Hands
by
Michael Andrews
by
Michael Andrews
This year my hands turned old.
I can see the grief in them ---
the scars, of course, stand out
skin flayed by knives and glass and bites
and the blisters big as half dollars
ripped from the calluses by the high bar
and the shovels and axes and hammers
shaping the earth,
but the earth always wins.
I can see the wars in them
Vietnam and Iran and Nicaragua and Bangladesh.
I can see the years of poverty
the inability to get published.
I can see Flo's cancer
and my blackouts
and all the creditors
and promises lost.
I can see the victories in them
small
and mixed with little scars.
The nails have turned to ridges,
each one a plowed field
waiting for a harvest that will never come.
They were never strong, but my hands are.
They are big and they are kind.
I guess they could be described as capable hands.
They have made so many things.
I used them to shape wood and books
to sculpture a poem and print a picture.
They have done their share of plumbing
and automobile mechanics, electrical wiring
and, yes, squeezing triggers.
They are coarse hands, but they are gentle.
They are magic for cat's ears
and dog's rumps and tickling children.
They are healers too.
They can rub the pain away
the fear
and the tears.
I saw them change early in the spring.
I thought it was darkroom chemicals,
the gasoline and the lacquer thinner.
I saw the skin go leather
textured and knobby
with rivers of wrinkles and lines
and five years of hard living.
I rubbed them with enough grease to pack an axle.
Not a single hand cream worked s advertised.
I changed detergents.
Nothing helped.
Driving into L.A. on the Harbor Freeway
my hands were caught in that fierce
morning sun
and they were old.
These days
when they have nothing to do
they are hiding in my pockets
or laying in the shade.
Still,
they are big and clumsy and friendly.
The kind of hands that brush tears away.
(click on the poet's name and follow the link to learn more about him) Link back to the Poetry Wednesday tour on e
I can see the grief in them ---
the scars, of course, stand out
skin flayed by knives and glass and bites
and the blisters big as half dollars
ripped from the calluses by the high bar
and the shovels and axes and hammers
shaping the earth,
but the earth always wins.
I can see the wars in them
Vietnam and Iran and Nicaragua and Bangladesh.
I can see the years of poverty
the inability to get published.
I can see Flo's cancer
and my blackouts
and all the creditors
and promises lost.
I can see the victories in them
small
and mixed with little scars.
The nails have turned to ridges,
each one a plowed field
waiting for a harvest that will never come.
They were never strong, but my hands are.
They are big and they are kind.
I guess they could be described as capable hands.
They have made so many things.
I used them to shape wood and books
to sculpture a poem and print a picture.
They have done their share of plumbing
and automobile mechanics, electrical wiring
and, yes, squeezing triggers.
They are coarse hands, but they are gentle.
They are magic for cat's ears
and dog's rumps and tickling children.
They are healers too.
They can rub the pain away
the fear
and the tears.
I saw them change early in the spring.
I thought it was darkroom chemicals,
the gasoline and the lacquer thinner.
I saw the skin go leather
textured and knobby
with rivers of wrinkles and lines
and five years of hard living.
I rubbed them with enough grease to pack an axle.
Not a single hand cream worked s advertised.
I changed detergents.
Nothing helped.
Driving into L.A. on the Harbor Freeway
my hands were caught in that fierce
morning sun
and they were old.
These days
when they have nothing to do
they are hiding in my pockets
or laying in the shade.
Still,
they are big and clumsy and friendly.
The kind of hands that brush tears away.
(click on the poet's name and follow the link to learn more about him) Link back to the Poetry Wednesday tour on e
sad- lovely -tearful and true all at the same time
ReplyDeletewonderful
This 'free style', 'stream of consciousness' type of poetic style is one I really like. Michael Andrews takes us on a life's journey, travelling along with his hands. Brilliantly done. Thanks!
ReplyDeleteNice poem and nice hands.
ReplyDeleteI hate shaking hands, as like you perhaps, most feel flimsy where a normal grip might break them.
All the people I worked or associated with had our hands.
Mine are old too and I am always treating them to correct their deficiencies.
I once made my wife a pair of shoes.
In short there is nothing I can't do with my hands regardless of the task.
They are large, strong but so sensitive I can feel a change of one thousandth part of an inch blindfolded.
Hands are good and so is your poem.
Mary Ellen, I've got to hand it to you, you sure now how to pick a wonderful poem. Love, Laurita.
ReplyDeleteBEAUTIFUL! These hands TOUCHED my heart. Must learn more about him.
ReplyDeleteTHANK YOU!
PS great bio!
ReplyDeleteI was not familiar with this poet but will look for more of his writings. I loved this poem. It spoke to my heart and every one of my senses.
ReplyDeleteI love Hands, so this poem has a speial meaning for me. Thank You so much for posting it. Sugar
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me of my grandfather's hands.
ReplyDeletehttp://bostonsdandd.multiply.com/journal/item/316
Michael Andrews has the gift of a powerful muse. What a wonderful poem! Very good choice Mary. TY so much for sharing it.
ReplyDeletehttp://dianahopeless.multiply.com/journal/item/563/Poetry_Wednesday_-_Death_of_a_Tree_my_poem
I wish I could give proper credit for the picture. If any one is aware who should be given the credit please let me know and I will add it. I really liked the picture too.
ReplyDeleteThese hands are a work of art and so is this poem. It truly depicts a masculine, yet gentleman. What a great combo. Thank You, Jay
ReplyDeleteMuch like faces,hands tell so much about a person. I enjoyed this very much... there is so much truth in this piece. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteThis is an incredible offering. I love the imagery and the passing of time throughout the piece. A multi-faceted and intensive read. -janeen
ReplyDeletehttp://fluffyj.multiply.com/journal/item/334/June_11_2009_PW--Waiting_for_the_Rain
Great poem, reminds me of the Tennessee Ernie Ford song "These Hands."
ReplyDeleteAwwww the last bit suddenly reminded me of my dad.........he had huge hands and they were work mans hands but he could make almost any thing out of wood with those huge hands..........thanks for this
ReplyDelete