I found the first letter under my pillow,
in ink I recognized before I recognized the words
my own hand, but steadier.
Braver, somehow, in the loops of the y.
Dear diary, it began, in my handwriting,
though I keep no diary that anyone else could find.
It knew things I'd only thought at 2a.m.
It knew the name I never say out loud.
I caught it once, in the lamp-light,
bent over my desk in the shape of me,
holding a pen the way I hold a pen,
writing something I would never have the nerve to send.
I didn't stop it.
I think some part of me left the desk lamp on
on purpose, that night
some part of me that wanted to be spoken for.
It signs my name better than I do now.
No hesitation in the final stroke.
No crossing out. No starting over.
Just my name, sent, sealed, and meant.
Last week I found the final letter,
already folded, already addressed
to the one person I never worked up the courage to tell.
At the bottom, in handwriting identical to mine, it said:
I am you, but the part of you that stopped waiting.
I hope you don't mind. I already dropped it in the mailbox.
By the time you read this,
it will already be theirs.
From head to toe
your kisses tickled my neck
your soft words
wrap around my body
hugging me like a blanket
Yours is written by love only a Mom can reveal
Thanks for engraving such in my heart
Always reminding me of your awesome presence…
Oh, I dearly miss you.
With gratitude, I wear your handwriting
Ceaselessly showing your trademark of care
Keeping me mindful now of my motherly roles…
Oh, I long for your counsel.
Nostalgic, never can I resist the bursting scenes
of your teaching pursuit-tenacity as you made me write the ABC
midst the gripping tenderness of your directive hand...
Oh, I can't forget your unique way of editing my essays...
Mother, thanks for letting me wear your handwriting
manifesting your elegant cursive style
while I carry on the legacy of your compassionate* expression
devoid of artificial intelligence-stain along authentic impartation of lovingkindness.
*Isaiah 49:15 Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I (God) not forget thee.
April 25, 2026
Honorable Mention, "Romanticize the Pulse" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Ink Empress; judged on 5/5/2026
I wear your handwriting,
fingerprints color my form
pressing poetically, buargeoning
on heaving breasts
and thickened nipples,
lyrical layers of cursive content
reflect rubaiyat scribbles
of "I love you"
across a bared belly
Notes of sweet nothings
linger abut
Warm hands
paint upon with
rapturous rhymes
rewinding,
brushstrokes bathe our bodies,
as I read you
hammering pulsation
of your heartbeat
comes alive,
as sketchings
adrift draft melting kisses
Tattooed tunes,
as pet names,
titillating resins
of a lovers gifts
You are in my skin
I wear your handwriting
read you
tilt to hear you
f
e
e
l
the reverberation
of your voice
within
my
body
~ reach you
e c h o
your sound
m o u t h to m o u t h
let my hand
slip
into
yours
fingers interlaced
trace you
beg you
guide you
to handwrite
the truth of us
in h i e r o g l y p h i c s
across
my
body
a promise ~
that every word
of yours
is absorbed
After all these years,
still hand in hand,
we walk our married road.
Every morning gift,
with your gentle hands,
you hold my waking face-
caress it with a kiss.
And so many times,
throughout each long day
they hug and comfort me.
Your hands, now aged and gnarled
still write forever love.
I wear your handwriting,
now sixty-seven years-
and it thrills me still.
You make my day with
white words you say
I wear your handwriting
As if you decide my fate
I’m hopelessly in love
With you life is an adventure
My red heart like an arrow
Shot across blue skies
Where a sparrow flies
You send me to the moon
And I swoon at your feet
What’s even better is
You’re clever to also love me
Despite my cheekiness
I enjoy our little chats
And even our spats
Relationship dips into our souls
We make love like doves
In a sky of vivid rainbows
I wear your handwriting
In my womb where children bloom
A product of our union
Each breath I take feels
Like I’m drowning in a lake
Of love but you save me
With a chocolate kiss
Full of air light and bliss
I wear your handwriting
In my red heart of art
Bleeding poetic psalms
Beating dancing like star
Bringing joyful light where
Once was black dark
With the slightest kiss
Creating kinetic spark
I tattoo your spirit
With blue ink of my heart
Wear my handwriting
Whether near me or far
Bonded by chemistry
Cherish our unity
Love forever bonding
The two of us fell instantly in love
It came as a gift from heaven above
We had to keep our feelings hidden
For me falling in love was forbidden.
You wrote me a letter long, long ago
Exquisite writing from my youthful beau
But the letter had been opened and read
Causing my poor heart much sorrow and stress.
We were young, love was frowned upon
It became impossible, had to move on
I never saw you, not ever again
It wasn’t easy to live with the pain.
I wear your handwriting etched on my heart
Inked in vibrant colourfulness of art
Words I’ll cherish till the stars cease to shine
Written once upon an enchanted time.
With invisible ink you have written
your name upon me like a spring flourish
of flowers budding anew each morning
to remind love is a fragrant ribbon
binding together the ones we cherish,
and thus you have never left me yearning.
You are a thread writing the tapestry
of beauty that life will softly burnish
as love flows and is endlessly warming
our hearts, world and infinite galaxy~
forever transforming.
God's handwriting is shown in the beauty of nature
As The Note-Taking Girl scribbles
And absentmindedly quibbles
Her fingers are animated wriggles
Churning out eccentric squiggles:
Letters of Ever Clumsy Angles,
One like a creeper that tangles,
As many like threads in singles,
Wherefore her teacher openly wrangles
And after explosion stiffly dangles
Before her the option of A Street Hawker
Bearing a case with or without a locker
And around patrolling with jingles
Or she be whipped and a nearby ear tingles!
But that wasn’t The Rescue from a writing
That keeps a teacher’s eyes biting!
The Handwriting of the Marionette
David J Walker
The confessional was
Paper-thin cursive in ink
A life of sin laid out in as few lines
As were memorable in a
Second person narrative
The ventriloquist's voice opened
The service with a far-off prayer
In another language of tongues
Which only the faithful could bare
As the maître de la marionette
Guided her signed confession
Utopia would open its gates
In the wake of the waves drowning
The funeral pyre
So goes the soul as the steam rose
From the cut strings to the
arcadian clouds somewhere higher
And higher
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.
All my letters
are deformed,
beyond a cure.
Contest judges
trample over my
clumsy curvy lines.
Voice of my bruised
verse is not heard.
Sentences zigzag
with slow-moving
fingers. Unanswered
questions become
coffin-bearers.
Ambition is lost
in the cloudy
chirography.
Black box sounds
my broken dreams.
First appeared in The Literary Hatchet
Handwriting
I was sent a book used when I went to catering
college 60 years ago, I had signed it on a page inside.
What was remarkable was my handwriting
which was a little shaky and insecure like a person
who yet to come to grips with life and tries to
make himself invisible.
The book, about hygiene on ships and how much water
a person needed every day; the text was displayed on
The Facebook and they wanted to send it to me,
but I declined since I could remember every word in
the book holds no sentimental value for me.
At best it was a meeting of the past I do not care
to remember as it only makes my old age sadder
then it is.
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