We don’t craft and send no more
Penned words residing in my draw
Those dated thoughts and gone events
Scrapbook of yore it represents
Handwritten mood, pain and regrets
Once sunny days, audacious bets
One young at heart, the choices made
Mundane events still on parade
Creased paper, yellowing in time
Cute fading stamps, once worth a dime
Ideas frozen, saved and kept
And people, places somehow trapped
For boys and girls, for moms and dads
Grandmas and wives of spouse-nomads
How stay in touch, to share crave
To savor love and send the wave
The way we were, like photo framed
Re-read those words, yourself reclaim
A little pile, ribbon-tied
Link to the past it hides inside
The world has changed, days flew by
We type, not write, and say ‘goodbye’
To letters, pushed aside by chats
So glued to screens in our flats
I have regrets, as letters gone
The dialog to act upon
Mailbox flag’s up, lagged outcome
And glory, when the letter comes!
September 11, 2024
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.
I was sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream
Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain
Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head
And spring up in my bed screaming out the words I dread
I think I love you (I think I love you)
Lyrics from I Think I Love You (The Partridge Family)
over and over again
with premature penmanship
i write your name, right next to mine
they share a pillow before i do
my first and maiden name
your first and our last name
my first, your last
Mr. And Mrs.
O the cursive kisses
before we met, there was a psychedelic bus
adventures of a long-haired voice
though not my idol choice
still the romance with his superb notes
he passed them to me
i ate up the heartbeats, ooh Bandala—
he’s coming for me, and i hold
that pillow to my brain
i think he loves me
i think he loves me
i wear his wedding band
their bands of gold
with leaves
i leave behind a fantasy
to fantasize my life
with thee
2/13/2022
Poignant scroll on impulse
plethora of brainstorm
pen a lucid haze with
panoramic line shade’s
plush enchanted metre
peeping into vacant
psyches hollow crater
Date posted : 11th April 2021
HowManySyllables verified
Poetic Penmanship
Rhyming
Stories
Format
Emotions
Narrative
Verse
A picture of the ocean
Lonely
Bewildered
An enchanted sea
Fantasy
Fiction
Truthful as can be
Contests
Copyrights
Syllables and
Grammar
told by a King
or person in the slammer
An art form
all of its own
individually created
By You
A Poem
Written for All Yours (Mar. 31) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
In your penmanship I sail away~
Words as deep as the Chesapeake Bay
keep me afloat by their perfect array
as I sway to the notes that they play.
2-21-2021
He was thinking
of the smooth black
sleekness of the barrel
of the ball point pen
divided in two by
a ring of chrome
that married
the two halves.
a ring that brought
two halves together
to operate as one.
Two lives as one,
he thought.
How cold the pen felt
in his hand just then,
foreign, metallic,
and void of feelings.
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.
can I follow up
greatest words ever written,
blue skies on thin ice?
should one’s theology be
impeccable...shatterproof?
2/10/2020
Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth.
2 Timothy 2:15 NIV
Pen hemorrhages
Rorschach ink blots reach in need
Analyze anguish