Typewrite
Pacing back and forth these keys,
Like footfalls echoing on worn-out tracks—
The sights and landmarks in languid grey,
Burning with the sting of nostalgic pain,
Faces, voices, shadows etched in memory,
Untold stories thump against my brain
Like a retroactive typewriter,
Reminding me—
With every thud of the type slug,
Voices in these walls
Strike the ribbons of regret.
Scars printed in blue,
Hurts inked in red,
Fleeting across faces and lives,
The ribbons take the beat
Of my swag and gait—
That staccato rhythm
Of a past that won’t forget.
Thud tap, thud tap, ding!
And back again—
Like my aging heartbeat
On this old typewriter in motion,
The carriage bell,
Signaling the end of a line—
A moment of reckoning,
Yet back again: the carriage return,
Resetting for the next confession,
The next scar,
Thud, thud—
Like the drumming in my head,
Tom toms telling the wind:
My past always catches up.
But now— it’s time to abandon conformity,
Transformed by verity.
I should have a screen and keyboard,
Control-a, hit delete,
Roam the freedom of a white page
With a renewed mind.
It Will Inspire
There is something about a typewrite
Which ends up turning me into a fighter
And writing poems I find appealing
But having to type and I hit the ceiling.
One day did pray unto the Lord
Now I have a computer with a keyboard
And after more poems I will compile
Put in files and folders after a while.
Enjoy reading mine and hope others do too
Be nice and will write one especially for you
To become a poet hope it does inspire
Always for free and never have to hire.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran
Inspired by David Hinshaw.
___ Manual Typewriter At Work___
The keys clack aloud
As they strike the paper
The carriage lifts up
When the shift key is alter
The ping of the bell warns the typist
That she is nearing the end
Of the line and have to
Lift up her left hand
From the keyboard.
Swipe at the carriage returns lever.
Putting the carriage back to its normal position
Cause a 'Ziiip' noise scribe has to bear.
Olden days still not old
Computers come to being through it.
It is gold of many colors
That can best be traced by people of its age.
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