Whose Hands?

 

 

I remember her hands, slim and graceful,

gently rounded fingernails

sometimes painted with a soft rose nailpolish,

sometimes cut up from yardwork or from building something.

 

Hands that could wield a hammer or a needle,

 pounding work or delicate work,

                sometimes doing construction as when building her house

                sometimes doing embroidery or cruel needlework.

 

 

Hands that made crocheted gifts for Christmas one year and

hand drawn with the recipient’s interest painted on tee shirts the next. 

                sometimes making and carving candles

                sometimes making beaded flower arrangements for all.

 

Hands that hammered two by four’s

hands that carried large cement blocks

                sometimes up scaffolding while building a chimney

                sometimes making a retaining wall.

 

Hands that made things from scratch

hands reddened from boiling water or strained black raspberries,

                sometimes making tofu or bread

                sometimes canning veggies and making jellies.

 

Hands that hammered wallboard

hands that spackled and sanded each wallboard joint

                sometimes painting ceilings and walls

                sometimes slapping on tar to waterproof basement walls.

 

Hands that danced through the air

as explanations needed visual expression,

                sometimes in graceful dancing

                sometimes in pointed conversations.

 

Hands that changed diapers

hands that delighted to convey love to others through touch, 

                sometimes to hold and caress

                sometimes to massage and heal.

  

But what has happened to those hands?

Whose hands do I now see?

                sometimes bloated from water retention

                sometimes aching from too much work

                sometimes not seeming like the same hands of yore

                sometimes I wonder: whose hands are they?

 

They are my hands now: aging, not as graceful

hands that convey the passage of time,

                sometimes still able to massage and heal

                sometimes to make bread or draw

                sometimes to build something or paint

sometimes pull weeds and plant.

 

More likely than not they are dry, needing lotion

or aching from too much writing or weeding

                always wanting to impart love and touch

                always wanting to distill a little more beauty

                                into gardens, or recipes, or creative gifts

                                into life, work, people, love.

 

They are my hands now—no one else’s

 I am proud of the legacy they reveal

                only to those who have the wisdom to see

                life enhances, not detracts, from the beauty of hands.

   

 

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Cicada Hands

This was written for a friend on flickr and is in response to his photo of his Dad’s hands.

Dad & the Cicadas 2004, originally uploaded by Mr. TRONA.

For Mr Trona and family

Father has changed now
But always I shall see his
Cicada hands
The gentle bend of their fingers
As beseeching time beckons.

His memory is not the sum of him
Nor is his skin
Not even the words that gurgle out of the
Brook of his mouth.

Father is here now as he was
Back then time beckoned him
To where he is now.

Outside of time is mother’s love
A Wife’s love,
My love, his love
Nestled in cicada hands.

((c) Image Mr Trona, (c) Words Gumbootspearlz

More of June’s Work can be found at World Citizen Dreaming

My Mother’s Hands

(Response to Hands Prompt)

My Mother’s hands were never soft and scented. 

Mom was always a hard worker, and her hands told her story. 

Today, her hands tell another story.

 

I remember Mom’s hands, red and raw, scalded by the dishwater.

I remember Mom’s hands, caked with dirt from the garden, her nails rimmed black.

I remember Mom’s hands, quick and sure, peeling potatoes for her famous potato salad.

I remember Mom’s hands, cold and bony, touching my cheek to prove to me how cold it was outside.

I remember Mom’s hands, sharp and hard, like her sudden slaps.

 

Mom’s hands are no longer rough and worn.

Her papery skin looks like vellum,

But is soft like velvet.

Her left is paralyzed, claw-like.

Mom can still feed herself,

Write some, scrub a little.

Now Mom has to ask for help.

I know she hates that,

She who was always

so independent and strong.

It took a stroke for Mom to have soft hands.

 

Today I am very grateful for my rough, red hands,

Still strong and capable.

 

© 2008 Kerry Vincent

 

 

Virtue Hands

For Kerry’s prompt on hands- I wrote this a while ago but it seems to fit with your theme.
I love taking photographs of hands. I’ll post a collage when I find a chance to make it.

Virtues hands virtues hands

Palms that knead the bread that could feed us all.

Fingers you strum the heart of a guitar

Type the words of freedom’s song

Making daisy chains for him

It’s your homage to a king.

Hands that plant a tiny seed

Words becoming a mighty tree.

Virtues hands virtues hands

You dig and plant

You nurture you sow

You’re the handprints in the wind

And the angels put you there

You lead and you do

What the Hidden words say.

Virtues hands virtues hands

Palms that knead the bread that could feed us all

Fingers you strum the heart of a guitar

Type the words of freedom’s song

(c) words and image all rights reserved Gumbootspearlz, June Perkins. 2008

More of June’s Work can be found at World Citizen Dreaming

writing prompt – hands

            We use our hands every day, to hold a pen, brush, needle, camera, garden trowel, glasscutter, or computer mouse.  Our hands enable us to create, reach out, touch, help, heal, stroke, work, caress, pinch, pull, hold a baby, make a fist, fold in prayer, cook a meal, make a living, craft a work of art, interpret for the deaf.  We hold hands with those we love and shake hands with those we meet.  Sometimes hands are soft and smooth; sometimes they are worn, gnarled, twisted in pain.  We experience the world through our hands.

            Think about hands – yours, your mother or father’s, your child’s hands.  Describe them, paint them, be thankful for them.  What would you do without them?  Did you ever break your hand or a finger?  How did that affect you?  Try writing with your non-dominant hand.  Wonder at the dexterity, and ingenuity of the opposable thumb.  Read you palm, or someone else’s.  We value things that are made by hand – why?  If you were going to tattoo your hand, that you see and show to others every day, what would you have inked?   When we say something is in good hands – what do we mean?

            Write, draw, collage, paint, or photograph something to do with hands.  Post it at www.pythiangames.wordpress.com.  This is a “hands-on” experience!

Kerry Vincent (c) 2008