Typewriters Poems | Examples

The Analogue of Ticks Missed

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.

No Time for a Banana

Monkeys - start on your typewriters now.
I need you to work fast - and how. 
There is nothing more pressing than a
contest deadline - no time for a banana.

Spools

I am an inked ribbon
fed through an old manual typewriter.
Like all old typewriters,
the machine originated
in the belly
of a behemoth steam punk engine,
one already equipped
with an Artificial Intelligence
so fake that it was undetectable
in any time or space.
Eventually,
all such antiquated machines
must evolve into smart phones
in the hands of semi-morons.
Until then,
I remain just ink
held in suspended animation
until an ancient programmer
codes thoughts upon fingertips
that are still growing
in a stone-age Petrie dish.

The Manual Clunk

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.

A Treatise on Newspapers

    Newspapers can be logs for the fire
        or non-functional rolling pins

    Obsolete as white-stockinged town criers
        along with typewriters ~ has-beens

busy office

The Busy Office

In the busy office, where the papers fly
And the typewriters clack their endless song
There is no room for beauty or for joy
But only for the drudgery of the throng

The workers toil from morn till eve, and then
They hurry home to snatch a brief repose
And dream of all the things they might have been
If fate had not condemned them to their woes

But sometimes, in the midst of all the noise
A sudden silence falls upon the place
And then, a voice, melodious and poised
Recites a verse of wit and grace

It is the poet, who in secret writes
His verses on the margins of the sheets
He does not care for fame or fortune's heights
But only for the music of his beats

He is the rebel, who defies the rules
And finds a spark of beauty in the gloom
He is the artist, who with subtle tools
Creates a flower in the barren room

He is the hero, who in spite of all
Preserves his soul and keeps his vision clear.
He is the genius, who can hear the call.
Of something higher than the dull career

The Sea Goats Allegory

Aquarium realms
of anointed fools
masquerade as sensibility

Typecast foolscap
tired typewriters ribbons
don't have a prolonged head

Between the streets
where the drunkard
spins his tales

A strange panacea
scattered snakes
launch ta ta  tee

Oh sang the Sea goat
his change as constant as the tide
strangely sympathising
the endless wave

So Long Buddy

dreaming friend
like the  chancing days of wind
if i could draw his breath
so sad to watch my friend
growing older
growing colder

don't forget your feelings
spare a thought for me
i am not a startled stranger
something more than typewriters are needed
to record the personal touch
introspection is not an option

The Discontented Decade

Dustmen were dirty
Shoes had holes
Typewriters qwerty
Clothes were old
School was tough, kids were rough
Summers were always, quite cold

Three-day week
No power at night
Week after week another union strike
Nothing to do, so early to bed
Wake the next day to no loaves of bread

No central heating
Winters were freezing
No phone tweeting
Less coughing and sneezing
TV was great, watching films late
The Friday night Hammer, the best to see

British bulldog we played,
as gangs in the street
The shop round the corner,
had all the best sweets
And despite everything, when all’s said and done
The discontented decade was still lots of fun!

Fire Engine

Fire-engine 
Now that it is autumn going towards winter
I often think about morbid things to avert this 
I think of what I liked as a child.
The sound of the fire engine rushing through
the town; ran after it and felt heroic.
Often the fire was far away when I got there
it was too late; the fire had been small
rubbish burning in junkyard sot on a wall.
Firemen, rolling up their hoses, they
were called that, now they are firefighters
to make it more inclusive, mind you, I have
never seen a female among them, I knew 
there were women at the fire-house. 
I went there to have mother’s kitchen knives
sharped; they deftly wrote on typewriters.
I was going to be a fireman, they looked so 
tall and tough, spitting manly.
 Alas, a few years down the line, they grew smaller.

In Name Only

give monkeys typewriters and enough time ~ they’ll spell out a god or two 


# scientific not religious #

By
David Kavanagh

Annoying Pop Ups On My Computer

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.

Life On Line

Oh, latest iPad, may I hang thee,
From the nearest garden tree!

A Grinch, thou art and nothing more.
Causing me, endless problems galore!

As always, Safari is to blame?
Almost a tune, that puts me to shame.

Why is it I , who is always at fault?
I dream of joyful days of saddleshoes 
and malts.

Of humanity speaking, face to face.
And of being social, was of no disgrace!

Typewriters and mail, oh how I love!
This electronic age, hardly hand in my glove.

I miss the aroma of fresh, pencil shavings.
Thus goes, my off the wall nightly ravings.

People no longer look at the beauty of one
another.
Pasty- faced countenances adoring their beloved,
electronic other !

A ghost faced, global society?
Which dreams a worthless vaccine 
can save humanity?

I despise propopganda with my entire being.
And on our devices, is all right we are seeeing.


                   9/30/2021

So I Am Writing This From the Perspective of Multi-Verses

so we are writing this
no one wrote this
everything writes this
Typewriters and enough humans
Shaking spear nosed baboon
Dam dirty humans
------ ----  ------ -2-d universe flat writing
01000 10000100 10011101
how do you spell riting
Three burgered hams and potato oblongs
i'm from the universe that knows all the others
we are watching you
ha you still believe in God
i thought no one would fall for that
What are my pets up to today
W dont hav that curly shapd lttr you hav

inevitably snapped

Pure Flow

Thus 
the 
pure flow
peruses
bounds of avarice
flowing highways and typewriters

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