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Chris Saitta Jul 7
She is the typesetter’s “e”

The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.

His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.

In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.

But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******,
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.

She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
For slide video:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BzmNoRhl5_w/?igshid=n0ukp97qre18

Uncial script was predominantly used between 400-800 AD and is a majuscule script (only in capital letters)
True uncial scripts were unbroken, meaning the pen wasn’t lifted.
Carolingian script was the predominant minuscule script between 800-1200 AD and was used in the Medieval ages.
Other calligraphy terms include “blotting paper,” “carpet page,” “ligatures,” and “descenders.”
Ye got to Fancy this Hearty Stout, Aye,
Soot-soaked with tub-flavoured Laurels of Gold
Now bloke-haste Juggers tick your nerves on-high
And make ye shout the Trumpet-Football-Fold
Yet so, our Celtic Spirit comes to call
For you to Jig their Post-Victorious Dance
Or, if upset, prefer to keep knees on hold
And hope such Font will get you that Romance
Still, never deny those After-Glugs won't count
In palling the Bet for Arsenal's Wear
Sudden Death Match will cause the Team to Mount
And show those Charbarrels a Reason to Tear.
Raise a Swig, to where there Brave Captains be
I take me Share, and drink the Sailor in me.
#guinnessireland
Tobe Rune Sep 11
there are
a lot of words
that feel
different
after you…

trust
home
care
safe
worth

I just wish
they knew they could be
better than
you treated
them, too.
Let me feel the tremble in your body when you cry.
Ill hold you close like there is no world around us.
No star, no burning sun could dampen your light.
You're a flame that burns too bright for this earth.

Let me break my heart into a thousand pieces so i may love you with each fragment.
I can't continue with you, and i can't continue without you.

My kitchen tiles know the taste if my tears as I lay, pining for you early every morning...
Kai Nov 8
a manuscript set forth
erors sprawld acros
every single page

t̾e̾a̾ stains spot it
where it lᵢₑs fₒᵣgₒttₑN
on your desk now

half finished here...

c h o p p y sentences
full of m̴i̴s̴t̴a̴k̴e̴s̴
marked up in RED

there are improvements
little notes jotted down
between the margins

waiting for action
as you steep a cup
to string it together

Writing is really difficult sometimes, but it's also really a beautiful process full of mistakes and the like. I like to think maybe I'm a draft waiting to become some wonderful adventure novel. My author is just trying their best to work out the plot holes and flaws.
Lila Fisk Sep 2014
I am holding a pile
of you in my hands.
My fist is full

of letters, of first love licking
over pages of song lyrics
of small font and large expectations
of capital letters and sub-
divided reasonings

of promises fallen
too fast to catch
full of fact
we later turned
to fiction. Falsified.

An orange piece of paper
a post-
script promising trust.
onlylovepoetry Jul 2017
a companion piece to
miniskirts & high heels vs. poetry & yoga^
<•>

a couple of buds at a local dive bar, drinking Buds,
talking loud about technology
and other manly man stuff

attract attention for our conversation isn't bout sports,
get approached by long legs in high heels and a miniskirt,
with the best come on line ever
any woman invented,
"you guys know about computers, huh?"

later after reading twenty or so of her poems,
and learning the degree of difficulty of the
downward facing dog pose
(adho mukha svanasana)
she said:

tell me again how I
clear my cache,
change my font,
add more memory for new memories,
stop auto correct from making wont into want,
so I can happy write


"wont thy thoughts to my heart thereof"

so I obliged and then
the geek in meek wrote
his first poem

after first clearing the catch  
in his throat
Cece Sep 2018
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.
Tommy Randell Jul 2017
The typeface of our lives,
The letter shapes and spaces,
They reveal by turn the motives
Of our pauses, and our graces  -

We become our Alphabets,
Poetry is how we are known,
For each of us our analects,
How we flesh ourselves on the bones -

Each of us is a Mother Tongue,
A font, a calligraphy of memes,
Yet every page of verse is an extinction
In a natural selection of themes -

We Poets, knowing our pens are slickest,
Our Poems and all we create
We hope each one is the fittest
But, we abandon each one to its fate -

We Poets, our Poems,
This notorious continuance in action,
This carnal and passionate urge
To imprison Life and its Truth in redaction.

Tommy Randell 27th July 2017
a while back
I changed my
Evernote font

to Palatino Linotype

I know, I know
whogivesafuck
but yeah…

it means a lot
to my insides
Terry O'Leary Mar 2014
In An Old Cathedral**

She knelt upon a plank, old oaken,
(sable cloak, her mourning guise),
and sensed the breath of distant sighs,
pale shades of pain behind blue eyes…

While clasping close a cross-like token
(holding hope for those in need)
she prayed her Lord "please intercede,
my woe be washed, my soul be freed"…

Archangels, in the skies evoken
(candles flickered, shadows shivered),
through the panes, the moonlight quivered,
summoned forth, the wish delivered…  

Forgotten words he once had spoken
(echoed dim beneath the dome)
swept sweetness of the honeycomb
o'er distant realms they used to roam…

At midnight's knell, in dreams awoken,
memories of love unchained…
Though loneliness of grief remained,
she still held hope… hope hadn't waned…

And when the dawn had early broken,
by the font, in peace she lay…
As sudden as a sunset ray
the light of life had slipped away…
Donall Dempsey Mar 2018
"...WHEN THE EVENING IS SET OUT AGAINST THE SKY..."

She stood
as if the world

were a mere
bit of scenery

backdrop

a prop in a play
designed for the sole purpose

of making her
look good.

Gorgeous is
the word.

She a universe
unto her self.

She spoke in italic.

Her voice changing font
from word to word.

She had a strange up
and down CaPiTaL accent

that was slightly dis-
concerting.

A simple "How do you do?"
metamorphosing into

hOw Do YoU dO
and without a trace

of punctuation
her voice a melody

upon the air
like music set free

invisibly.

She spoke excellent
French deliciously

which one
understood completely

even though one
had only schoolboy French.

jE m ApPellE mAdAmE mOrT eT
mAiNtEnAnT aLlOns y

She held out a hand
the sun itself

a mere jewel
upon her finger.

The world had run out
of itself.

I followed Madame Mort
into the nothingness

that had suddenly
opened up.

"Qui...merci!"
the last thing I

ever heard
my self say.
And this is the follow up poem to HOSPITAL VISIT written because many were surprised that Death like Luck was a Lady. I thought I better describe her more in detail but it was hard to capture an entity that is not seen until one HAS TO see her.

Having had a heart attack and survived I thought I could make a go at least of describing her as surviving a heart attack is like a dry run for the real thing. A practice run so to speak.
Matt Shaw May 2017
Find out if I'm flammable?

The font itself glimmers on that gossamer skin
Wobbling strings of white-blue seem to
Wink at you, take the hint.

On to the advanced stages.

When you met, that tender peach smile
Set a garden of fire on your teenage altar.

But now her smile is a deeper laceration,
She knows you better. It's in her eyes--
This is the thrill part, this is what the stars all came to see.

Where we have some history,
And I see this woman sort of stalking me around a pool...
Like I just found some secret she was withholding,
and she was waiting for me to find it...

Find out if I'm flammable?
We jump in.
We came to start a fire.
GreenTrees Sep 15
You have a contract with God and you signed on the dotted line.
The fine print was written by the devil in Hellvetica font size nine.
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Eryri Feb 3
BANG!
There is no font size big enough
To reflect the energy of the
Rush of life-giving particles
Thirteen billion years ago.
CRUNCH!
There is no font size small enough
To reflect the miniscule size
Of the result of the big crush
One zeptosecond before oblivion.
EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN!
There is no verse long enough
To ponder all that was in between
The BANG! and the CRUSH!
Hush.
BANG!
Life.
CRUSH!
Hush.
M Solav Sep 2018
La porte qui claque
A creusé un trou
Plus noir que noir
Dans le silence
De ta mémoire.

Le silence qui frappe -
Qui luit partout -
Quand vient le soir,
Il plaie les panses
Et te rend fou.

Les plaies ouvertes
Se taisent et pleurent;
Le vacarme discret
Te couvre de secousses
Et disparaît.

Enveloppé dans tes draps,
La lumière devenue ligne,
Une porte entre-ouverte -
Tu voudrais qu'elle t’explique
Cet état d'alerte.

Le temps fait violence
Mais s'apaise comme le vent.
Très vite tu t'endors,
Et les mots se font tendre
Arrivé à bon port.

La veille se couvre d'un voile
Enroulé sur tes nuits.
Toujours l'éclat de noirceur
Qui alors t'attaqua
Luira sur ta vie.
Écrit en Janvier, 2018.
No picturesque ruins will remain for us
To wander through with our sketchbooks and pens
For drawing pictures or writing blank verse
About bare ruin’d 2 air-conditioning ducts

The baptismal font will be repurposed
As a bird-bath (with a plastic Saint Elvis)
And the stained-glass windows will be sold off
As fashionable bathroom accessories

The crucifix of deplorable design 3
Will be stored in the back of someone’s garage
Until the girls carry it off to the woods
And laughingly use it for target practice

A rubbly field will serve as a soccer pitch
Until seventy years 4 have passed away


1  Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”
2  Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73
3  Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited
4  Daniel 9:1-2
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
No.
Dixit ergo Iesus ad duodecim, “Numquid et vos vultis abire?”

“Will you also go away?” He asks us.

                                                        ­              No.

Only sinners mourn at the foot of the Cross
Only sinners approach the baptismal font
Only sinners recline at Table with the Lord

To whom shall we go?
                                   An empty shopping mall?
A 501C cafeteria?
A feast of ashes with the cardinal?
                                                       ­               No.

There is only one Place, one Space, one Grace

Only sinners are invited, and so
Our yes to Him – we will not go
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Jeff Lewis Sep 20
I would write with letters bold
and stylish flare to break the mold.

Italics letters, I would like.
To make them seems a fright.

The very size of any font:
big or small is what I want.

Style settings won't transfer
Boring text makes me grrrrr!

Editorial control,
That is what I want to know!
No...really! How do people get italics and such? I see them, wish I could be them. The style attributes I set in my word processor (Pages on Mac) don't transfer.
melissa rose Feb 16
Feet firmly planted
upside down
hanging in the balance
as I stare at the ground

I open my mouth to speak
but century gothic font
vanishes into thin air
it’s ink blots taunting all of my wants

Stained lips puckered
kissing lost words goodbye
tears grieve the unexpressed
while sorrow remains trapped inside

My silenced voice
fuels their fire of lies
and I let the billowing smoke of judgment
choke me until I died
2/16/19
Holly M Aug 2017
who am i?
what am i?
is my identity determined by my actions?
so that makes me a girl who'd rather write than live
and takes in life about as well as a siv
but is that all i am?
because that excludes the laughter
the offkey singing
the mediocre horn playing
and my lack of praying

or is the only me who matters
the one who is seen
through a million other eyeballs?
she says i'm a talent, a bottomless pit
a good friend, one you'd want
a girl obsessed with times new roman font
someone who's all the best parts of salty and sweet
but tell me, if that's the truth
then how come my phone isn't blowing up with calls?

am i little else than the me in the mirror?
two little tired chocolate truffles
unruly dark hair
skin that doesn't know what to be
all contained underneath a makeup mask

it's difficult to put a label on a person
while also taking time to imagine them complexly
to call me just one name ignores the best and the worst
the person in love with language
also uses it as a weapon to attack
the girl with a chip on her shoulder
never wants to look back

inside of me is a multitude of ladies
pretty preppy ladies
singing show girls
nifty nerd chicks
to choose one and ignore the rest would be a sham
so maybe i don't know who i am
and maybe that's okay
Jenny Gordon Mar 24
...of the world."



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCV)


"Alas, poor Yorick!"  echoes down the tale
O' centries since that Tristram Shandy thence
Was published, and familiar too, though whence
I ne'er could say 'til now, in sheer betrayl--
Love-sick being cause for seeking to avail
Me of some cure from false hopes' keen pretense--
To succour me at THAT font was for sense
Jist what the Doctor ordered:  pretty bail.
Now Corp'ral Trim reads Yorick's sermon fer
Ole Shandy's intrest ere that Tristram's through
The birth canal, I've highr ground as it were.
Not cuz the antique novel is a crew
Of nonsense.  No.  It sets off this e'er poor
'Scuse for "real'ty"...IF I can breathe too.

23Mar19a
Tintin's sidekick was Snowy...where'd I have the idea Yorick was familiar again???
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXw8CRapg7k
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