The graphology of now (poem)

Handwriting is one of those concise

almost insular mediums

because of its construction and constraints,

yet it still persists profoundly demonstrating

the wholeness with which we move on with life.

We, as a compendium of all that is

and all that has happened,

are carried forward into our living.

So therefore, to declare,

if a written page were dimensionally the scale

of a mountainous terrain

and its surface were so delicately malleable to the touch

as to record in depth the full orchestration

of the hand dance across it,

then what we would we find?

At a behemoth scale, capable of detecting

the carving nature and contours of the characters

of the written words, its highs and lows,

its swerves and contours, its peaks and pressures,

its word assemblages and relative frames,

its stall points and rushes, its swirls and dashes,

its zigzags and accentuates, its dead zones and its slides,

its hologram of breath and surrender,

what would we really find?

As if these aspects were duly noted,

characterizes accordingly and richly compared,

letters to letters, words to words, content to impact,

intent to movement animation,

negative space to emotional presence,

omissions and admissions to elephants in the room,

traumas buried in sidebar eccentricities,

vacancies to overwhelms,

we would find, uniqueness to each person’s writing style?

These are the forest-for-the-trees

that are unconsciously buried

but repeated over and over in that writing across the page.

Those SOS’s so muted yet but delicately placed.

This is an insistence, so unforgiving

and so psyche innocent in task that there is

this new frontier of science even beyond metaphor.

So it seems that we are all in chorus,

primarily just in a low voiced almost muted hum.

We leave a traceable trail by our writing and a landscape

unquestioned across each page until it is a windfall

by this means and becomes an eventful experience

of itself and thus a summation and revelation,

taking from its symbolic status,

up from the deeps of the living it,

borne by hand from the past into the world of intention

and meaning and gesture,

only to fall back once again, letter upon letter,

laid down as in living.

We journey on, as the tablet of these crossings.

Our burden appearing less than the obviousness

of our deeds but none the less still decipherable

as any moment is always all moments

as the stroke of then is becoming one

in the written moment of our now . . .

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