Trackpad poems on Hello Poetry

Daniel James Oct 2012

Coffee

As the magic morning coffee beans take hold,
My thoughts turn into windows
That sprout like flowers or weeds
Across my screen until by lunch time
There’s sixteen or seventeen or eighteen
Links and tabs dividing me
Into minute long thoughts
That grab me for a second
Before being blown away
By a swish of fingers
On the trackpad
I can’t
Keep
Track.
Of…
Help.
I…
I need another coffee.

Invocation Apr 2014

coffee among others

Ray LaMontagne - Hold You In My Arms
"I could hold you in my arms, I could hold you forever."

In this hidden corner of my world
Anything
could happen

woven Guatemalan Frisbee
with a lonely older man
talking about dank and his ex-wife
sweet vanilla coffee with a shot of something fruity
smoking in the wind

bot support Ashe
I use a trackpad
fingerless mittens and fuzzy knit earmuffs
they double as headphones
metal and country and sappy romantic pop ballads
gauges piercings tattoos flannels beanies band tees and scene girlfriends

gossip about the bar next door
bashing the outer world
this is utter peace

catching the eye of an attractive stranger
in the mirrors behind the bar

My stomach feels tender from too much coffee
my head buzzes with nicotine
caffeine
My purging week of healthy choices ended
with hash browns, french toast
too much ketchup and 6 packets of sugar in my coffee
Denny's
skeleton string lights and chalkboard walls
abstract photography and everyone plugged in

this is my escape

Today is my brother's 18th birthday.
I want him to feel loved.

#coffee #music #escape #inception #lol #smoke #bar #cigarettes #cold #smoking #wind #hipster #hidden #converse #league #adtr

Ellis Reyes May 2017

Memory Box

The error message reads: Out of memory.
Its capacity has reached its limit.
But the ‘memories’ that it possesses are touchstones on my family’s journey together.
My son’s tiny five year old fingers learned to navigate MacOs on this computer, with this trackpad.
My daughter’s poems were composed here.
Hundreds of papers, presentations, employee reviews,
and math lessons were clicked and dragged into existence here.
Inside its silicon brain are thousands of family photos, bits of music, and other ephemera meaningful only to us.
Truly, this old computer is our family’s memory box.

Written several years ago just before a major family technological upgrade

matthew scott harris Sep 2018

Benediction Towards Anonymous Mindful Readers

Reverence affects yours
     truly with unmeasurable
     infinite jubilant zeal,
sans unbeknownst world wide
     (web stirred) fans enamored
     with me poetry induce
     cogs of mine
     noggin to wheel

write (thru the roof),
     thus I feel impelled
     to spell out
     appreciation to those
     die hard regular followers
     or one time cyber reader,
     who (minnie mull lee)
     move mouse or gingerly

     (collude) manipulate trackpad
     motioning qua thumbwheel
scrolling thru each
     rich text chord
     line figuratively aswarm
with multisyllabic words planted,
     cultivated and harvested,
     where eyes feast

     visually soaking up
     mine magic charm
(albeit wrought by
     this modest male),
     whose virtual crafted
     figurative humble Georgia based
     Orwellian animal farm
revels with euphoria

     more precious then,
     (you guessed) bajillion
     banked bagged loot
     (of quartz without
     taking for granite)
     die hard aficionados tub hoot,
these stalwart re:dears,
     asper scratchings

     of this ole coot
oft times curious what attracts
     dedicated trooping veterans
     (undoubtedly war re:)
     like avast horde of
     buzzfeed ding flies to fruit,
or motivated students
     subjecting her/him self

     partial to mental taxation
     (without representation)
     i.e. (trying to make sense
     of confounding poetry authored
by Matthew Scott Harris)

     at the select particular institute,
the very same college (within Lake
     Woebegone) this alumni
made popular upon being
     recognized as a verb hose,
     re: noun sub bull
     ("FAKE" Norwegian bachelor) guy.

Still Smiling Apr 10

Finally the message was sent

I have been holding memories for more than a year long
but all I got is silence telling you are gone
the piling messages on WhatsApp that are unread
the missed call that's sitting on your phone as waste
But still I do not wanna believe it is true
so I made a story to tell — your number might have got new

While searching for you I found your LinkedIn
I was so happy to see it on my screen
I was gonna text but suddenly I stopped
is it that you are running from me? I thought
the not-turned-blue messages are haunting signs
maybe you've moved on... or drawn new lines.

I do not want to disturb you if you are gone
not wanna be seen if you have moved on
still I wrote a message in slightest hope
that maybe on LinkedIn, my message may not get ignored
I brought the cursor over the send option
my hand shook, finger hovering above the trackpad
I pressed Send...

Sometimes, even a single message feels too heavy to send—not because it holds too much, but because you don’t know if it will be welcomed or quietly hurt the one who reads it. And that’s the worst kind of weight—the fear of becoming a disturbance when all you really wanted was to be remembered.

— The End —