The truth about typewriters

An old-fashioned typewriter works like this:

You press the key, if you don’t miss,

The typebar swings and hits a small head,

Compelling its owner to paint in dread.

A typewriter gnome has been taught one letter,

That it will remember (at least it’d better)

How to portray with some ink and a brush,

Always the same, no mistakes or mush.

The “TSAK” you hear, a head-on collision:

A new letter in your peripheral vision.

Therefore, computers are more humane,

No chance of contusion in a tiny gnome brain.

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Teleporting a hug

I really feel like hugging you now,

Smile on my cheeks, infecting my brow.

Too bad you’re over there in Greece,

Skyping me, my sweet darling niece.

A matter teleporter is what I need,

A wormhole-operated technic steed,

To carry my arms and their embrace

To you and a kiss on top of your face.

I guess I’ll leave now and get inventing,

Be back later with something disorienting.

UV flowers

This one is inspired by smbc-comics.com’s comic of the day.

 

In the outdoors, flowers in bloom,

Made for us to look, people assume.

Flowers have colors that we can’t see.

More important than us is the pollinator bee.

It has eyes that see ultraviolet.

Our visible spectrum just an islet,

Bees’ an island, covering more,

Grab a UV light and open the door.

I wonder how much else we miss.

Content thinking our lives are bliss.

Maybe dogs sing in octaves we can’t hear,

Carrots have a nuance felt only be deer.

Our senses are faulty at best of days,

To find out the truth we use logical ways.

Machines, calculation, proofs and arrays.

We compensate for faults with savvy,

The machines as our sensous navvy.

Night on the bookshelf

I heard noises at night in my house,

Some weird whispers or rustle of a mouse.

I got a camera to find out why,

My books, my books, loud as a magpie.

Some complained of 1984,

Shoving other books down to the hard floor.

American gods was the bard of the bunch,

Just telling stories, quite liked, is my hunch.

Catch-22 made all the others laugh,

Shake their covers at Milo’s gaffe.

Tao of Pooh didn’t do that much,

Stood there smiling, humming and such.

Making Money was a real leaf-biter,

The others listened tight, pulled an all-nighter.

Watchmen just watched, with one sentence,

Some laughed some cried, all of repentance.

I wired a mike next to the shelf,

Got some bedtime stories for myself.

Puréed water

My nieces founded a lemonade stand,

With pine planks it looked surprisingly grand.

They sold lemonade, water and advice,

The lemonade was tasty and the advice quite nice.

The former sweet and splendidly fresh,

The latter to taste delicacies of Bangladesh.

The water was advertised as puréed,

Just a small typo, the marker had strayed.

People got curious and many bought some,

Said it’s the tastiest with an upward thumb.

They told their friends who passed it on,

In two hours, no room on the lawn.

Everyone wanted the peculiar stuff.

Two bucks a glass started out as a bluff,

Enlisting an accountant was one option,

But they used the money on canine adoption.

As a pillow fur is better than money,

Compared to counting, fetching’s quite funny.

You could save it for a day when it rains,

But the puppy will fill the deep vaults in their brains.

Minimal Communication Cooking

Welcome to Minimal Communication Cooking!

Tonight in MCC we’ll be looking

At how to make a soufflé with four angry cooks,

Using no words you find in books.

Grunting through the ingredient phase.

Screeching and nodding when lighting a blaze.

Discussing the temperature mostly by pointing,

And some knife-related change dis-jointing.

How long should it stay in the high heat?

Grumble, leer, deep sigh, obedient bleat.

Let the judges judge the taste by tasting it through,

Approving harrumphs, a delighted coo.

It’s a success! You can remove your hat.

A perfect execution without futile chat.

Sharing secrets

Secrets are secrets only when told.

For them to exist they have to be bold.

Tell one friend and the secret’s strong.

Tell two dozen and bang your gong

It loses strength but will never die.

Tell no one? It becomes a why.

If you don’t share, it stays your head

Nowhere else, like a friend that’s dead.

No power, no hold of anything real,

Your thoughts only, a permanent seal.

They all need to be let fly freely,

To a friend or a stranger or maybe in Swahili.

Where you buried what with whom and when,

Who kissed whom on what? And then?

What was burned by what and why?

When did it happen and who passed by?

Why was it written on which by whom?

Who made the sound and who released the fume?

If you know and don’t tell, it’s pure secrecide,

Let them flow, confess and confide.