Archive for hands

Wash your Hands

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 3, 2016 by bigtuna185


All we are is mud and I don’t always feel dirty

With the caked dirt falling from off of my hands

I am falling off of myself

Every day rising out of filth is a new day to wash myself

I am a part of the earth and the earth is in me

Pushing me out of my cocoon

Metamorphosis ripping the old me to shreds

Organs and bones shifting

My exoskeleton keeping me from harm

Please don’t touch my wings for I want to fly someday

Soaring over mountains and valleys and landfills and sumps

Rolling around the grass with childlike ignorance of all that is coming

What is coming, I don’t know

But they’ve told me it’s bad

Unless you’re good

Then it’s good

But there’s no measurement of good to keep you from the bad

And of course I am dirty and so I don’t want to be dirty when the bad things

Wait, I mean the good things, come my way

And it’s so hard to be clean when everyone else doesn’t want to be clean

The faucet is drip drip dripping down the drain

Keeping me awake at night and I can hear humanity drowning drop by drop

And all I can think about is the mud on my hands and the blood in my veins

And the blood on my hands and the mud in my veins

Because you can’t escape the curse of your ancestry and so we would all be doomed

If it wasn’t for His blood shed for my muddled affairs

We are all blind as the clay has hardened around our eyes

We try to mold our own destiny and shape our lives the way we think is best

But we have cut off our own hands

And we have no feeling

So we die


Your Hands

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2013 by bigtuna185

Your hands are my favorite things about you.
Some might think it strange
That such a feature would take precedence,
Which isn’t to say that
Your eyes don’t soothe and allay wounds,
Warming cold hearts like a crackling fireplace;
Nor is it to say that
Your smile doesn’t gleam like the opalescent moon,
Powerful, alluring, enchanting a soul to the very core;
And one cannot simply forget about
Your voice, gentle, yet certain;
An overture driving and lilting at the same time.
Nay, it is those appendages that can
Wave and grasp, craft and smooth over,
These extensions of yourself speak most of yourself
Because of what they are able to create.
Dexterous fingers delay destruction with
The stroke of a pen
The swipe of a brush
The caress of a cheek.
Helen possessed the face that launched a thousand ships,
And there is no doubt that yours rivals hers,
But without the hands to build such vessels,
Her beauty would have faded
Long before anyone reached her.
For while your fair face makes a life easier to endure,
It is only your hands that can carry me through.