Handwriting's Gone

The good thing is,

there is no writer's cramp.

No blots on white.

Crossing of T's dotting of I's

has gone the way of pens.  Pencils.

Emily Dickinson jotting on envelopes.

Letters fly in clean Calibri lines.

Fast electric love.

Undress. Read this.

Always your very own― 

hieroglyph of curly ink.

Scrap of language. Obsolete.

I perfected reclusive cursive.

Doodle. Scratch in dirt with a stick.

Cultivate posies. Place thoughts elsewhere.

tk/April 2014 


R.A.D. Stainforth delivers another masterful read...the perfect amount of tongue in cheek... 

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Inked

Bows and arrows rise

in blue-painted memory,

whisper secrets in a language

that no longer exists.

I am compelled to tattoo

Pictish letters on my skin,

preserve the modern heir

of a distant arsenal.

Midnight ink voices

another century,

another continent;

marks my rite of passage.

It tells the story of us:

connections and parallels

in endless equinox―

a barcode to identify me as yours.

tk/March 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth considers a tattoo... 

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