One-Finger Typist (Fun Poem 122)
I used to be a one-finger typist
and as the one finger wore down,
I discovered how to use two.
Finding that easy to score
and with the added bonus
of being able to play
chopsticks on the piano as well,
I decided to add a little bonus
and increased my fingers to three
and then on to four.
All on the same hand, I might add.
One day my left hand
feeling left in the lurch
decided it was going to join in
and my fingers typing doubled
to the number eight.
The thumbs then got jealous
and came into play.
Now both hands of fingers and thumbs
dance merrily across the keys,
but there I have a problem,
as they all want to press a key simultaneously.
Slowly words with three or four letters
were getting left behind
and I could only type words
with eight letters with two hyphens in between.
Confused? I was as well
as everything I typed became double hyphenated
and made no sense at all.
In desperation and frustration,
I reverted to being a one-finger typist
and now you know the story of my plight.
As for the other fingers,
well they got a new position
of multi-tasking elsewhere.
poem by David Harris
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Related quotes
The piano chords
You play the piano chords
In this sonata as well as
In the music of Prokofiev,
Emphatically catching the music's mood.
Fingers seem to stick the keys
And the keys seem to direct the fingers,
When the thumbs move under them.
You both look like a single being,
In together.
The piano seemingly breaks the sounds.
They penetrate my soul,
Searching for the necessary words.
I understand the story of your feelings.
Dedicated to Richard Clayderman
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Commitment
on your left hand
you have five fingers
one of which is the ring finger
where, of course, you have your ring
now cut the other four
see your hand bleeds
leave the ring finger alone
to manage the work of your hands
that is commitment
cutting off the rest from the one you have chosen
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Human Hand
The Human Hand has five fingers,
But none of similar size!
Yet, God put them all together,
To make a Hand so nice!
The Thumb is short and stout as well,
And moves most in all ways;
God gave it utmost importance,
‘I’m the best, ’ it says!
The Index- finger points the way,
And says, ‘I am the best;
As God had made it straight and strong,
’Tis better than the rest.
The Middle-finger grows longest,
And feels the greatest one;
Its actions though of lesser range,
’Tis not useful alone.
The Ring-finger is always proud,
It carries costly rings!
And sometimes, it has more than one!
‘I am richest, ’ it sings.
The Little-finger though smallest,
Cried ’twas sadly ignored!
Foremost in prayer, it remains,
And hence it felt unnerved.
Why fingers should fight ’mongst themselves?
Together, they stand best;
Each one is meant for a function;
Alone they form not Hand!
poem by John Celes
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After a while I thought it didn't make any sense to use a pick. It's kind of like typing with one finger on each hand instead of using all your fingers.
quote by Kevin Eubanks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Missing Finger
You left us with ten fingers and,
Came back with nine fingers;
What really went wrong?
Fifteen years away from home,
We are yet to know what really went wrong;
Fifteen years away to make some money,
What really went wrong with your missing finger?
You made enough money and thought that,
You were richer than the President;
Today, you've returned home poorer than before!
There is time for everything,
A time to gain and a time to lose;
What really went wrong?
From a flight to your plight,
Who will help you now?
Fifteen years awayto make some money,
But today you can't even eat well at home;
From a flight to your plight,
Today you can't even sleep well at home;
Fifteen years away to make some money,
The very colours of the rainbow with a view;
You left us with ten fingers and,
Came back home with nine fingers;
What really went wrong?
From a flight to your plight,
Fifteen years away to make some money;
From the land of red, gold and green! !
From a flight to a plight,
It's all part of a lesson;
You are now at home at last.
The President was at the stadium but,
Where were you?
It is better to be humble than to boast.
Flight, sight, might, bright, tight, light;
You're poorer than fifteen years ago!
Bite, kite, height, fight, eight, plight;
You're poorer than fifteen years ago!
Quiet, rite, white, night, site, write;
You're poorer than fifteen years ago!
Today, the President is better off than you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Blank, Numb, Floating
it is 1: 55 a.m.
i hear the rain falling
she is fast asleep tired of the demands of her day
i leave her and she takes the pillow for me
i turn on the light
and see this room of books and paperworks
i turn on the computer
i am feeling nothing and i am floating like i am but a spirit
i am numb and i am feeling so dumb
i see this blank wall
i am feeling so empty
i look at her again
she utters words in her sleep and i will not wake her up
i lay my hands on the keys
run my fingers on some letters
there is nothing to write
in particular but there is something to run my fingers on
this feeling
this attempt to imitate the sound of the rain in letters
to put the motion of the rain to put its smell
to be wet and to have the rain run over me
all over me all over me all over me all over me
blank, numb, floating and wet
this is the poem now
at 2: 03 a.m.
it has gained finally this form
and scent and motion and color
that you have never seen
or felt the way
i do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Piano vs. Guitar
i sat down at the piano bench for 10 whole years
i never stood up and moved away because of my fears
that i had been wasting my time and i wouldnt express myself
i couldnt rewrite erase scratch out replace what i had been taught
not by myself always with a hand moving me left to right right to left
until that day i wasn't afraid to stand and i saw myself not moving just
shifting from side to side i was only getting morose with no sense of wit or pride
i could get soulful and stand and swing liek the wind on the trees and no more was i trying to express myself on the piano on the keys where my fingers tried to get crazy but all i could do was type at the same rate with a bomb between my knees
so i saw my dad's guitar one day and my hands went up and down and not
from side to side and i didn't have to sit down and i choked the neck, twisted the head and realized that i saw in the face of what i could become and never hide
i saw in the face of it who i wanted to be, not what i was but what i could be come
and my past was behind me, and it chided me antagonized me until i saw that
my hand worked better as a claw
my father's guitar i saw it and i saw his face and i saw mine too and since that day i learned to scratch out and erase and revise what i felt inside and what i could
express and that i could get soulful when i wasn't sitting down to rest at the bench
to stagnate to get comfortable and masturbate and never get out of my comfort zone so my mind vacated the place where i was sat naked
i could get soulful and stand and swing liek the wind on the trees and no more was i trying to express myself on the piano on the keys where my fingers tried to get crazy but all i could do was type at the same rate with a bomb between my knees
waiting to explode, or reload the dissapointment inside my head untill i remembered that one lost phrase that my fingers once said on that guitar with that bar chord sliding up and down and noticing that for the first time i could get funky and move around.
poem by Maxwell Ames
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A Seduction of Ada
It was his hand
as we sat side by side;
he waved it
as a flag
waves in a breeze.
The fingers arched
and flowed
up
down
and up again;
pausing at one time
then moving again.
I looked into his eyes
and his eyes slanted
to his hand
saying look again.
I looked to notice that hand
was spelling a name
or saying
with each finger
lettering
where I could see
an 'I'
and crooked L
and O
a V
an E
a U.
He was so close I could
feel his body move
with each letter formed.
Enraptured,
I swayed with him
in this lettering
on the M
A
R
R
Y
M
E
and the crooked finger
question mark.
How could you not
love a man like this?
I did:
and I spelled it out
for him too
Y
E
S
My fingers swayed
in that loving breeze
and does still today.
He seduced
me,
fingering
the air
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The ring and finger
the finger seems a little relieved
the pudgy finger can now breathe at ease
it was bound by an unending ring
decayed was the skin beneath.
years have left a paler skin
where the ring held its unending agony
while the fingers have grown
dark, ugly and chubby.
it had seen better days
when they fit more comfortably
when moments were not measured by the watch
or its worth in worthless pennies
so the eternal question is raised
the ring or the finger to blame
why did the finger grow so fat
why has the ring tried not to change?
poem by Kiran Prasad
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Fingers
In that photo of yours
I saw you –
Your face, your shoulders,
Your hands, and then
Your fingers…
My lips quivered
So did my hands
And I felt like touching you,
With my quivering lips
And unsure hands,
Those very beautiful
Exquisite fingers…
Reading your poems of love
And pondering over your letters…
Sometimes I imagine
You writing to me
With those very same
Slender and artistic
Adept fingers…
Very often I feel
And wonder…
If your fingers
Ever do ache
Writing so long,
So nice,
And so very endless,
Day after day…
And if they do, my Love
I feel like pampering them
With tender, loving care
A kiss here, a kiss there…
Holding them,
Caressing them,
Sucking them slow…
Your fingers in my mouth
Taking turns to go
One by one,
I feel them,
Nibble them,
Suckle them,
Make love to them,
Within the deep recesses
Of my oral crevice…
Till they feel pampered
And satiated
And I feel the same too…
Contented and happy
Making love to you
With your fingers
In my mouth…
A wonderful tryst
Of love and lust,
Warmth and arousal,
And then if you wish…
And if I'm also willing,
We can play this game
All night long…
Where you don’t win
And I don’t lose
We both win over together
And lose ourselves
To each other…
I give free rein to
Your fingers…
To touch, feel
And explore
The inner crevices
And every pore
Of my body…
The mouth has had its turn
Now, do you wish to go
Further down..?
And see how it feels
To caress my breasts,
My derriere and my
Yoni,
With those seeking,
Exploring fingers of yours…
You’ve penned a lot of poetry
And your letters intoxicate me…
How about writing
Some letters of love
And a few lines of love ballads
On the spaces and margins
Of my body…
Dipping your fingers,
And drinking into
The juice of my
Dripping Yoni…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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The Unseen Butterfly
Folding the last edge of the paper
he pointed the folds
into the palm of his hand,
closing it in a clockwork swirl
he forms a fist.
Turning to the children,
He spoke…
‘What do you see? ’
‘A hand…
…a fist’, said the other.
Without acknowledgement
He asked, ‘Do you see the butterfly? ’
As if to turn,
and search the skies
The children shook their heads.
Slowly, gently
Unfolding his fingers like petals
He tenderly placed his finger
On the square of paper…
‘Do You see the Butterfly? ’
wide eyes and indignant laugh
revealed the children’s Puzzlement.
‘It’s a piece of paper’
became their mantra
Raising his eyebrows,
quiet finger to lips
he recaptures their attention.
‘Look, do you see the Butterfly? ’
the slip of paper pinched
between finger and thumb
‘Do You see the Butterfly? ’
Restless, the children
Shuffled from foot to foot
Peering around and about
As if looking through
the finger and thumb
‘It’s just a piece of paper! ’
mocking adult indifference
the children say again
‘it’s a piece of paper…’
Then let us see, he unfolds
The first edge opened
doubles the dimension
of what is visible
With his thumbs he expands
the dimension a step further
‘Do you see the butterfly? ’
with taut Patience
the children snap
‘it’s hidden…it’s hidden….
How can we see
What is hidden…’
Until it is unfolded?
Do You see the Butterfly?
poem by Adrian Wait
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God's Fingers
the orange
when ripe
turns yellow
the yellow colour
is god's finger
pointing to its sweetness
the morn
comes with brightness
the brightness
is god's finger
pointing to the warmth
of the sun
so long i have equated
god with what he is not
that he speaks
with symbols
to find that
god's fingers
index fingers
are here, there and
everywhere
at the sea too
i hear him serenading
a song
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Typing...
fingers
playing...
with out type writer...
but...
type human body
male with female...
type a kiss
a sex...
a love...
what is this...?
typing fingers only
no it....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Telling your story out loud is the way human beings communicate. We don't normally think up words, translate how to spell them and then move our fingers up and down over this randomly arranged set of keys to make the same letters appear on a screen.
quote by Kevin J. Anderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Confusing Thumbs For Radiance
An idiot squared,
the schoolchild slowly
counts thick fingers.
Starts over and over
confusing thumbs for radiance.
He leaps beyond sums burning
through a window framing numberless
blue scansions turning over
wing by wing.
Rolling velocity
mindlessly over,
no sums are required,
round is easy.
Vertical extension
beyond thumbs,
everything.
poem by Warren Falcon
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I went to the store and bought lady fingers, when I got home I noticed one of the fingers was missing so I went back to the store and the manager was nice enough to give me the finger.
quote by Jay London
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Piano Lessons
Piano lessons and the key notes that touched your heart,
My fingers on the keys are like my fingers on your love;
And there you sat and watched me play all day long.
Enquire into my past and enquire into my love today,
For tomorrow comes and you will be with me again;
Because you are the one that i love and,
These piano lessons are meant for your love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Slippin' Through My Fingers
Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that I'm losing her forever
And without really entering her world
I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when she's gone there's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I can't deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
(Slipping through my fingers all the time)
Well, some of that we did but most we didn't
And why I just don't know
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers...
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Schoolbag in hand she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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