Hands

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These lines in my Hands,

Some say they can read them.

Stories like hills speak through them

A Dirt Embeds itself in my palms

Deep inside the lines,

I have rinsed with the coldest Water

Over my opened Hand

As more lines appear,

As if they are here to stay

 

I wonder whether I have

Taken good care of them?

These Hands have been

Given to me that I may hold things,

Touch my lover, hold my children

Feel the coolness of a spring

Roughness of bark as it travels

Down the spine of a tree

These Hands Write words

Feeling them out upon a page

Have made a musical instrument

Soar and its Rhythms vibrate

Then, my Hands can hear

As well as speak

 

I hear my father’s voice,

From my Hands, sometimes stern

Other times, filled

With an inextinguishable pride

My Hands still hold his messages,

That others can read.

My mother’s love

Can be heard from my Hands

Her grasp strong, unwavering

Which holds my soft Hands high,

above my head, above fear

as my pudgy legs learn

to handle gravity.

A walk others can read

 

 I walk this city

My Hands feel its scales

Observe it struggling to breath

Through gills in the form of blocks

As it holds children, touches lovers

The coolness of its rain, soothes me

The roughness of its streets

Is fused to my spine

It Writes stories too long to read

Its music is shaped by our Hands

 

These lines in my Hand

Some say they can read them

Life, heart, head, and fate.

Each a story, Each a desire

Four hills that are dirt, embedded

Inside my palms, explain my reach

They curl up, within, as I grasp

Without——— them,

I could not hold onto anything.

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39 thoughts on “Hands”

  1. Nice, and Nice again. You certainly have a Grip on the word and a true Grasp of the meter of life.
    I have to Hand it to you. Two Thumbs UP !

    Like

  2. But now I am growing old and my hands are growing frail and weak. So now I must hold my treasures in my heart and be held in your heart.

    Like

  3. My heart beat fast as this… hands doesn’t seem to make me woo as much as your poem made me… your style although mesmerizing creates an eerie tension for me because it is so different? I like it.. a lot. You are a beautiful writer and poet. Your pictures seem simple against your burlesque writing. Can’t wait to read more of yours. Thanks for following. Followed you back :). I have a feeling I will be on your blog for some while.

    Like

  4. I enjoyed this, it lets us stop and appreciate all the things our hands really let us do on a daily basis. Too often we don’t realize just how important and vital our hands really are. To lose even one would be devastating and make even the simple things we take for granted difficult or impossible.

    Liked by 1 person

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