Feeble-minded knaves label writer types,
Forcing free spirits their genres to declare.
Novelist? Poet? Playwright? Stereotypes!
Squeezing into one round hole a peg so square.
Participles! Fear not. Feel free to dangle.
Infinitives ought (surely) be…split in two.
Preposition proposition? Not to mangle
Grammar RULES! Still go wherever you want to!
My mom’s at her desk striking keys, worlds away.
Correspondence to and fro, letters, notes…DING!
“May I try now or wait for another day?”
Hunt, peck — keyboard’s not arranged A-B-C. I’ll sing.
Over-bearing teacher strolls aisles. Stop-watch time.
“Minimize errors while increasing speed NOW!”
Concentrate? (Self-conscious teens flirt—not a crime.)
31 WPM! She scowls–that cow!
Powder blue Royal portable, we’ve been dumped.
Four years — c-o-l-l-e-g-i-a-t-e. Ribbons we’ll replace.
Though White-Out’s not invented, let’s ne’er be stumped.
“Onion skin” typos successfully erase.
Cheerleaders strut extrovertedly and split
Their flipping appendages, then “pretzel” up
Squealing empty rhymes as if in Tourette’s fit
Barking through megaphones – worse than any pup.
Pianists ripple ivories—some compose.
Dancers tap, pirouette, joust, leap, polka, clog.
Painters, sculptors—we all endure some of those.
We observe all that stuff sometimes in a fog.
Pontificate, explain, camouflage, justify.
Establish themes, annotate, preen and impress.
Be something we never were to merely get by.
Sooner or later, we must stop to undress.
Lessons learned tapped upon a jumbled keyboard
Release the demons from their self-imposed hush.
Stanza-ed, paragraphed, free-versed or untoward.
Enlightening, numbing. Language often does crush.
My TYPE writer’s resurrection from basement
Corpse happened “twice before its close” once to fill
Out child’s scholarship forms to be stamped and sent,
“Royal’s” swan song a play’s “prop”—“best on the bill”!
Imitations’s the sincerest form of VAIN.
Allusion’s of grandeur stuffed within essays
Theses, editorial turns, critiques reign.
Ferlingetti spaghetti, Millay displays.
How lonely I’ve been when I’m never alone.
So many people I’ve known whom I have not known.
My Type writer’s no metaphor—but my heart.
I offer IT up for the sake of My art.
Dedicated to Mis-judged Gargoyles, Over-rated Angels