keys rest in their rows
each one shaped by years of use
ink ghosts linger still
waiting for the next soft strike
to wake the stories they keep
the vintage typewriter waits,
its keys resting beneath a page
that resists becoming ordinary lines
from that subdued expanse,
a mountain rises,
a cabin folded into stillness,
a blue stream slipping through
the distance the page imagines.
small white birds drift above the picture,
as though the typewriter has released
fragments of a dream instead of words.
they hover like thoughts rising
from inside the mind,
tiny wings carrying them
toward whatever waits beyond.
the light from the desk lamp
falls across the picture,
a gentle benediction~
remind me that creation begins
when machinery yields
to imagination.
the page becomes a world,
and the world becomes a doorway
through which the writer steps,
carrying only the brightness
that first rose from the keys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys are still—no clacking, no dinging~
now only dust lies in the grooves
where fingers once belonged.
Once it knew the weight of wars,
of Hemingway’s cigars and wine,
of love letters dipped in kerosene shine.
Now spiders draft their webs between
the metal bones of the obsolete machine.
A museum piece.
A fossil.
A ghost.
Waiting for words that matter the most.
But the writer’s hands?
Oh, they’re somewhere else~
tapping glass,
begging the sky
to inspire a story
worth its own ink.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys are still. No clatter, no chime~
just dust in the cracks where my fingers once climbed.
It remembers the weight of a story half-born,
the click-clack of hope in the cold before dawn.
But now it’s a relic, a tomb made of steel,
holding the ghosts of the things I might feel.
The E sticks a little—left thirsty too long,
the W whispers wait, but the moment is gone.
I brush off the grime like a guilt I can’t name.
The carriage return gives a sigh just the same.
What if I press it? Just once, just to see
if the letters still bleed what they used to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
clacking keys echo
through eras, ink stains shifting~
a misplaced comma
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.
the old klunker was my friend
he lasted till the end
clickety click
clickety click
i'd sit back feeling free
words would come to me
i'd have my glass of wine
a sip at every line
the images would soar
until they could no more
clickety click
clickety
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on March 8, 2025 to contest ONLY MARCH 2025 POSTED sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention
If in his time the mechanism had existed, would he have written even more?
Would all his neighbors believe him mad? As he watched beauty succumb to deaths door
His ethos words impress; insanity only when possessing exquisite levels of horror
Incessantly; even more incessant rapping comes sanity from the walls, halls, ceiling, and floor
A split vision of a blackbird, he saw halves, though hearing nothing worthy of suffering I wager he'd underscore
So I ponder clearly on nights far less dreary, a legacy expanded if Edgar could've had a typewriter
What made them think it was wrong...
For typed lines left unfinished
Are lost thoughts untold...
No love letters, no poems, not a song
One day the rusted keys fell cold
We found the old typewriter in 1967
None of us knew whose it was at one time
It was hidden in a corner of great grandma’s attic
At this time, I was using an electric typewriter.
This antique typewriter was nigh onto impossible to use
You had to push the buttons with the force of a sledgehammer
We did not find the unfinished novels until two days later.
Great grandma’s daddy had been a writer!
This intrigued me. No one had ever said this to me before.
I felt a kinship to him as I read his pages. He was pretty good.
I wondered why everyone had discouraged me from becoming a writer.
It was obvious now that the talent is in my family.
I have bought an old typewriter.
Black and silver scrolled, heavy as history.
Up all night, dreaming up a desk for it.
The desktop had to marshmallow plumpy
to avoid the rattle of any disjointed poetry.
The white legs shaped just right.
I put a black lace garter on all four.
The antiquated machine
speaks a thousand words of English,
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.
I have hired a woman. For is this not 1923?
A help who will never seek to comprehend
what I ask her to type.
Today the old typewriter, the desk, and the lady
are all in place.
I pace the floor in my frock coat, mumbling
into a full beard.
“Sir, do you want me to type
that incoherent incantation
you so wearily utter?
“Just type anything, but be sure it is almost believable,"
I admonish.
Tap, tap, clickety-clack
Thoughts vigilantly stamped
Trademark of transcription
Technology's prologue
Twain's famous "Tom Sawyer"
Time etched black and white scene
Tinted with grandpa's dust
4-27-2021
As a young boy named Bob
I was a bit of a slob
As I did my sweet chewing job
With typewriter teeth cleaning corncobs.
Many years have flown past.
I have grown old at last,
But dentures don’t force me to fast.
New typewriter teeth are having a blast.
Date:10/19/2019
Picture 3
Bright black uniform letters
Popping onto the stark white page
Loud smacking satisfactory pops
Pop T
Pop Y
Pop P
Pop E
Royal
Smith-Corona
Olympia
Brother
Typewriter magic of the 60’s.
Predecessor of the Word Processor and the Computer.
Sub Categories
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