Poetry

The Anachronistic Poet

Who uses a typewriter nowadays?
They ask,
as they pat my shoulders,
laughing in my face.

He’s the anachronist poet
They say,
handcuffed to the past,
Holding the keys in his hands.

But I will never give it away.
Nothing can replace the courage it takes
to be bold enough
to set a mistakke into permanence.

I sit and listen
as they stare at their bright screens,
Words appearing
only to be swallowed
By the blinking cursor.

No paper.
No ink.
No evidence.

Then I press a key.

The letter strikes.
Its sound is my melody.

Let them laugh
While I enjoy its company.

Non Grata

Who uses a typewriter nowadays?
They asked him,
but it is I
they pronounce dead
after having conducted my
post-mortem.

Cause of death:
Excess noise.
Too much weight.
Irrelevance.

But he dug me out of my grave
And gave me a second chance.

Now,
when my carriage returns
And my bell rings,

They will hear
not a ghost, but a heart
beating
in the sound
of every single key.

Favorite Drink 

I taste the rhubarb
In your strawberry juice.
My brows frown,
My nose wrinkles.
Too sour for me,
But you smile and
insist it’s always sweet.

Ragdoll

Alaska meows loudly
When footsteps cross the floor.
Her kittens sprint to her side,
She arches her back, tail high.
Fur warm and white blankets them all.
She hisses, claws pressing in.
I freeze and she looks at me,
Ready to strike,
If I come too near.

False Positive

Millions count down for my arrival,
In every language across the world.
They watch me with their rose-colored glasses,
Or maybe not.

I hate being the first in the line of time,
As they make pledges they rarely keep.
I’m tired of the future faking and collecting
The promise rings they once gave me.

Can someone rewrite the prophecy,
Save me from this calvary,
And undo my destiny?