Best Cursive Poems
I write each letter by hand in careful cursive.
I want every sentence to be pretty,
to look feminine and delicate -
to soften the ugliness you face everyday.
After each line, I let the ink dry.
You don't deserve smudges.
You don't deserve any of this.
My words are foolish,
full of meaningless descriptions
of meaningless events.
But I can't sit here at this polished desk -
in this cozy room in this quiet house
on this peaceful street
and write what I'm really thinking.
I can't be selfish.
So I keep writing my careful cursive
on my pretty stationary.
I keep sending my meaningless letters
into the ugly world - to wherever you are.
And no matter how many times
I open the mailbox, I'm never prepared
for that hideous stamp,
that heartless phrase:
"Return to Sender."
Written: 1/27/2013
For Michael's "Boomerang" contest
In youth dynamic streaks course through your brain,
Reflecting pools of inspiration's flow.
Yet deeds, which block your ego's needs, remain
For fallow fields must first be sewn, then sowed.
The sapling grows to join a canopy.
A cautious gait of patience, now we need.
More slowly reaching shelves a life has sought
Of crumbling books with truth and wisdom taught.
Cateletic - Iambic Pentameter.
Mixed Rhyme - AB-AB / AA-BB
Gene Bourne.
06-03-14
.
Cursive curtsies
greet your yearning
heart, unfurling
again after
winter's burden,
like a garden's
first crocus, a jolt
to the senses.
Lilac leaps from
monochromatic
monotony,
pickwick stripes rising
from dormant burrows,
no longer afraid
of uncertain skies.
Invited pigment
revives,
ignited with
a tiger's pulse,
like your page
decorated in
heartbeat artistry.
My lungs lift anew,
blooming with
freshness' debut.
Impromptu whispers
kiss another line,
finding their
icy wait
reciprocated
at the garden gate.
.
4-9-2021
Anacreontic Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Little knots of string tied to your fingers,
tied to my heart.
They dance, I dance..
They run, I run.
Am I your puppet?
You're laughing wildly
your fingertip goes up,
my foot goes up,
pulled with the string of Proposition
An eerie dance I dance with a frown
remains right side down
All night long the heartstrings strut.
Feet smothered with cinder dust,
smears and swipes on the floor, cursive art;
Sleep plucks at the strings, something beautiful,
a musical trance-
Fingers sore, eyes succumb,
A mind thats numb takes the bait.
You untie our strings
from your mind
And I dance away
From force and binds
And escape into the night.
I want to say something about cursive writing (this might seem random).
I’ve seen articles saying that cursive writing is a “dead art,” that computers have destined it for oblivion and questioning whether cursive writing should be taught in schools now-a-days.
But if you plan to go to college - relearn it and practice it, because you’ll need it.
Random hot fact. The first time you have to handwrite a multiple-question essay test - where each answer requires five hundred to a thousand words (a written page) - handwriting, in block letters, is unsustainable.
Your hand will literally cramp up - dog, you’ll suffer, your essays will suffer and so will your grade.
Writing in cursive is faster than block lettering and with a little practice, it’s effortless.
My sister told me this once, and this morning, as I watched other students, one third of the way into our essay test, grimacing and flexing their aching hands - I just smiled to myself.
Yeah, you can thank me later.
What Is Happening?
Yes, the little Genie asked
What is happening?
Children aren’t being taught
To tell time,
They can’t look at the clock and
Know whether it’s one o’clock
Or it’s 10 o’clock
Who is teaching the children?
Yes, the little Genie asked
What is happening?
Children aren’t being taught
Cursive writing
They can’t write their names
What a sad thing to know
The art of handwriting
Is being let go,
Yes, the little Genie asked
What is happening?
Children can’t do simple Math,
They can’t add numbers together
Like 32 + 9
Or like 25 + 11
Or like 19 + 7
They can’t make change
Math is not being taught
They rely on computers and calculators,
All they know is their gadgets and
Their social media,
They don’t like to read
And enjoy a good book,
Reading is not part of their lives,
So sadly, they will be the
Most boring people
And the most uninformed,
Never letting their imaginations soar,
All they know is gadgets and video games
And computers and social media,
So few of them have any interest in a musical instrument
They have no appreciation for music;
So few of them have any interest in gardening,
They know very little about
Planting seeds and watching a flower or a fruit tree or a vegetable grow,
So few of them have any interest in learning to knit, crochet, sew or do needlepoint,
They are not domesticated,
So few of them know about having a train hobby, or collecting baseball cards, or
Building airplane models,
They are not into hobbies,
So, the little Genie asked,
What is Happening?
Celine Rose Mariotti
the runners cursive
upon new fallen winter
rake leans against rails
11/5/2019
A late Fall or Early Winter Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Tania Kitchin
runners - either of the longitudinal pieces on which a sled or sleigh slides
Malformed loops and curls
followed my unsteady pen,
as I wrote homework
and answers in examination booklets.
With difficulty, one might
navigate where occasional legible
words formed stepping-stones
across my rivers of confusion.
Creating whirls with flare
remained a dream
in my spastic world
of uncertainty.
Jabs and lurches,
scratches and corrections
desecrated traditional
tools of writing.
I lived with this cursive curse
until meeting QWERTY,
my closest companion
of sixty years.
Ample lines
Align flow
Writes feel fine
Cursive rows
Affluent finds
Craft of scripts
Cursive mind
A fond grip
A thought moves
Draft of flair
Feel each groove
Surge new air
Cursive strokes
Curl embrace
Pensive poke
Crisp words trace
Ink stokes sign
Thoughts that blaze
A clear find
In fond craze
Words hold stuff
In a glance
Sure enough
As thoughts dance
Craft verse free
As feel flings
Watch the spree
As words string
Pen inks well
Surge of feel
Strange strokes tell
Poise of steel
Leon Enriquez
21 May 2017
Singapore
Mail Call Now and Then
David J Walker
Let me hear from you
Now and then
Love, Mother
The same phrase
I read at the end
Of every letter
While gone so long ago
Serving in uniform
It was the time before email
And iPhones
And social media posts
When the most we could hope for
While so far away
Was our names shouted out at
Mail call
How I looked forward
To her rhadamanthine
Cursive scripts
Perfect in sleek artistic
Lines and quips laid out
in her own hand
And the scratched scrabble
Of discarded thought
Let me hear from you
Now and then
The letter in its’
Envelope cover
Placed back in the box
On a closet shelf
Waiting to be read
Sometimes again
When I may need to
hear from her
Now and the then
Cursive Consolations
David J Walker
Heartlessly pressing words into wine
Our feet are blood red from the crushing
Our heads flowing in faint rhymes
Into dry riverbeds genially growing
An ocean of poetry waiting
Waves bathe the salted bathers
On white beaches lying
Side by side naked in the sand
Sunning themselves in the afternoon
Toweling themselves of pungent prose
After the sun rose the following morning
I remember the rhyme one will say to another
Who has fallen deep into a sleep of poetic meaning
Are you listening one says
No, I’m dreaming he replays as starfish cover his eyes
Creating cursive consolations
obsolete cursive
no longer taught in school
how do they sign name
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same,
this sometimes brings a hiccup or hitch.
There are other ways to spell my name.
The sound’s like a sick and twisted game,
I have come to loathe this sudden switch.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same.
When I begin to feel like placing blame
it tends to come off as a technical glitch.
There are other ways to spell my name.
A few of the letters just miss the aim,
phonetics lend a smeared apart pitch.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same.
When I find an error I want to proclaim
‘I’m so sorry but I’m a bit more niche.
There are other ways to spell my name.’
Any translation of a language will reclaim
the identity that I was brought up with.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same,
there are other ways to spell my name.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sun-dappled wings dart
swallows stitch the April sky
with threads of dawn's light.
Their shadows dance on warm stone,
writing spring in swift cursive.
...“Me? Sell my land and house to him?
I’d never dare do such a thing!
He’s the worst neighbor one could have,
I would give that blackguard nothing!”
The sheriff paused, look at the sheet,
he’d seen his handwriting before,
then smirked and said, “So the man lies…
Boys, lock him behind some cell doors!”
Wolf roared in dismay at the words,
but was quickly led to the jail,
Malcolm just shrugged and went inside,
ignoring the rancher’s loud wail.
He still had lots of work to do,
and had court the very next day,
perhaps he could finish his brief
with one problem out of the way…