I've been going through old love letters of how we used to be.
The silly, inconsequential things you used to write to me
about nothing in particular, the mundane, the everyday, the norm.
But that Basildon Bond decorated with Quink used to give a form
to the feelings inside as your fountain pen cried, words rambling over the page.
To tear at my heart because we were apart imprisoned in our cage
of distance, and the persistence of melancholia's hurting
the only respite in spite of all, your banality and girlish flirting.
But now we've come to the here and now to emoticons and text speak.
To the short, terse text that can leave us vexed and the torment that they wreak.
Our language debased to contracted words, mis-spelled and appalling grammar.
Misconstrued meanings, tech speak and gleanings from Twitter, Face Book and Spammer.
Anticipating the postman, the sound of the letterbox, the excitement of opening your letter.
Now all we have is the e.mail wav., much quicker I grant you, but better?
Call me old fashioned, a Luddite if you must, or even a pen and paper fanatic.
But for all my ranting, there's something enchanting about finding old letters in the attic.
What delights await
those who punctuate
with alacrity and precision.
And reserve for those who don't,
or won't, their enmity and derision.
For there's nothing worse
than a rhyme, or verse,
that lacks its proper meaning,
a missed comma here, parenthesis there,
it really is demeaning.
One should always think, (before using
the Quink), what one is trying to say.
Is it just scrawl, like a graffitied wall,
or have you something more to convey?
So, to spare the jibes of your fellow scribes,
for the comma please spare a thought,
use it oft, but if it's aloft it's an apostrophe,
so please don't get caught.
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