Photograph by John Hinten
____________________
Observe the lines, how they flow like a river
mapping one’s journey through life
experience navigates the hull of a heart,
who weathered hardships with laborious love
for family, his toils tell a testament;
of royalties without riches
knuckles knotted,
fingers plotted
with salt-like suffrage
from the brine of His Earth,
this man, his hands,
seasoned in soil of one's soul:
exhibited might,
embraced desire,
erased tears,
guarded his children, grandchildren
now, after tireless years
they seek their respite
upon the helm of his knees
eyes coursed with memories
a beacon hides in the curve of his smile
remembering a life sans regret
as they reach out for mine,
an atlas of aesthetics;
they are my father’s hands
Level9Poetry ~ http://shepoet.blogspot.com
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8 comments:
Defined by endurance,
hands show his character.
Few words to share,
labors through with purpose.
No hungry, crying children,
ever sat at his table.
Infinite hours of toil,
tell a story of those hands.
Mama told me to run
Mama told me to fly
Mama told me to never stop
Not until they did
I never saw Mama again
I never saw the old yellow of the crumbling house
I never saw the soft smile of Papa
Not after that
So I ran
So I flew
So I never stopped
Not until they did
I lost my way a few times
I lost my path
I lost my everything
Not myself
So now I don't run
So now I can't fly
So now I have stopped
But only because they did
I climbed up in my dad’s lap, grabbing his hands.
“Daddy, why are your hands so rough?”
His reply, “From years of hard work.”
Back then as a little girl, I didn’t fully understand. Looking back, I see the long hours he put in. Working in the mines before finding work as a welder. His job was hard and his hands show every strain. His eyes, too, reflect all the hours that he gave.
Hard work never scared him, as long as he could provide. His only goal was to give me a better life.
I still look at his hands and appreciate every callus, every wrinkle, and every stain.
Thanks to him my own hands are perfect and smooth. Hard labor, they don’t know.
Observe the lines, how they flow like a river
mapping one’s journey through life
experience navigates the hull of a heart,
who weathered hardships with laborious love
for family, his toils tell a testament;
of royalties without riches
knuckles knotted,
fingers plotted
with salt-like suffrage
from the brine of His Earth,
this man, his hands,
seasoned in soil of one's soul:
exhibited might,
embraced desire,
erased tears,
guarded his children, grandchildren
now, after tireless years
they seek their respite
upon the helm of his knees
eyes coursed with memories
a beacon hides in the curve of his smile
remembering a life sans regret
as they reach out for mine,
an atlas of aesthetics;
they are my father’s hands~
© 2009 S. Anderson, all rights reserved
level9poetry@gmail.com
Who knows where they have been,
or what they have done?
These hands, calmly resting before me.
Knuckles like knots on a
knarled tree branch.
Callouses the fruits of his labour.
Rough though they are,
belying their strength,
They offer touching tenderness
AT the end of the day.
Once lacquered, long and slender
adorned with fine glinting gems,
waved haughtily at adoring faces.
Now creased, twisted and gnarled
weathered with gruesome russet spots,
waiting patiently for attention.
Thanks Laura Jayne! Level9Poetry is now:
http://shepoet.blogspot.com
Good bless
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