He is the genius
whose first green
has been a rainbow
in a wet bough.

He has released a shy typist
to break barriers
and fight dragons behind minute keys.

I cast to trash
templates of time wasted.
I open up drawers
and share chains

of words
with sisters and brothers
of worlds
never ready before.

My fingers tickle soft keys
in messages of sweet breeze
to hush-hush crowds
atop the clouds.

He is the guy.
He has winged my flight.
On the mirror of a screen
I see my face gleam
As he and I rise upstream.


Photo by Mausilinda

This poem was written as a tribute to Steve Jobs who, with the first MacIntosh made texting a piece of pie for me and many others.

One thought on “HE IS THE ONE

  1. Actually, the skeleton for this poem came to my mind the day Steve Jobs died. I hated typing papers, research proposals, compositions using a typewriter. It was boring even when correcting tapes and erasable paper appeared on the market. The advent of the MacIntosh turned out to be a blessing. I became an Apple fan. Sometimes I ask to myself whether I would like writing so much without the Macs.


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