Short Handwriting Poems
Short Handwriting Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Handwriting by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Handwriting by length and keyword.
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
in the attic,
a box of old postcards
still smells faintly of cedar.
I read the handwriting~
looped, patient,
a kind of tenderness
that doesn’t announce itself.
Some artifacts
don’t need to be rare
to matter.
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
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.
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”
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!"
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
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
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.
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
his mind works strange,
not how its intended to work
his handwriting changes,
leaving him in a state of daze,
and often,
he is vacant in his own body
a small, useless shell
surrendering to the god-awful feeling of not being able to do anything,
inside of that shell,
lies a scared, little boy,
who likes to detach
but only when it hurts too bad
his mind is strange
Form:
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.
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
penniless poverty
penny dreadful, a dime novel
penny pinching miser
pennyworth bargain
penmanship, handwriting
pensive thoughts
penuriously poor
peon, pauper, slave
penitence, remorse
penetrate, invade
pending, undecided
penalize, fine
can you be fined for being penniless?
or writing something penny dreadful?
or for being a penny- pinching miser?
pens to ponder
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
Thoughts Scrambling
Am I out of line?
Just writing poetry
My thoughts are suffocating
Red ink bleeding
Letters are cultivating
Mind set Melancholy
Brood handwriting
Thoughts scrambling
Always pondering
A vigorous journey
Words magnified
Coffee aroma burning
Burdens are heavy
Need a place to escape
Living with anxiety
Writing is a remedy
Am I a poet?
I’m doing my best
Rhythm with harmony
Stay true and believe
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.
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
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
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!
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