Thet called me a Clerk Typist,
But handed me casework meant
For a higher pay grade.
Families leaned on me, and I carried them
Growth came from fortitude,
Not classification.
I did the job first,
Earned the title after some time
Public Assistance Specialist,
Proven by service, not paperwork.
Lesson: Your role is shaped by what you
Rise to, not what they print on your hiring form.
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
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
Not a Ladder step up
Typewriting keyboard set up
Hands on the keys
Typing letter after letter
Accuracy that matters
Speed will come
Practice makes perfect
Afterwhile, you will become a typing dynamo
You will be your own quick moving typing gizmo
Pace yourself
Be calm and patient
Don’t let anxiety get to you
In due time
Typist will be in you.
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
A former life.
I am there, a sort of poet in 1920.
My typewriter
speaks a thousand words of English,
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.
I need help.
I have hired a woman,
a lady from a typing pool
one with coffee serving skills.
Today the typewriter and the lady
are in place.
I pace the room seeking inspiration,
mumble and grumble.
“Sir do you want me to type that mumbled incantation?"
“Just type anything," I say exasperated.
but be sure to make it plausible.”
I mean really!
Valentine typist with the pretty smile.
Pecking out letters with a ick dick mick bick.
Boys are lined up to see you for a country mile.
You act like you don’t see them. You are totally slick.
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.
I feel like writing silly tales
About a typist who had long manicured nails
She tapped the typewriter so slow
Until her boss told her she had to go
To employ her was beyond the pale
Frustration
Although I am not a typist, I continue,
like an addict!
Beating myself with long poetry,
Causing me untold hours of no sleep.
Endless tears come with 'no comnents '
Frustration, too, and a lack of mirth.
Pannagiota Romios
4/24/2019
10:15 pm PST
A world, reading into your mind
You want answers, solstice you may find
You got the image, the entire world all laid out
And for a moment your escape is made
A broom to sweep away your doubts
You might pause and wonder
“Who created this? What are they like?”
But the typist isn’t a god
The typist is even more flawed
Then the creator, who is you
Who turned the words into the pictures
Who turned the lyrics to a song
The typist is a lonely man
There are few achievements he can
He doesn't know many friends
His work only a bitter means to his ends
He’s trapped in him cold room
With a cold hardwood floor
Although he keeps craving for more
His chances fled right out the door
But you are important
You've got the imagination
To turn the musings of my alienation
Into a beautiful, living creation
The typist will one day come and pass
But your universe will always last
You are the better person in every way
And I know you’ll merge the worlds someday
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.
Early 70's suffered from post puberty traumatic stress
running to the school bus stop my belongings a mess
at times missing the bus and walking to school
enjoying my time alone and the suburban view
Graduated from my NY high school in 1975
worked a variety of jobs I was staying alive
took advantage of my typing and became a clerk typist
driving on the LIE everyday getting stuck in traffic
Went out dancing a bit with friends at times
working by day and trying to find the right guy
the Vietnam War had ended which was great
then onto gas shortages and the televised soap opera Watergate
Lived at home for awhile and paid rent to my parents
a blue collar working girl whose low salary was apparent
would have loved to have been more like Mary Tyler Moore
with my own apartment and friends knocking at my door
That decade on Long Island I had my share of ups and downs
a little flighty female trying to find my way around
a realistic dreamer trying to row merrily along in life's stream
on occasion putting my oars down conjuring up new dreams
2-22-19
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 |
God Will Overlook
For God, would you want to go to work
As maybe quite a genius or plain old clerk
Milking many cows or working in a field
Hoping to produce a very good yield.
How about being plumber or a typist
Be in a beauty pageant and hard to resist
Or just judge sitting there who will wait
Then after best is chosen begin to celebrate.
As all my days increase and a poet may be
Always trying my best and others agree
Then God started administering His test
Discovered just being your self is the best.
Don't find yourself false, but to God be true
Even though on His test may miss a few
Come to think of it, I am a miserable cook
Thank goodness, my cooking He will overlook.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
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