Today, we vilify technology. We found some new gadgets made our lives better. But some were like opening Pandora’s Box. Think of some technological wonder of this modern age and then consider its predecessor. We want that poem. Write of an old technology as it was or as we remember it. Lift it up or paint it with a dour brush. Your cell phone is your old land line (still have one). A cassette or CD was your music player. We’re getting anachronistic of you. Today, everything old is still old but we’re resurrecting the idea of them. Write a new poem about an old thing!
MARIE’S OLD DAYS:
Milk Delivery
Back in the days of house-to-house milk delivery, Uncle Ray had the greatest technology: a horse-driven, refrigerated milk cart. The horse knew what she was doing. She would take Uncle Ray to the first home on the route. He would grab enough ice-cold milk from the cart for the next several homes. She would walk the cart to the spot where he would need to grab more milk, and wait there for him. Then along came even newer and greater technology: refrigerated delivery trucks. Unfortunately, Uncle Ray was not permitted to turn down the newer technology. Not only did it make his job harder, but he lost a dear friend and coworker.
Often new knowhow’s
know how is negligible
or nearly inept.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
WALT IS ANCIENT:
LOST DISCONNECT
A lost connection:
a faulty wireless router,
giving and taking away.
A frayed cord on the telephone
cracking and crackling and
inaudible incoherency.
A heart string that was
forever pulled taut but
was never allowed to break.
A sibling rivalry that threatened
the familial bond beyond repair,
brought to bare by the passing of our Pa.
All misdeeds and failures forgotten, a phoenix rising,
in the imminent demise we will all face,
dealt with in grace and dignity.
I find that lately I balk at technology.
I'd rather talk to my genealogy
face-to-face in full embrace.
© Walter J Wojtanik - 2021
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Good morning folks. Very interesting prompt! I like it. 👌
Good morning, Benjamin! Sorry I was back out here yesterday to wish you a happy birthday!
Thank you! Not getting any younger!
Regarding aging, my dad used to say, “Hey! Everyone is coming my direction!” 😀
STICKS AND STONES
Sticks and stones were brilliant.
They were nature’s best toys
that brought us the joys of childhood.
Sticks happened to be machine guns
that housed unlimited ammo,
that didn’t kill, maim, or destroy.
Stones were the legos of the days of old.
Dusty, dirty, irregular shapes of grey
building blocks as free as the earth.
Sticks and stones were brilliant.
Until nature’s best toys became
the tools and weapons of destruction.
Sticks were replaced with AK-47s.
The wicked steel of automatic weapons
stole the joys of innocent childhood.
Stones were replaced with heinous drugs.
They became the new building blocks
for a life of crime, addiction, and doing time.
Benjamin Thomas
Packs quite a punch, this does.
👌
Nice Benjamin. But sticks and stones don’t kill people.. people with sticks and stones… 😏
Very good shift from child play to adult violence.
Thanks Mike.
Didn’t expect the shift, but should have. Well done.
I love when he shifts in a poem…takes something innocent and makes it raw…
Powerful poem, Benjamin!
Thanks Sara. 😁
THE BEST TECHNOLOGY
In the old days, the best entertainment
streamed directly from one’s own
imagination.
There were no needs for downloads,
petty subscription fees, or confusing
commercial competition.
There was no need for a screen,
to be tethered to an electronic machine,
or plethora of messages to be seen.
There were no need for cell phone towers,
dropped calls, bad signals, because
all you needed was an electronic imagination.
An imagination never required
the best coverage, fees for talk, text, and data
to keep one entertained.
The best technology was the spirit
and wild imagination of a child; who
playfully explores the colors of the world in style.
Benjamin Thomas
This piece reminds me of what Vin Scully once said about radio compared to television: “The pictures were better.”
👍
Yes! And for audiobooks, the voice in your head is better.
Hi Barb! Certainly. Love audiobooks!
I have found for my dyslexic mind that listening to the computer read my novel is good because I catch mistakes when I hear them but not when I see them…
Now you’re talking, Benjamin. That imaginative bent is sorely missing these days. One of the Pandora’s Box things I spoke of.
Times have really changed since I was a kid.
Hooboy. Lots of truth in this.
👌 Creativity and imagination are my favorite things about writing.
I love this and where are the childhood dreams that leads to the adult to their calling.
👍
SMITH-CORONA
Peck, peck
with one finger;
then came the computer,
and now writing poems proceeds
unchanged.
Good one William!
Remembering the Smith-Corona my folks had bought for our school work. I ended up with it after all the years collecting dust. Wore that bad boy right out! Nicely done, Bill.
Good one! My 16th birthday gift from Mom and Dad was a powder blue Smith-Corona.
Sounds like the one I had!
You and I have yet another thing in common? Could it be?! 😀 😉
I had a typewriter that was orange… I could not tell you the name… Da used the hunt and peck method and one day I came up this…
Typewriter
I miss the click
Of the manual typewriter.
Da would work on his poems
Hunting and pecking
Each of the letters.
The barrage of cuss words, I also miss,
And the sound of the hammer
Beating against metal.
I would step into Da’s office
Amazed at the man,
Who built parkways
Winding through Southern National Parks,
Defeated by a typewriter
And its ribbon.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
April 7, 2015
I changed the ribbons for him… his was big old from the 50s typewriter…
by the way I love your poem…
I missed the clicks so much that I found an app that makes the typewriter sound for my laptop. It makes me feel more like a writer because of it! A sweet poem, Mary!
Love it, William!
Walt, I much admire your piece, especially “brought to bare.”
I agree and you are a master of poetry.
Thanks Mary!
Thanks Bill. I trip over a good one now and again!
Marie, your poem created a flood of memories for me, especially of a rag man who had a glass eye and a big grey horse. Loved it.
It did for me also… our milk man left chewing gum at every house where he knew there were children…He always had such a big smile… often at our house just as I was leaving for school…
Thank you. Cool stories, Bill and Mary!
What a Pard I have? She’s the best!
No, *I* procured the perfect-est poetic partner on the planet!
THE WOUNDS OF OLD
Bones can shatter.
Flesh can be cut.
Bones can heal.
Flesh can be stitched.
The mind can shatter,
like brittle glass.
Shards of splintered
self, scattered en masse.
Emotions can be deeply
slashed, deeply cut.
Although—
Bones can shatter.
Flesh can be cut.
Bones can heal—
but…
The healing of the latter
can’t be switched.
Benjamin Thomas
powerful piece…
Thanks 🙏🏽
Wow, Sir. You wield a mighty hammer!
Thanks Walt!
POW. I agree with Walt!
Thanks.
Well done, Benjamin!
😊
BIG WHEEL COBRA CYCLE
Who needed a car payment
when you could get an old Cobra
big wheel cycle on Ma’s dime?
Sleek, and mystique every time;
a three wheeled black menace
with a snake curled to the top.
You didn’t need to top it off
with unleaded gas, but it would
last as long as you did— or it’d stop.
Just needed a bit of old fashioned
foot juice, know what I mean? Elbow grease,
as they say.
So you had to keep your foot lose,
if you wanted to look cool cruising
down the sidewalk on Cordova drive.
Benjamin Thomas
This is a fun one. The sound of a big wheel as obnoxious as it is is nostalgic. Nice one, Benjamin!
Hi Hannah! Yep. I can still remember that sound on the pavement. 😁
Awww! I like this! How fun, and very much like a little boy thinks. Cute!
Yup. I’m a big kid.
My grand is tooling around in her moms old Big Wheel well preserved. Good piece, Benjamin.
Thank you sir!
How adorable!!!!!
this made me smile….I visit the bikes in walmart and remember the time when I ruled on a bike…
Fun reminiscing isn’t it?
yeah
Of Wings and Platforms
In a new electric world
with eclectic stages
we may reach broad audiences
but it’s not the same
as this physical experience . . .
We show up as moths to light
take a turn in the glow
show our fellow beings
just what we’re made of
expose soft-center
heart revealed.
Words pour forth
magnified and mirrored back
ignites faces of watchers
gathered souls become one
in that brief lit moment . . .
Gossamer Wings Shimmer.
Beautiful. I think we all share this sentiment, especially being locked up for so long.
Oh, sweet Hannah! This is GORGEOUS! Your writing always brings a smile to my face. Sooooooooo happy to see you!!!!!!!!!
A wonderful poem from a returning angel. Know you see why I’m smiling, Hannah!
“returning angel”
I second that emotion! ❤
ah how lovely
Beautiful imagery and truth, Hannah!
Forgot to add… yesterday marked the 11th year that I’ve been sharing poetry in person at the local UCC which we call the neighborhood. I’m actually in the schedule to read today! I’ll be back to enjoy everyone’s poetry on this platform that is dear to my heart and is one where we do gather and share our hearts. 💓 Thank you for each of you! 😊
Please ask someone to record you, and put it on YouTube or FB
Oh!! I got this message too late! I’m sorry, Daniel . . . Thank you, for the interest and the good idea. I’ll see if I can do that next time. I will probably be on again in September. 😊
Oh how lovely! I’m right there with Daniel … would love to watch/hear!
Truths
Pages once typed
are now word-processed
on laptops and i-pads
mistakes once permanent
now deleted
with the touch of a key.
Term papers on paper
are replaced by files
on flash drives
emailed to instructors
after a round of video games.
Research online offers
different slants on facts
ever-changing truths.
Questions once asked
face-to-face
are texted,
cues offered
by body language replaced
by the media we chose.
The sun shines
on a virtual landscape,
spring and summer recalled
by computer-generated birdsongs.
Oh my word. Mike this is brilliantly penned, hard truth. To me, this is what makes poetry powerful. Your point is made in so few words. Words that speak and words that show. Words with images that stick. Excellent!
Sadly powerful…
Superb piece, Mike!
Excellent poem, Mike. Love that last stanza.
Simpler Times (for me)
Not a Luddite, certainly, but
still overwhelmed and
even a little annoyed by
the world of
Netflix, Prime, Hulu,
and all the other
five-dollar-a-month
time sappers.
My youth was long ago,
but I still remember
and appreciate
my little white AM radio,
the one which brought me
home team sports and
a Chicagoan who read poetry
late at night, while I hid
under the covers,
pretending to be asleep.
Life was so much simpler,
less complex, easier for me.
But of course, there was also polio,
and there were lynchings,
the back of the bus for black people,
corsets for women,
closets for gays.
All that, but only one brand of corn flakes.
Simplicity carries a price tag.
Poetry on the radio! I had the Opry, but not that sort if verse.
It was Franklin MacCormack, on clear channel WGN all night radio
Gosh, this is another one that is just brilliantly penned! SO much is packed in these few words, and that ending is such a surprise … so creative …
I truly enjoy nearly every poem I meet in this garden of readin’. They take me on trips, in time and place, coloring in some forgotten memories, bringing both smiles and tears.what a gift it is.
It truly is a gift. Walt and I are abundantly pleased and thankful for you all!
love the memory…. I won a radio at a Halloween party once…. loved it… but even then life was not simple but complexed.
Power in Your words, Daniel!
Ah, for a simple box of corn flakes, minus, fruit, chocolate, frosting, etc.
Walt, your short masterpiece brings different thoughts each time I read it, especially with phrases like “grace and dignity” and “a heart string that was forever pulled taut”
Thank you Sir! I appreciate it!
Marie, I always hearken back to the “good old days” around my natal day, and your piece enriched my thoughts today, recalling my dad delivering Omar bread in Wisconsin, driving down country lanes, beeping his horn, so all the kids would come out with notes from their moms for their orders, giving each kid the reward of a Bazooka bubble gum.
Love that! Thank you, Daniel!
The bane of progress.
Composing once was nothing more than waltzing pen o’er paper dance floor
but when Royal’s Signet hit the store, one handed writing, nevermore.
Ten flying fingers troubadour quickly morphed into dinosaur
when the power of PC hit the store, the bane of whiteout I forswore.
Hardware-software esprit de corps, autocorrect, accept, ignore
but one habitual carriage-return settled the score, sent my PC to the floor.
KEVIN!! Oh my goodness, this is wo well done and hysterical!!! Oh my word you are such a natural at this. Some (like me) who have been writing poetry for years can’t come up with this type of brilliant fun but once in a great while.
You. Are. Amazing.
Thanx MEG. This offering is a bit more fun as I originally wrote it. In the original, the typeface changes appropriately with each change in technology, beginning with hand-script, then to TYPEWRITER, then to something-serif, then the last 6 words are back to handwritten script. The visual effect is fun (I think)
Oh now, see? It’s time for you to make yourself a poetry blog. How fun and clever! That would be great to be able to see it! GO KEVIN!
MEG.
Actually, I have one (a blog), but I am the only follower.
Sharing my musings here (PoeticBloomings2) stretches me outside my comfort zone a bit, so I appreciate the feedback and the encouragement.
I’d love to have access to read. hint hint …
Made me smile big….
Agreed. A fun rendering, Kevin!!
So well written, and fun to read!
Hey, y’all. I was just thinking along these lines. The heat.
This piece is on the long side because of that. Apologies.
Oscillation
We went from town
to country
on every other Friday
evening. Back
home again on Sunday.
To television,
toilet paper, indoor plumbing,
ice cubes,
square white house, black
oscillating fan
that could slice pencils
(they said).
Those alternate, country weekends
had a light bulb hanging from the center of each ceiling;
a rope-and-pulley well;
two-hole outhouse with crumple-softened newspaper,
out-of-date Sears catalogs, spiders, wasps, flies,
aromas, cracks;
a yard full of chickens, a pasture with five cows,
two mules, four fox hounds, two rabbit hounds, pigs;
barn cats and their equally feral kittens.
The telephone line was shared with seven other families,
each with its own special ring, anyone
able to pick up a phone (to see if the line was free)
and listen a while. The coals
in the wood-fired kitchen stove never died iron cold.
The only insulation under the bare tin roof was air.
The only fans were your hands
maybe waving a magazine, or rounded square
of cardboard tacked to a tongue-depressor-like handle
with a Jesus scene and the address and phone
of some funeral home.
But the porch was shaded, smooth dark gray concrete,
and cool on the hottest days. And if you lay
on the seat of the porch swing
and put your bare feet on the chains, a push
would move the swing just slightly. Timed
carefully, a second push added to the sway.
Another, and another, and the swing rocked
side to side, breezy. The slightest pushes,
and you were your own
oscillation.
Opps. Sorry, I forgot to sign out from Quickly. Barbara.
☺️
A Miz by any other name would write as sweet! 😃
Absolutely!
What wonderful descriptions in this poem of a different time. We used to go upstate to visit our grandparents in a tiny bungalow. I loved the slider, that peaceful feeling it provided.
Barbara, this is jampacked with nostalgia. You make me be able to see, hear, feel, and smell. Love it!
love the memories… in this
Ain’t No Buggerman Out Tonight Daddy Kilt Them All Last Night…
Just before the lightening bugs
Came out to play,
And after supper had been ate…
We ran out to play
One last game of tag…
Sometimes freeze tag,
But my brothers were told
Don’t swing her so hard.
Sometimes we had spent the day
Over Johnny’s listening to him
Tell his tales with morals, and
Da recite his poetry…
We would have a bowl of soup beans,
Cornbread and chow-chow.
The best food, I ever had.
I would have a glass
Of warm milk fresh from the cow,
And Myrtle, Johnny’s wife,
Slipped me a bit of chocolate syrup,
When Ma was not lookin’.
Ma would shake her head
At the both of us.
Their grands would call to me…
“Skunk come play with us…”
Johnny would say, “Don’t call her that.”
We would gather together,
And decided who was the buggerman.
The buggerman would hide,
And try to catch us.
The rest of us would marched around the house,
Shouting loud enough
To have people looking out their windows
And shaking their heads.
As we marched with our arms linked,
In unison said,
“Ain’t no buggerman out tonight,
Daddy kilt them all last night.”
The buggerman jumped from out of the bushes
As we ran squealing
To our base.
Then it began again,
Until the last one caught
Became the buggerman.
By then the lightening bugs were out,
And we were given a jar.
I would carry that jar filled with lightening bugs,
And Da would put me on his shoulders
As he turned their magic loose.
This was the best of summer.
But no more is it the summer for children.
They play video games,
And watch programs they like.
No one goes out to play tag,
Until it gets dark,
And catch blinking bugs
That some call fireflies,
But in the south
They are lightening bugs.
How sad for them.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 15, 2021
A couple of things…. Johnny and Myrtle were my surrogate grandparents… and when I think of who my grandparents were… they are who I think of as mine. A buggerman well it is a haint,( a ghost that is an evil spirit) or a ghost or a monster or someone scary…. in Gatlinburg, Tennessee is a place known by locals as buggertown.. Probably developed over now but I remember locals saying, I am going up to buggertown.
I worked in Pigeon Forge one summer when Dollywood was still Goldrush Junction. We’d take our paycheck stubs to The Burg for half price on most everything, free shows, but no buggertown hainthouse.
I was living in Hillsbora Acres back then across from the grammar school…It was originally Rebel Railroad and my brother worked there and I got to ride the train for free… then there Silver Dollar City… and then GoldRush junction used to swim over at the pool Monday thru Friday…. Got a horrid sunburn and thus the reason I had melanoma… and it was in the early stages so thank goodness… lived in Waynesville before then.. But if you went to the Glades community that is the general area of Buggertown which is really close to Dollywood…
Don’t know the game, but definitely similar ones. What wonderful childhood memories, Mary!
As always, Mary, super fun read! You always manage to put me right there in your life with you. 🙂
thanks and this was fun
THE OLD CREAMERY
Treat days
With my grandmother
Involved the old creamery
On Pacific Avenue
Where we’d decide on our flavor
In her old car
On our way
Excitedly discussing
Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry
Just to start
Whipped cream was a must
And certainly, a given
The man, dressed in white
With his pointed hat
Behind the counter would politely ask,
‘What would you like today’?
After ordering
We’d sit down nearby
Watching the whole process
The very cool fountain glass
The scoops of delightful ice cream
The whirring sound of the machine
The fresh whipped topping
The beloved cherry on top
And their immediate delivery
To our table
As fast as they were able
Already excited
Ready for our chosen favorite
That day
That cherry
A cherished memory
Of times long gone
Now
Yet I can still see us
Eagerly awaiting
Our sacred treat
A sweet choice
The sound of that machine
With our growing anticipation
Not the same as the drive through at McDonald’s
Stopping the other day
Grabbing a milkshake for my husband
As that old memory of the creamery
Faded into the sound
Of the impatient car behind me
Knowing there would be no cherry on top
After my stop
Yet I was grateful for
my sweet memories
of times I once had
And still treasured
Long ago
Of my grandmother
And that old creamery
On Pacific Avenue
As I can still imagine
And hear
The whir of that old timeless machine
Still churning In my head
(c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021
Nice memory! And fun use of the word “churning,” since we are speaking of ice cream
God continues to bring you and your husband to mind for prayer. ❤
this is so sweet and lovely…
Love the nostalgia in this too, Janet. I can hear the whirr of the multi-mixer in the McDonalds that was my first job. Those shakes were the best!
I can picture the scene, smell the flavors, and taste that cherry!
The Ice House….
Da was going to make ice cream.
He said, “Sis, come with me.”
I knew we were going to the ice house.
In my young heart,
I did not say to Da,
What I was thinking
For I was but eight.
The building was ancient
The wooden boards
Were worn and broken
In the rough grain grooves
In greys and blacks.
The smell of ice
Came through the crumbling walls,
Clean, and powerful, and cold
On a summer day…
It smelled as the air smelled
Just before a snow falls.
We stepped inside the screen door,
And there in the dimly lit building
Young men worked bare from the waist up…
Their muscles rippled as they
Took the huge metal tongs
To lift the ice into the machine
That roared grinding noises
Until the ice was crushed
Into bite size pieces.
My eyes never left the young man
Who waited on us often.
He was from Cherokee,
Dark black hair
Heavy and smooth,
And eyes deep and dark
I never could fathom
What he was thinking.
His skin dark, and
He often winked at me,
When Da wasn’t looking.
Sometimes there would be
Girls, I knew closer to his age,
Who stopped in to get a bit of ice,
And I know to look at him.
I understood.
I was eight, but
I understood.
I used to see ice houses
Now and then, and
Wondered if there were young men working
In the cold and sweating
From the work.
I don’t see icehouses anymore.
Now you pick it up from the grocery store
Or gas station.
It is not the same…
By the time I was thirteen
Most of those ice houses were gone.
What a shame,
For I would have been
One of those girls
Who came by to get a bit of ice,
And see the young men working.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 15, 2021
Funny you mention the scent of the ice coming through, as I was just think right before that that I could conjure up the scent of the old wood. What a contrast that would be.
Thank you and this poem was fun to write
Enchanting as always,
Mary!
thanks, and I do have vivid memories of going to the ice house in Waynesville, NC
A Letter In The Mail
I think I shall write
a letter. Better yet,
I will write it in
purple ink. The receiver
will open the envelope
with care and curiosity.
He/she will touch thick
stationary, note flow
of writing, style
of each letter, and nod.
‘Yup, that’s her. What
a job I have now to decipher
the words. No mistaking
whose handwriting it is.’
I will wait eagerly
for a reply.
Complete with your purple ink. Love it! 🙂 I’m one of those who sees the sadness of handwritten notes going by the wayside. And yet, I so seldom write one, myself.
Same here. Thanks, Marie.
We were on the same wavelength with “handwritten” communiques! 🙂
The best!
this is so lovely… After my mother died, I found scraps of paper on which she wrote lists and ideas and they are so precious to me.
My sister and I have some old handwritten recipes. We treasure them. Thanks, Mary.
I picture this in my head and it’s wonderful. I really like this one Sara!
Thanks, Walt. I loved getting letters.
Hand written note, preferred by those who want something personal. For some, low tech rules.
Hear, hear!
Absolutely, Mike!
Anachronistic
My son is a bit anachronistic.
When he was 8, he discovered old-time radio.
Someone had bought a set of cassettes
of the old shows for my mother:
Burnes & Allen, Fibber McGee & Molly,
Abbot & Costello, Jack Benney, Phil Harris,
Our Miss Brooks and the Bickersons.
Being homeschooled, we encouraged
him to follow his own bent.
He spent hours with the old comedians
and even had some of their routines memorized.
If you want to relive the old radio days,
talk to my son, he knows more about them
than the eighties when he grew up.
This made me smile, Connie. 🙂
me too
Dad had a set of albums of some old shows and commercials. I have an old
stand up radio that will get converted to play them when I have the time to. Well done.
Never got to hear radio stories and comedies, but I would love to.
Just for fun!
It is scarce to see someone using a pocket watch these days, so I thought this old poem about a lost one might both fit within this fun prompt, and bring a smile to someone’s face. I hope you can allow yourself to wander into my wacky imagination, which envisions me “diving” into tall grass to recover a lost pocket watch. This is my rendering of an amphigouri with an Easter egg.
(An Amphigouri riff about a pocket-watch lost in the tall grass)
Alas! And do cruel pirates sail
‘mongst towering waves of grasses green?
Perhaps! Frogs jade, and pimpled pale
half frightened, dive to depths unseen.
Indeed! I plead, may snail and whale
give credence where, and what they’ve seen.
Oh, treasure lost in verdant dale,
unctuous yon ticking tangerine!
Return! I, lest in quest should fail,
impersonate a submarine.
(Just for fun, each stanza begins with an exclamation.
As an additional poetic Easter-egg, the first letter of each line is an acrostic. Hope you enjoy it)
lovely
Okay. NOW you’re just showing off. LOL! Kevin, I hope our Connie Peters sees this. She will be entertained and thrilled with the acrostic, and just as amazed as I am with how you pulled it off. This is a fun read. Entertaining. Visually delightful. Flawless rhyme and cadence. Unique in subject matter and presentation (i.e., I guarantee nobody else has done an acrostic of amphigouri, lol!).
Rattle magazine is a hard one to get in to. I’m going to suggest you send this to them, and see if they will accept it for publication. It’s different enough and SO cleverly written, I think it just might have a shot. Let me know if you need some help finding them.
In case I haven’t “really” said this yet, I am THRILLED you are posting here at Bloomings with us!
Fun poem!
Love this!
The Respect for Your Elders….
Growing up, I learned to call
My aunts and uncles their titles respectfully,
And later when I was grown
I did it out of love.
They were different
From each other, but
They were the older generation,
And we knew they were owed
Our respect.
I listened to their stories
Of how their lives had been.
I knew my mother’s cousins, and
Some of my father’s I grew to love-
Like Ansel who told wonderful stories,
Some lovely ladies who used to come to call.
I didn’t have to read history books
To know how it was back then.
Somethings I did not like,
But Ma told me to hold my tongue.
There was Cousin Lucy who was a Todd,
But married my mother’s cousin…
And another branch of my tree
Is so entwined I don’t dare to tell ya.
I remember when I was first called “Aunt”
And I thought I was all grown
Though only fifteen.
The world makes me sad these days…
Our stories have become obsolete.
There is much more interesting tales
On the internet than sitting and listening
To an old woman remembering.
I look at these younger people,
And think if they disregard us,
Because they think our time has passed
What will become of them
Because they disregard life
That is not their own-
Unless it fits their cause-
Will the next ones who come
Who are disjointed from their elders
And having lost their wisdom,
For the young are rarely wise…
It takes life to teach us
And the lessons are not easy…
Will they say, these lives are useless
It won’t hurt to let them go.
Except their souls
Will be damaged…
For each choice we make
In this life…either builds us up
Or breaks us,
But
Along with the respect for our elders-
We no longer teach
Choices have consequences,
And choose wisely
Young one.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 16, 2021
I pray daily (several times per day, actually) for my granddaughters. This is a whole different world than the one I grew up in. I pray daily for protection, and for wisdom that comes only from God. For the girls to draw close to Him. For them to make wise choices, and to learn from the ones that weren’t so wise. But as I pray for them, I realize I need the same things every day and in every way … and I pray for myself.
it is a strange and difficult world they are growing up in and I worry for little ones and who out there will form their minds…I have great nephews and one great niece who have been too much influenced, and my heart has been broken hard this summer for them and their parents….I have been praying hard not to let anger rule my heart… I posted an old poem this morning that popped up in my memories….
I will not let hate rule my heart.
I will not let anger take my peace.
I will walk the walk of forgiveness.
I will allow the Lord of Peace
Shine His Light through me.
I will wake in the morning
And rejoice for what will come to me that day.
I will close my eyes in sleep grateful
That I was not alone that day.
If someone brings me anger….
I will be an instrument of peace.
If someone brings me hate…
I will let the Lord of Love
Use me as an instrument of healing.
I will not condemn those who do not agree
With me, but accept that they are on a journey
And I will pray for them to have a safe journey.
I hope that in some small measure
I can give more than I ever was given
Knowing that this is an impossible task…
But knowing in my heart it is possible.
I will not let anger and hate
Rule who I am.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 17,2017
Amen, with God’s help and strength!
Amen
Like the One Who Raises You
Perhaps The Machine of my acquaintance
was first pounded by crusty men leaning in
from beneath green visors crouched
in the eerie light from darker green
shaded lamps teetering on desks
ashy from stubbed cigarettes
round glass keys trembling as
smudged fingers jabbed steel keys
grayed from dust and paper pulp
the zzzzz of paper ripped from platen
the endless clacking of words
spewing letter by letter behind
cloudy glass partitions
typing classes yet the hallowed purview
of high school boys destined for newsrooms
and boardrooms so our second-hand
Underwood of questionable provenance
sat on the hand-hemmed ironed cloth
atop a varnished typing table
made by my oldest brother in wood shop
solely and only to hold the hulking black
and gold machine at the ideal height of 28”
complete with splintering bench borrowed
from some long vanished piano, tarnished studs
the only reminder of velvet upholstery aside from
some frayed bits yet fluttering
after brother left for seminary and before
they told him to pack up and leave
I had free range balanced on a stack of books
to sit and pound the keys; grade school fingers
straining for the clickety-clack that meant real
words marched between one-inch margins
pinkie fingers aching from pressing shift-keys
that lifted the heavy platen for capital letters
keeping one eye out to manually reverse
the ribbon spool to avoid shredding
red and black nylon once it filled the second reel
and yet here I found more satisfaction
than mandatory piano practice where
notes vanished into anguished air so unlike now
when I could read back my efforts
count strokes per minute, take pride
in endless chains in their endlessly
repeated combinations until one day
The Quick Brown Fox jumped over its log
as I heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief
only to be bested later in high school
time and accuracy drills by a senior pianist,
unable to compete with her muscled arms
hardened and honed by concertos nd sonatas
came the day the tall business teacher
in her black habit and flowing veil led us
through glass doors into the Business Room
to stand gape mouthed in front of the only three
electric typewriters owned by the school
finally letting us touch one after calling them
State of the Art and Sensitive, memory
still vivid of jumping back when struck keys
fired like rifle shots from fingers’ accustomed pressure
confirming a truth too soon compromised:
I’d never use them
but alas the Real World called
and I was loosed into a jungle:
Picas and Elites, hulking IBM Executives
with variable spacing followed soon
by the whirling balls on glitzy Selectrics
all them too often draped in yards
of inky nylon delicately lifted by
manicured nails as whining stenos
insisted I alone knew how to
Untangle Rewind Unjam Reset
but fickle though I came to be
buried in the back of my mind
was my first love long mothballed
somewhere as an antique and yet
like the one who raises you always
remembered, never forgotten:
big smile…
Well done, Pat. You weave a fine fabric with words!
I read this one three times, soaking in all the details. As is always the case in your poems, I can put myself right there. I can see and hear and smell and feel … feel both with hand and heart. You must be one of the most mindful people on the planet, Pat. The details here (as always) leave me shaking my head.
“grade school fingers
straining for the clickety-clack that meant real
words marched between one-inch margins
pinkie fingers aching from pressing shift-keys
that lifted the heavy platen for capital letters”
With all the amazing lines and phrases and visuals and points I could choose from, it may seem odd that this is what made me smile, but it did. This wording took me back.
Wonderful, Pat. I enjoyed reading about all those old typewriters that I used.
SO many familiar lines describing my own march through time. I also started with a manual…with the mind to become a typing teacher. By the time I finished my education and started my student teaching…that march through time landed me as the teacher of “keyboarding” on word processors.
Lovely walk through my memories, your poem. It was a wistful feeling I had, reading the ending.
A SNAP OF A CHAT
Longing for the romance
of a handwritten letter,
she decided to take a chance.
Longing for the romance
of a give-and-give dance,
she thought, nothing’s better!
Longing for romance
she sent a handwritten letter.
She sent a handwritten letter!
He knew those strokes and curves.
Forget texting, he thought—this is better—
she sent a handwritten letter!
Carefully he penned his reply to her
conveying all the love she so deserves.
She sent a handwritten letter,
he knew her strokes and curves.
I LOVE THIS
Thank you.
A pair of triolet in a “call/answer” scenario? This is perfectly penned from both points of view. A handwritten letter is like a snapshot of words. They can be reviewed and reveled for years to come. Bravo, Paula!
Oh my word, yes!!!!!! Paula, this is one of your very finest, IMHO. This wows me. And, “He knew her strokes and curves” is superb in its double meaning, and its heart-grabbing sentiment. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this!
Thank you, Marie! 🙂 Glad you like it…it was fun to write. 🙂 I’ve lamented the days of old…waiting for a letter to arrive in the mail…recognizing the handwriting on the envelope before even reading the return address. And…should it be a love letter? Well…tis a wondrous thing to be known by your strokes and curves. 😉
❤ ❤ ❤
Thank you, Walt! 🙂 Not only for the kind words…but for the inspiration! You are the master prompter!
Very lovely! Beautiful in its telling and repetition.
Thank you, Benjamin – i started in my usual shadorma form (3-5-3-3-7-5) and these words spilled onto the page:
Longing for
the romance of a
handwritten
letter, she
decided to take a chance.
…but with only five syllables left, i knew there was more to be told…and the wistfulness i was feeling about “longing for the romance” of that handwritten letter, I knew the repetition of a triolet was just what it needed. 🙂
Well done, Paula!
Thank you, Sara! 🙂
In a Better Time
We had a very big vegetable garden
A natural apple orchard down back
And we picked wild strawberries in the spring
Searched the stream banks for fiddleheads
And fished the ponds, rivers and lakes
A water pump stood outside the kitchen door
An outhouse out back for our bodily functions
And the bedroom pot for us to use at night
That was until we moved into the big house
Inside plumbing was a big upgrade
Church every Sunday and Wednesday
Had the hymnal just about memorized
And still remember the words today
Books and notebooks out to do homework
Glad we had encyclopedias to look up stuff
30 volume Britannica just a few years old
We couldn’t afford new, but they will do
Homework done now TV time with the family
Which channel tonight? ABC, CBS of NBC
Or that other channel broadcast from Canada
That’s all we had but always something good on
I was the designated television remote control
Whenever anyone wanted the channel changed
It was a very important job because
If we missed a show, we missed a show
And we sure didn’t want to miss a show
We got the real news from a newspaper
Or from the 5 o’clock evening news
We actually got both sides of a story
Or at least we thought that’s what we got
On our party line the phone would ring
One long ringy-dingy and two shorts
That was our signal to answer it because
It was for us and any other ring wasn’t
I wore my older brother’s hand-me-downs
Except for the new clothes we got for Christmas
Or the ones we bought with our harvest money
I loved the school break for potato harvest
It taught us the importance of work
Harvest time also meant the leaves were changing
Nowhere in the world is it as beautiful as
Northern Maine when the leaves turn bright
Every color imaginable springs forth just before
They fall to the ground in preparation for winter
Winters were long and cold and very snowy
We would snowshoe through the woods
And make tunnels in the drifting snow banks
I loved skating on frozen streams and ponds
But was very happy when spring sprung warm
Saturdays and summer days were the very best
Out after breakfast and back before sunset
Bike loaded with bat, ball, football and
My basketball stuffed here and there
No helmet or pads back then
And no need to check in
Times were so much better way back when
One job alone could support the whole family
Four TV channels were more than sufficient
We knew our neighbors, even the ones miles away
And everyone looked out for everyone else
I thank God for growing up way back when
I thank God for knowing poverty and family
And what it meant to make do with very little
It was a better time at least in my mind
And it made me a better person
For that, I thank God once again
And speaking of snapshots, this paints a vignette to last as well, Earl.
Warms my heart, this does. ❤
Just lovely and Earl I have grown to love your poetry…
Thank you so much. I love to paint pictures and tell stories, as do you.
Scrap of Paper
“There’s a little rosewood casket
Resting on a marble stand”*
On my coffee table rests a scrap of paper…
It no longer serves a use.
Except
On the small yellow scrap of paper
Is a list of three phone numbers
Written in my mother’s hand…
The numbers will no longer
Connect to anyone I know…
I should toss it.
Yet
It is her practical firm
Writing that left notes
Of sayings she loved,
And recipes she made,
And even once
A coded love note,
I cannot read
Written by my father to her.
I should throw it away.
But
There it is laying
A bit of her essence,
And I treasure it.
I wonder what
Will those today treasure
When there are no notes
To find of such
Common information
Like phone numbers
Written by someone
Loved and now gone…
“With a packet of old love letters
Written by my true love’s hand” *
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 16, 2021
Traditional folk song “Rosewood Casket”*
I used to play a mountain Dulcimer… Rosewood casket is one of the songs I used to play… Ma sang a different version of it… but it is about loss of someone that the person loves.
You played a mountain dulcimer? Sooooooooooo not surprising! Love that!
I can 100% relate to the sentiment in this poem. Whenever I come across my mom or dad’s or Aunt Peg’s handwriting, I know it immediately. Of late, it mists my eyes.
My youngest daughter took handwritten “I love you” from my mom and dad, and had them tattood on her wrist. ❤
oh that is so cool… my niece Kelly had a dogwood- the symbol of Ma tattooed on her shoulder… I wanted a tattoo but due to my allergies… my friend the tattoo artist said don’t do it.
OLD MOTHER NATURE
Mother,
used to be our best friend.
A team of breezes a familiar feel.
A caravan of peeking clouds
sauntering along, witnessing
the kidful play of youth.
Bellows of sun
bouncing about, dazzling
on ray-baked skin.
She gifted us
with butterfly treats, caterpillars,
the night-glow heat of lightening bugs.
There’s nothing like
unbridled, unconditional love
of a mother.
Tight hugs of evergreens,
sweet kiss of deep valleys,
steady, cool comfort of rains.
Mother,
used to be our kin,
until we traded her for pixels of the present day.
Benjamin Thomas
You and Mike are on the same wavelength here. Touching, and well done, Benjamin.
Thanks.
Beautiful and yes we did…
👌
I love, . . . until we traded her for pixels of the present day.
👌
The loss of storytellers
I ain’t talkin’ bout
Those people trained to be storytellers…
They are more actors than real storytellers…
I ‘member when I was small, and
Johnny would say,
“I have a story to tell about a man…”
He would draw out the story
Until you just couldn’t wait, and
Someone would say,
“Johnny, what happen to that man?”
And he would give us a moral to remember.
Then there was Emily Bell Boney Bell…
A find Christian woman who played by ear, and
Ma called it her bangin’ on the piano, but
When she got to tellin’ a tale
About a dress she made for a bride
Who wouldn’t have had a pretty dress to wear
If she hadn’t a took some of her time
To make for that young woman to wear.
She would walk up to you and say,
“I gathered the cloth up and put a bit of lace,”
And she would be movin’ her hands
To show how she gathered and put that lace,
And then she would say,
“She was the prettier than a sunrise.”
They all were pretty.
When I lived with Emily Bell Boney Bell,
I met one of those brides she dressed.
She was but sixteen, but she was pretty
Standing there looking like a princess.
The there was the tall tales
That Jeff Devers used to tell/
He would come early on Saturday mornings
To go fishin’ with Da.
He would go get a cup of coffee from the pot,
And sit down tell a tale of my stuffed bunny.
“I can tell this ain’t an ordinary stuffed bunny.”
He would shake his head and say,
“No, Mary Elizabeth, this bunny has been places.”
Jeff would proceed to tell me a tall tale
Of that white stuff bunny of mine.
Made me want to visit those places.
I listened to the old ones
Tell me tales of my family.
I learned much from them.
Once I was telling a story to a nephew,
And he made a joke about all my stories.
It wasn’t a kind joke.
I was sad because we lost something
When we stopped listening
To those who lived longer than us.
It was his loss that made me sad…
Not the joke he made
That made others laugh at me.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 17, 2021
This made me smile. Love the language in this.
Thanks and get me around a bunch mountain people and I am talking like Dolly Parton.
I love language and fascinated by how people communicate.
It is sad to me how they try to blend us and get rid of dialects… In doing my research on my novel series, I came upon something I did not expect. In Louisiana they taught the Cajuns in French and taught English as a second language until the 50s when a law was passed making it illegal to teach in French in those schools. The Cajun children did not attend schools… so basically a generation of children who were of Cajun descent had no education. Another thing I found out was that schools for African Americans in most Parishes only went to the eighth grade… I have a Cajun dictionary,,
Fascinating.
another thing i learned is that Cajun is a dialect of French… there are some words that nave other meanings like Ma Tourte in French it means my pie but in Cajun it means my dove. The French word that it is based on is much longer and no longer in use. The Cajuns came down from Canada when the English took over Canada because they were not allowed to fish… Creole on the other hand is considered a separate language because it is a combination of English, French, Spanish, African, and Native American.
Wow. What a blend of languages!
Yeah I found it really cool
Second that one!
Never a lack of storytelling in your impactful poems, Mary. Wonderful!
Hear, hear!
thank you
and that is thanks to both of you…
This has nothing to do with the prompt. I just felt like writing it.
FORGED SWORD
Their words,
aimed—
struck like hammer and anvil.
Their words,
maimed—
me, made me.
Who I am.
A double-edged sword,
forged—
from heated steel.
A forged blade,
pounded—
made by blows of hate.
They did not
know—
what they would create.
A weapon,
glinting—
illustrious in the light.
They would see,
their reflection—
casting dark deeds.
They would see me
shine—
freed, from ill-conceived affections.
Benjamin Thomas
powerful and I love how you free yourself… Last December my rapist died…I wrote this the day of his funeral…
I Am Free…
I am free in a way
Most of you will never understand.
I am free from the darkness
That huddled in my heart.
I am free from the fear
That lurked in my mind.
I am free from the prison
That kept me chained to darkness.
I am free as the wind
That blows through my forest.
I am free as the stars
That dance on clear nights.
I am free to sing
Those songs of joy I tucked away.
I am free
Unbound
Unfettered
Unchained
And my life
Is no longer owned
By another.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
December 9, 2020
❤️❤️ Beautiful and wonderfully expressed. 👏 I love these kind of poems because it resonates so deeply.
thanks and I do also because I believe that these words touch those who understand but cannot express, and those who are blind to those being abused, might just realize this is a true problem…
A brave and powerful expression here, Mary. They say you forgive not for the perpetrator’s sake but to free ourselves. Your poem seems to give yourself a sense of release. A great heart you have!
thank you, but that heart was forged in struggle… and it did… after his death some said to me he is in hell, and I said to them… that is between him and God… I have no part of that… his sister who is medically fragile and I have helped from time to time said that her brother was with Jesus on Easter, and I had a twinge,,, and had to revisit my forgiveness of him.. and if he is in heaven… that is between him and God, and if he is there… then I will trust God that he forgave him.
Nothing better than freedom from fear.
Impactful final stanza. I’m glad you shared this with us.
thank you…though I am related to him… I chose not to go to his funeral…for many he was respected… I was afraid I might get sick hearing his praise… for I am not the only one whom he abused… instead I wrote this poem straight from my heart… no editing… first try was perfect as I can get it.
Thanks.
smile
The reason I said I was not owned by another was because I ran into him at family get togethers and sometimes restaurants and he always gave me a wicked smile… I ignored him the best I could and did not speak to him unless he spoke to me… but just knowing I would never encounter him in this life was freeing.
👌🙏🏽
My last contribution for the week, I promise.
Ephemeral English
Technology is a vocab thief; patois of purloined phrases
Aged terms since civilly borrowed have not regained their places.
Once birds did tweet, and cookies sweet, and troll ‘neath bridge did dwell,
Streams were for water, bytes for fodder, and illnesses spread Viral.
With Clouds in the sky and spam in the can, our catfish swam in rivers.
A friend was close, we booted for snow, and restaurants had servers.
A bug with no legs, nor tree verdant leaves, and the superhighway runs on busses? What?
Virtual is unreal, and intelligence artificial, and while logging now, no buzzsaw buzzes.
We text with our thumbs and tag with a mouse, and swipe a page here to elsewhere;
we pin without pricking, and browse while reclining, and “my Word” is now just software.
Via on-ramps we’re on-line as we download the low-down, so ‘cross continents Christian can mingle
our beloved OED grows more portly each day as tech-savvyness makes us bilingual
i will have to ponder this… but initial thoughts was dull for most our language skills have become…we no longer write in many letters.
and what I mean is we are down to the fewest shortest words we can use.
MET
Yes, I see your point. Thanks for the feedback. I sincerely appreciate it.
Side note: The poem is trying to point out how technology has “borrowed” many common terms and has failed to return them; like borrowed tools found months or years later hanging in your neighbor’s garage.
Most of the pilfered terms mentioned in the poem are now more commonly used in their new technological sense and less often heard used in their original meaning. i.e. Some younger folks have only heard certain technology terms in their modern usage, and never associate them with their original meaning. i.e. kids still “dial” a number on their cell phones even though no “dial” exists. They speak of someone being on “the other line” even though no actual “lines” are connected to their phone. And when finished with a call they “hang-up” never envisioning replacing the phones corded handset onto a hook which is part of a phone hung on a wall.
Poetic Blooming’s “Comment Box” allows for very limited formatting, which for the way I often write makes sharing my work a little more difficult. This poem in the original highlights the purloined words I am putting forth as examples, so there is a visual effect that helps underwrite the point. The following terms, if they could be, should be highlighted:
Tweet, Cookies, Troll, Stream, Byte, Viral, Cloud, Spam, Catfish, Friend, Boot, Server, Bug, Tree, Superhighway, Bus, Virtual, Artificial Intelligence, Log, text, tag, swipe, pin, browse, Word, on-ramp, on-line, download,
Thanx again
KP
WordPress’ (Poetic Blooming) “Comment Box” allows for very limited formatting, which for the way I often write makes sharing my work a little more difficult. This poem in the original highlights the purloined words I am putting forth as examples, so there is a visual effect that helps underwrite the point.
The following terms, if they could be, should be highlighted:
Tweet, Cookies, Troll, Stream, Byte, Viral, Cloud, Spam, Catfish, Friend, Boot, Server, Bug, Tree, Superhighway, Bus, Virtual, Artificial Intelligence, Log, text, tag, swipe, pin, browse, Word, on-ramp, on-line, download,
Thanx again
KP
Hi Kevin! I tried pasting in some instructions Walt had shared with me for bold and italics, but ended up not working. So I deleted it, and Facebook personal messaged the Word document to you. Hope it is helpful!
Your forever sis, Marie
Poetry is subject to taste … just like music, visual art, food, architecture, etc. Not everyone can relate to or enjoy every style.
I understand what Mary is saying, but I don’t “relate” to it. We are all different. That’s part of what I love about this site. Personally, I find Kevin’s poems to be brilliantly entertaining and skillfully written. Ridiculously so, even. 😀
I got that but your lovely use of words made me realize how how general use of language has decreased…
This poem packed and pressed like brown sugar, so LOADED with wordplay, comparison, analogy, observation, and pun … WOW WOW WOW!!! What a fun read, Kevin!
May I ask how long it takes you to compose poems like the ones you have shared with us? Because if you can pump these out in a “flash,”, I might have to “drive” over there and “byte” you! 😀
I see what you did there. very cute!
😉
P.S. Walt and I will have none of these promises to stick to a limited number of poems shared. 😉
“We text with our thumbs and tag with a mouse, and swipe a page here to elsewhere;
we pin without pricking, and browse while reclining, and “my Word” is now just software.”
Brilliant writing!
anti-social me
-dia crashed relationships
(technically speaking)
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
#fivesevenfive
#seventeensyllables
Big smile and love it…
Thanks!
Took me a minute, but once I saw it, I loved it.
Thanks!
Oh yes! Another gem, Marie!
Thank you so much!
This is a test, this is only a test….
OK, Let’s see if the WordPress Comment box will take HTML commands:
The following terms, if they could be, should be highlighted:
Tweet, Cookies, Troll, Stream, Byte, Viral, Cloud, Spam, Catfish, Friend, Boot, Server, Bug, Tree, Superhighway, Bus, Virtual, Artificial Intelligence, Log, text, tag, swipe, pin, browse, Word, on-ramp, on-line, download
If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed to tune to one of the broadcast stations in your area. This concludes our test
Amazing, I never would have thought of it.
Here’s the poem as it should look then:
Ephemeral English
Technology is a vocab thief;
a patois of purloined phrases
Aged terms since civilly borrowed
have not regained their places.
Once birds did tweet, cookies were sweet,
and troll ‘neath bridge did dwell,
Streams were for water, bytes for fodder,
and illnesses spread Viral.
With clouds in the sky and spam in the can,
our catfish swam in rivers.
A friend was close by, we booted for snow,
and restaurants had servers.
A bug with no legs, nor tree verdant leaves,
and the superhighway runs on busses? What?
Virtual is unreal, and intelligence artificial,
and while logging now, no buzzsaw buzzes.
We text with our thumbs and tag with a mouse,
and swipe a page here to elsewhere;
we pin without pricking, and browse while reclining,
and “my Word” is now just software.
Via on-ramps we’re on-line as we download the low-down,
so ‘cross continents Christians can mingle
our beloved OED grows more portly each day
as tech-savvyness makes us bilingual.
—————————————————————————————————————————————-
Thanx MEG for your tips to add Bold, and italicize HTML tags to comments. I sincerely appreciate it.
I really love this!
How clever you are!
Yours sincerely,
SoundEagle
Marie, love that you mention milk delivery. We lived in a housing project, and had not only a milk delivery man, but a soda man, an egg man, and the greatest . . . Ebinger’s cake!
Walt, I’d rather talk to my genealogy as well. Excellent poem!
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