On typewriters, of romance


Today we have forgotten
whose shoulders we stand
On typewrites, the greats works have been produced
but on occasion, mediocre sequels too
let us not be an unkind sequel
Typewriters were the combination
of engineering meeting out romance and the mundane
Love letters producing the most careful of tears
“My dearest darling”
Letters to mothers and wife’s
tears of such loss – “we regret to inform you”
Your son/husband was lost
There were Clanks and Clunks
of success and failure
a smell of correction
liquid paper to cover
I cannot produce great works
of love, but I can lease my heart
for an undisclosed time
I can stand on the shoulders
of Shelly or Byron
and tell you
That the shore in no longer lonely
‘so lift me as a wave, or let me
bleed as a cloud’

Let me type this romance
on a keyboard, though lifeless
with no typewriter action
it can still produce, thus
‘face the thorns of life
together, pricking neither thumb
nor forefinger’
Let us carry it as one

Bruce Ruston 2014

Indeed standing on the shoulders
of Shelly and Byron

Guest Poet

Forgive me

Forgive me
but when you
look upside right
must be fought
for, surely the
right goal
I am on my knee
my queen
check mate me
find the way
walk run
an engagement
your soul
let me pick a

Love (shh tis a minor hijack)

Love to me
is about cooking
and being a support
I am not a ladies’
man I don’t dally
around town
dilly dally not I
I focus on gathering
you in
the Man who
tells you your being
silly, and gets away
with it cos I want to
raise you up
and have you stand
next to me cooking
pasta a family meal
shared in understanding
That I waited and hijacked
your blog again
while I kneel
and present myself
spinning and at a pace
on my carpet
I’ll not dilly dally
I will focus
you for you
with you


Bruce Ruston 2012
guest post

Brain Jar Take away

Well I’m not blue
or a girl, but I wrote
down her number
at the take away
they were most confused

I also wrote of amour
and spinning maidens
more of that later
so if I make her my take away
so sorry will return her
in the morn

It’s a dangerous game
she does not know what I write
but have no fear she
has not told me the color
of her underwear, yet
tis a clean blog

were going to write more together
about yogurt and the weather

boring stuff about Love