Based on a poem written in the mid-1990s, more than 30 years ago
I see myself, poor old soul;
Pages upon handwritten pages
Within dusty tattered notebooks;
I caress each word, each syllable,
“This one was for him and this one.
And this one, what passion then!
The pages burnt in his hand.
Remember? He often said so.
My thoughts then turn to the disks.
I knew back then, as I carefully
Saved each cherished line of
Our fluid dialog, I knew back then
The day would come when ‘they’
Would be relics from the past
Refusing any longer to give up
Their treasure.
This age-spotted wrinkled hand
Now resorts to albums in which
The printed pages were bound
So many years ago for this reason.
Any flames that once set aflame
The page has long been doused
By the wells of time, time whose
Spring is but a trickle now.
O, sweet honey-dewed words drip
From these pages, sticky, still sweet.
Drip on me for I desire to feel!
All need to be revived!
For we are now all old with time.
The pages yellowed, you dead,
The tech I used to save the writing,
Gone, no longer any use.
Yet, embers deep inside
Glow warm still for you
Within this withered womb.
And it can never be quenched.
I speak this to nothing but air.
In the mid-1990s I was an NT Network Administrator. The Internet was new as was the technology. We had gone from DOS-based Bulletin Boards and floppy disks to email and 3.25 disks and a GUI, user interface. Of course, I wrote poetry back then and saved it to floppy disks. After a while, I realized technology was starting to change fast. So, I started making backup hard copies. When I wrote the original poem, I was imagining a future time when I as an old woman would pull out the printed poems to read since 3.25 drives are no longer on computers. That time is here, now. Poignant, isn't it? Poetry and technology are still my passions.