Long Cursive Poems
Long Cursive Poems. Below are the most popular long Cursive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cursive poems by poem length and keyword.
Somehow it seems I forgot
Why should I write each emotion I’m feeling
when no one will stroll to my side
An unending song filled with passion and yearning
now praying for one to confide
Dreaming in colors that glow in a meadow
where butterflies float on the breeze
Alongside a river of flowing desires
meandering under the trees
Why take my pen from its brown leather casing
and place it on top of the page
Spilling some ink in a nice cursive fashion
just ends up revealing my age
Where no one will read as they go passing lightly
in search of the next future star
While here I will sit at a desk made a plastic
away from wherever you are
Can you explain in a poetic sentence
why words can’t be read like they feel
Is it a style or a strange way to tell us
that lacks in enormous appeal
Comments won’t come if you stand slinging arrows
with targets right there tween the eyes
So it would seem that the retaliation
would come in the form of replies
Don’t put too much in these phrases I’m writing
for I am just bored half to death
Wondering if I would post something stupid
now pausing to inhale a breath
Would some of you come just to see what I’m thinking
or figure my thoughts matter not
I had an ending to this when I started
but somehow it seems I forgot
LET THAT BE
Humans screwed up the definition.
Scribes from hell put fire to vellum.
Black ink, settled, in extensive cursive.
Debates became reprobate,
Soiled with a list of conclusions,
Blood spilled like wine,
Smearing all of mankind.
Cattle droves, sacred cows, gather in crowds.
Confusion and chaos, swarms like lit forests.
Fire extinguishers have been banished.
Flames, rise high, in youthful eyes.
Has the definition of love become hate?
Stir that pancake batter
:
:
:
Too soon it becomes callous and flat.
If we’ll only engage each other’s ear,
Agree or disagree with peace...
Differences do exist.
Let that be!
Hinder not kindness, goodness, patience.
Most of all - pursue love.
Let love light up the earth with mirthful glee!
Sometimes war is the path you set under your own two feet…
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Writing a letter is following the same avenue as cursive writing; disappearing in the rear-view mirror. Now, the only letters one seems to receive are demands for money. Whether it’s a kidnapper or a utility company, they both want to extort cash for something you want back, be it a beloved family member or cable TV. Neither are positive experiences.
Time was, a letter received meant news of some kind; the marriage of a cousin, the death of a grandparent, the birth of a child. It was news that could be shared with those who lived nearby. Nobody sends a letter when a phone call will do, nobody calls when a group e-mail will suffice, nobody e-mails when 140 characters say it all.
“Srry ab ur gpa cld u EM me deets idk wen I cn F2F BFN”
a line starts to crawl
bending between its endpoints—
alive on the page
the line learns to walk
loops like a caterpillar—
dragging wiggly tail
a trembling string line
resonates in space and time—
a violin sings
the line curves around
back on itself, head to tail—
a merry-go-round
ink line creeps forward
curling into cursive forms
signing its own name
tears form rivulets
gravity pulls water down—
meandering flow
three or four thin lines
entwine into plaited braid—
motion becoming
crawling on all fours
the line takes a mountain walk—
tracing the contours
a wandering stroke
like an oar that doubts the sea—
encircles meaning
the line unravels
to its ragged, riffraff core—
threadbare its heartless
defined as taut straight
the shortest way between points—
wayward wriggles room
a line drifts outward
then returns, as if it knew—
all paths bend inward
the line comes to rest
where it first began to crawl—
nothing left to scrawl
There
Your hand
That exquisite, sexy little hand
I reach, oh so slowly
My index finger extended lazily
But with enigmatic intent and subtle grace
(Like Michelangelo's Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling ...
Desperate for the touch of God)
I softly touch your thumb, and there is an electric shiver
Not static or reaction or even a spark
But rather the gentlest of vibrations of skin rubbing skin
The hairs on the back of your hand stand up
And I know, when you don't pull away
That you like what I'm doing ... that I can continue
I increase my pressure just slightly, and slide
Running my finger along the soft inside of your thumb
Up and over the tip, pausing playfully at your bright pink, shiny nail
Then down the inside slant to the fleshy notch there
I run my fingertip tenderly back-and-forth
(With a similar motion and intent that I hope to use in more secret places)
Then I push it slowly into the space below
And you turn over your hand, palm up
The ends of your fingers tremble and quiver
And I know you're anticipating me ...
Wondering what is next ...
I pause for a moment, to let your mind spin
Then I trace around the edges, up and over each finger
Down between the spaces, pressing on the warm skin that connects them
And when I reach the base of your pinky
I softly, slowly, tenderly, with the care of a first kiss
Work my fingertip to the sublime soft-center of your palm
First making tiny circles there
And then writing sexy words in cursive
Writing in love's language the things we'll soon be doing ... together
As a final touch, I withdraw my hand and put my finger gently in my mouth
When it's sufficiently moistened and shiny
I return it slowly to your palm
And make a final, sweet, small, sexy circle of wet ...
The period to the torrid tale I've written there
The story of what we'll soon be sharing
In soft, silky skin and sighs ...
And moonlight.
Submitted on May 1, 2020
To the "Strand No 740, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.
I recognized the hand immediately
Daddy never used cursive
He dropped out of school in eighth grade.
He always printed.
Maybe he forgot cursive?
His blocky dark blue letters were put painstakingly onto a page.
He wrote his memoirs more than once.
Having Alzheimer’s in the end, he forgot what he had already written.
The pages are a bit faded now, but the penmanship is Daddy’s.
He is braggadocio about the southside gang.
His pals and he.shooting rats in the city dump and chasing cats
their exploits captured for anyone who chooses to read about them.
My twin sister and I are probably the only two who ever will.
I doubt our children will be interested.
They never have been.
They haven’t even read my exploits.
Which I write daily.
I begin to read, recognizing most of the words.
As I have read this notebook many times since his death in 2014.
Morning buzz
Grandeur and grace;
Pleasant surprise
~~~~~~~~~
Floral bouquet
Scented extravagance;
Rose garden escapade
~~~~~~~~~
City lights twinkle
Evening charades;
Dinner for two
~~~~~~~~~
Father's Day comes
Commercial success;
Family reunion
~~~~~~~~~
Ink stains
Words on paper;
Cursive metaphors
~~~~~~~~~
Kitchen chit-chat
Witty small talk;
Espresso ideas
~~~~~~~~~
Sleepy somnolence
Eyelids heavy;
Dreamy pursuits
~~~~~~~~~
Birdsong duet
Dawn serenade;
Hopes and dreams
~~~~~~~~~
Late night escapade
Tryst downtown;
Posh after hours
~~~~~~~~~
Lovely visit
Hearts fluttering;
Retirement home
~~~~~~~~~
Doctors hover
Cryptic diagnosis;
Standing on needles
~~~~~~~~~
Home-cooked meal
Gourmet delights;
Three Michelin stars
~~~~~~~~~
Work words well
Time to tell;
Dazzle dwells
~~~~~~~~~
Wet market stalls
Smiling vendors tout;
Welcome offerings
~~~~~~~~~
By these shores
Distant ships buoy;
Brief stopover
~~~~~~~~~
By and by
Distant dreams;
Across the horizon
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo chopsticks
Teriyaki salmon rice;
Comfort food
~~~~~~~~~
Morning cuppa
Awakening senses;
Sleepy daze
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
19 June 2016
Singapore
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.
After checking the Sears and Roebuck and Montgomery Wards catalogs until their pages were torn and faded, we took one last look at the sales ads in the local newspaper, donned our socks and sandal, and jumped into the station wagon to head out to that brand new shopping place called ‘The Mall’. Wheee doggies it was something. That joint was a jumpin’. It was cool and hip and out of sight. I mean it was really far out man. The mall had everything you could imagine, all in one building. There was store after store jam-packed with VCRs, rotary dial phones, cassette tapes, console TVs, One-Hour Photo, Blockbuster, and Toy’s-R-Us. It seemed like they had everything under the sun ready for a layaway plan.
After paying for the purchases with paper checks written in cursive, we’d head on down to the food court or the all-you-can-eat buffet for lunch. We’d sit on the red plastic-covered chairs and light up a couple of Kents, Chesterfields, Viceroys, Virginia Slims, or maybe some Lucky Strikes. We’d take a couple of pictures with our trusty Polaroid to commemorate the day by adding them to the family photo album. At the end of the day, the kids would jump into the back of the station wagon for a nap while we drove the two-hour-long trip back home. It was a good thing we only had to stop for gas once because, after all that shopping and eating, I only had two dollars left from the fifty we started out with. Seems like the high cost of just living is one thing that will never die.
On Main street’s sidewalks,
the store sign say they are closed,
is Christmas canceled.
I was a child, yes, even little old me,
curious and happy, my smile wild with glee.
But at the tender age of seven,
I learnt that family go to heaven.
My aunt, a distant, great, great one,
who I'm told baked Welsh cakes second to none,
passed on by in her sleep,
no sickness, no hospital stay or cardiac bleep.
Too young to mourn my mother said,
too far to go for distant dead.
To be honest, it wasn't until that time,
that I learnt about my family's line.
My grandad had two sisters see,
each as unique as one could be.
One died some time before my birth,
now sadly this aunt was laid in earth.
Yet, along came a parcel, a letter, a note,
'To Charlotte' , from 'Uncle Sam' it wrote.
The parcel, I opened, like any young child,
ripping at the packaging, like kid gone wild.
Inside was a teddy bear, my aunt had owned,
given at the same age as me, seven years old.
The letter was written in cursive, neat, aligned,
with a twenty pound note, how beyond kind?
It said 'use on something you will treasure,
please write me a letter, at your leisure'.
Who would have known that I'd do just that,
buying a fishing rod, a reel, tackle and hat.
And sooner than later we visited, on my request,
he greeted us, in wellies, lumberjack shirt and vest.
Such a marvellous man, such stories he told,
from sheep stealing dinners to finding lost gold.
A friendship of two, age didn't matter,
we were both unique, quirky, mad as a hatter.
Fast forward ten years, he is so gravely ill,
me at his beside, in the hospital on the hill.
I speak of stories, now tales of my own,
a distraction from his internal body groan.
I hug, I smile, bless him for his love,
and that next morning he was called above.
Through bereavement and loss, I gained a friend,
we remained close right until the end.
Love like that, so unique, and so raw,
changed my whole outlook down to the core.
My heart still skips, like I was seven,
when I reminisce about my uncle, now in heaven.
06.05.2021
Tender moment as a child contest
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury