The Zen Of Cursive Writing Poem by Francie Lynch

I paid a visit to Byron.
He was distressed about
His sixteen year old son.
A smart lad.
Can't sign his name for his driver's license.

'He was never taught cursive writing, By.'

I lamented with him.
The blue book with the two solid blue lines,
Divided by a broken red line.
We started with pencils.
By Grade Five, we had fountain pens.
Pages and pages...
Of loops, sticks, slanted at the correct angle,
Going through the red line and all the way to blue,
Or, and this took practise, only three-quarters the way,
Up, and down to the lower red.
Pages of o's, p's, q's, x's.
Every letter had its own uniqueness.
Then joing them like a chain gang,
To dig, turn and spread,
Any word.
Words made more of the world
In sequences, patterns and sound.
Valentines, notes,
Letters home.

Your Signature.

Francie Lynch
246 Devine St., S.,
Sarnia,
Ontario.
Canada
North America
Western Hemisphere
The World
The Solar System
The Milky Way
The Universe

I was one with infinity and creation.
In ink. Real ink,
By age 10.