Short Handwriting Poems

God's handwriting is shown in the beauty of nature...

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A pen’s handwriting 
inking though out the pages
telling a story...

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I wish I could spell
My handwriting really sucks
Why first sentence Hell...

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Can you sign my lips,
Sign them in the handwriting
Of all your kisses...

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Can you sign my lips,
Sign them in the handwriting
Of all your kisses...

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Somebody, please find me;
Here I am hiding.
I am the words,
The poet's handwriting;
Am I dead or dying.


©2014 Honestly JT...

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Red swing dance
Smooth, cold touch
Foggy white brain
Froggy right pain

Blind, tired heart
Filmy white eyes
Bad handwriting
Bland crayon fighting

Cold leather book
Warm red fire
Nice soft bed
Rest my head...

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Facing it all
Ensure life doesn't play you like a ball
 Be wise and read the handwriting on the wall
Raise your head and stand tall
Unnoticed, they will think you are small
Avail yourself when opportunities call
Rise in newness with God you will not fall
Your plane of life will never enter a stall...

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It is the constant present
That we come to resent
The way time gains whats sent,

Sending the traveler backwards
Not into the mountains but towards
Valley's slung low as branching wards,

Cirrus clouds spread like handwriting
Facing the reader with their writing
Lest the journeyer stops to write....

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An empty studio:
the man of the passionate handwriting
belts his dog

come my glory, my plebeian bride
hamster bagels

glitter indeed:
meticulously chosen bbq charcoals
as whimsical jewellery

“I’m so on fire and hear the wind”

Your grabbers, call them back 
let me   su.su

“No, don’t touch me now,
let me talk”...

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My pen, it cries
I wrote for too long
To get sleep, it tries
To end my songs

I deserve to write
So I tell him to stop
But it still fights
It now worked like a mop

He is now mad
But still, I am not done
"Oh, stop lad!"
But this is fun

"Your handwriting, oh, one of a kind!"
"I would love this day, if I were blind!"...

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Love letters from the old days 
Are still meaningful to us 
We can feel 
The writer's own style of handwriting
The hardness of the paper
The waterliness of the ink
The design of the envelope
The content of the letter
The pride of the letter
Giving us 
A visual and mental satisfaction, passion, love
and memory
From the old days...

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Completing task, Running fast
Handwriting gets dirty 
Still their books are pretty
From sleeping late at night, till getting up on time
Struggling hard to make themselves look fine
Working hard, achieving goals
Learning so fast, so that they win
Engineers are serious enough
To live their dreams
...

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The white envelope with a single stamp
The handwriting recognized instantly.
It's from my sister, but that can't be
We
 haven't spoken in 12 years
What does she want, I'm not sure
Need to discuss it with someone,
Decide what action to take.

But the person I normally talk to
When I'm stressed out, 
I'm not sure I can approach 
with this one....

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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...

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TWEET
twixt and tween
the words unseen

TEXT
the missing lines
a thought defines

CURSIVE
An elegant twist
of handwriting wrist

SELFIE
The lost embrace
of “face to face”

SNAP CHAT
Two grouchy turtles
discussing life’s hurdles

CELL PHONES
Barred entry only
200 friends – lonely



©9/24/2018

for Six-Word Couplet Series Poetry contest
Mark Toney sponsor...

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A box a ribbon a card
A dozen white carnations
Attractive underlay for
Twelve sweetheart roses
Soft silky red petals
Delicate tiny buds
On the card not a word
Only an initial
She closed her eyes
Handwriting she recognized
Feelings unexpressed
Lingering embrace



AP: 3rd place 2022

Submitted on October 3, 2017 for contest ROSES AND CARNATIONS sponsored by JULIE LEIGH RODEHEAVER  -  RANKED 4TH...

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I opened the package.
Another one from mom.

Neath all the wreckage
her handwriting still beckons some.

Was framed with two pics
first was nineteen sixty five.

Seven parents, thirteen kids all
(the eighth parent took the pic).

Flash forward forty years.
Now the second pic.

Six parents (one dead the other divorced)
thirteen kids all came together

in celebration
and grieving, framed for all time beautifully....

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There are dead flowers and used condoms in the garbage 
Next to the bed in my room,
Scraps of paper with your handwriting 
On the desk,
On the floor.
I notice that strands of your hair remain on my body.
For a moment I confuse them with my own.
Your smell lingers on my skin in places where your sweat used to be.
You forgot it there, 
Left it in this place along with the stains on my sheets.
And I miss you when I close my eyes....

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If I don't call anymore,
My texts lack the proper sough,
Perhaps with you I'm a bore.
The hand writing on the wall;
I'm tired of feeling sore.

If I'm dwindling in call,
My texts are not inspired by a fall,
Perhaps the mountain is becoming tall.
The hand writing on the wall;
The first verse of this poem grows sure.

But hey you
Appreciating this piece as art,
The handwriting here hold no heart
And this poem isn't for you....

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A local doctor’s contact number
Few grocery items,
Some fun wish lists were also there..
Blow bubble, coloring pens 
and request for balloons.

There were some detailed writings
In the neat handwriting of an 8-year-old
What and how 
She is offering her services
And her expectations, though.

On the corner, there 
Was a tollfree number, 
A hotline number to prevent suicide 
Under all those happy and wishful items
Still a little figure, an un-erased one....

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God tried to warn him many times
He got the handwriting on wall
Important for us really is
We need to recognize all

Life is like embroidery piece
Looking at the back side
Not so very drawing or neat
Just a jumble of threads

Turned over beauty_intricate
Design just started; done?
When just started partial picture
What will be when life's done

Our lives are  being finished now
By master embroider
He will need kings, queens, princesses
At his loving command...

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They’ve all saved Grandma’s recipes…some they know by heart…many in a copy of the book she wrote them in…for it is often amidst her recipes…where memories of her begin.

Whenever they read her handwriting…sort through her ingredients…turn on a mixer…pick up a knife…whenever they bake what Grandma baked…it brings her back to life.

For it is surrounded by Grandma’s recipes…
where aromas of her are strongest…
Where, when they close their eyes and smile,
her memories linger longest...

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Old country house rich colored rugs hot wind
Gallopping hair whipped wildly at his cheeks
Solid double doors  top of stairway  top coat
Mantlepiece  photographs  in ornate frames 
Small  white  dog  head  between  its  paws
China  tea perfect lawn afternoon ceremony
Bowler hat  spirited distinguished  manner 
Smile of  welcome, something  in  his eyes
She trusted his good manners + hospitality
Embraced  the shadowy play of candlelight
Scent of peppermint musk vanilla surprise!...

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I wrote a letter just last week
I went and bought a stamp.
Tongue cut on the envelope
and awful writer's cramp.
My handwriting was, let's say, 'quaint'
no flourishes, no fuss
but looked like it was written
on my lap on a moving bus.
Speeling mistakes all whited out
like a carpet of fresh snow
and ink smudges similar to
a pair of fighting crows.
Aunty praised my poor effort
and was grateful that I sent it,
and where I'd scribbled 'lots of love'
she knew I really meant it x...

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