Posts Tagged ‘hands’
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.
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