I Recently Found Out
Recently I found out light is
afraid of
dried figs, (figs are
fascinated by
anything square-shaped); ice block sticks are into
lounges and
cars; pastry grow facial hair and
grow pubic hair; Mr Ironic plays the
violin; Mrs Stun gun bathes in
red wine. To
hurt Mr Jeans’ feelings all you have to
do is lower your
eyebrows; pool chlorine wants to be a
cat so it can
lick itself; free moustaches can
juggle worms; eggplants have
laughing fits when
the temperature goes
below zero; brown sugar has a
better smelling ability than
dogs have; white sugar can
type 120 words per minute; lemons can dream and
narrate documentaries on
any subject; sling shots are
huge fans of
the Golden Age of
Hollywood.
Categories:
words per minute, humor,
Form: Free verse
A case of pretense to a reticence?
A once brave voice could make no sentence:
A cool one-thousand–words–per-minute
Politicians pushed to The Senate,
His subject of restless focus: Tax,
For two hours on Tax, still not lax
And this Cordless Tongue would strength not Wax.
While his eyes Messages of Fear fax;
One might think he had seen steely knives,
A wish to again kiss his dear wives…
Yes, Spencer had been a talkative,
Upper and lower lips active;
An all time YOU MAY LAWYERS CONTACT
But right here and now suing for tact.
Categories:
words per minute, celebrity, courage, fear, wisdom,
Form: Rhyme
You‘re shivering
And your voice quavering;
A wetness on your right palm
And inability to remain calm…
Crazily twisting your middle finger,
Your replies beginning to linger:
Seven words per minute,
With a face dully lit.
Only a straight look at your eyes
And punishment becomes your prize.
Now, you ‘ll have to release “the true”
Or you shall be jailed without a shoe.
Categories:
words per minute, anger, betrayal, character, people,
Form: Rhyme
Why were you such a mean teacher?
Children hated coming to your class.
Some sobbed in the hallway for an hour prior.
Why would you relish this?
What kind of life did you have that you wanted us so miserable?
Why were you so mean, that you were hated
Not only by us, but also by our parents
Who also had you for a typing teacher?
Why was the school board too afraid of you
To reprimand you when my mother caught you red-handed
Being mean to me - hiding thirty of my assignment, so you
Could keep me after school to re-do them for two weeks in a row?
Why were you dumb enough to grade both sets and hand them back?
Why were you so stupid? Is this why you were you so mean?
Why were you the meanest typing teacher in the state of Iowa?
And why did you insist on being the sponsor for Future Teachers of America?
Maybe it is so I would grow up and become a teacher and do everything the opposite of you? Maybe it is because I now type eighty-six words per minute due to all that extra typing.
Do you suppose this is why?
Categories:
words per minute, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form: Free verse
Rapid delivery; no delay
that was the digital mouth
I met in salon of affection
a living computer device
“Statue of amateur artist
flowing hair of the underworld
twiggy limbs of praying mantis
wasp-like waist of a pin
piercing mouth of mosquito
scaly skin of a frog
nose loaned from a hippo
squatting eyes of imaginary being”
One thousand words per minute
digital mouth bombed me
describing how pretty I am
in artificial attire of hired flesh
I wear around without shame
borrowed from somewhere
unknown, unknown!
All things foreign to the ear
I humbly received, swallowed
from the one I wedded in heart
but all is lost; for a time it was it
butter became bitter; sweet, swarthy
When wedlock lived is lost
digital mouth is charged!
Categories:
words per minute, relationship, satire,
Form: Free verse
A fresh college graduate looking for a job
To undergo trials one of which is the typing test
Handed over a text passage to pound on the keypad
Typing 40 to 50 words per minute, I needed to press
Facing a manual typewriter, rested fingers to home keys
Try to feel the small bumps on the F and J keys
Now confident, curled fingers to position strategically
Hoping to type the text reflexively
Altering the upper and lower case, pinky fingers strike shift keys
Reaching the number keys on upper level makes it fiddly
Pressing the keys very hard to swing the type-bar up
The carriage travels to the far right sluggishly
Leaving an imprint of the characters
I was whisked away by my disappointment
Never repeat same fate in front of a manual typewriter
The rhythm goes with each keystroke adapting to its component
The next day I saw a Remington typewriter
So old that typebars entangled so often
Curious to type words, always an attempter
At its clickety-clack sound, a relic of a bygone age
15 May 2013
Categories:
words per minute, poems, technology, time,
Form: Rhyme
Applying for teacher certification
I caused one technician much consternation
My fingerprints had simply not registered
Again and again the test he administered
“Guess you could have had a career in crime,”
He retorted reapplying ink grime
He said this had never happened before
But the results he surely couldn’t ignore
He sent me to an experienced tester
Who made many cracks, joked like a jester
He claimed my blank prints were quite unique
Turned over my hands just to take a peek
The delicate lines could scarcely be seen
And the fingers themselves were awfully lean
“What work do you do?” he asked with a scowl
As he removed the ink with a towel
“I now type 82 words per minute,
Most of my life I’ve been immersed in it"
My helpless fingers were worn to the bone
And my tester let out a mournful groan
Apparently pounding on my keyboard
Had produced an undesired reward
Faint thumbprints revealed no criminal record
And I won an overachiever award
Typing is essential to the work I do
Next time they need prints, I’ll remove my shoes
** True story for the Finger Frenzy contest
Categories:
words per minute, funny, on work and
Form: Couplet
Solvent light diminishes metaphorical seconds,
wiping them with a blur–a stroke–a motion,
challenging the wings of emotion to pulse and live,
To etch and carve something in a flight of furor,
in a whirlwind haze of hapless thoughts in apropos.
A sound made in arresting touches of flesh on plastic
and in the vestige of fifty-five words per minute
I listen to the swift, cool rush of bodiless thoughts;
formed, reformed; given unto the cerulean glow,
like an offering of the internal to the exponential.
Ripped from juxtaposition and highlighted in blue,
a shadow morphs into absently coruscated fog,
crystalized in the act of inciting jubilant ruminations.
A cackle amidst a gaggle of jabbering voices,
and jovial extractions alight succulent glows of nascence.
He is born.
My twin sired with the conscious decision to smile whilst I type
and in the glow, he is pressed–animated–on the wall,
like a moving hypothesis for the enigmatic muse.
Dancing like figments in the light of imagination,
he sits as I do; enfolded in the cerulean glow that refreshes and renews.
Categories:
words per minute, computer-internet, imagination, introspection, on
Form: Free verse