy?”
The answer is yes.
When I am think-typing, and someone asks if they can turn on the music, because silence bothers them,
The answer is no.
Just sitting in the dark,
Pondering, and think-typing
In wonderful silence
Should not be interrupted
By those who have no
Idea how to do it.
Luckily, I leave these buffoons
at work. My husband
is a think-typist also,
and we know how to
tiptoe around each
other and when.