This will be the last poem I share for this series where I have been publishing my assignments from class. The lessons have moved on to a bigger project that won’t be easy to share on these quick read blog posts. I hope you have enjoyed my creative writing. It has been really fun and scary to put it out into the world. I feel like I am growing as a writer as I challenge myself to be vulnerable by publishing on this blog. I appreciate the “likes” and comments so much.

I am still on this wave of autobiographical story telling through my poetry. I feel the most inspired to write in poetic form the things I have experienced in life. I have added a visual element to this one at the end of the poem. I feel like it needs to be shared along with typed version

Mother Script

The girl in my class tells me my handwriting is “so Mother.”
Other young people turn to look,
giggling, nodding. Astonished eyes glued 
to my Kindle Scribe.
I ask them, “can you read it?”
Some say yes.
Some say no.

My handwriting comes from
another era,
traveling from the 80s,
down to my hands,
through my fingers, 
into the plastic pen 
that doesn’t use ink,
onto the tablet 
that isn’t even stone.

Nervous to share my notes, my script 
already proven to be a foreign language.
Who will understand me?
Where does that leave me
in the midst of evolution?

The young ones can’t compute
my ancient ways
displayed on tech
they have never seen before.

My longhand 
is chiseled into granite.
Is hieroglyphics.
Is the Constitution.
My lettering
is ancient scrawl,
challenging new brains,
challenging connection.

As my class prepares for the exam,
questions are asked.
“Can I use colored ink?”
“Can I use pencil?”

Another student who
looks more my age,
asks the professor,
“can I write in cursive?”
Professor chuckles,
running his hand through
salt and pepper hair, 
says “yes, I can read cursive.” 

Here is the poem written in my handwriting:

THANKS FOR READING!