These are the Hands


These are the hands,
That stitched the saddle.
That cut and bled,
As they worked the leather.

These are the hands,
That mined the coal.
That grew hard and callused,
As they swung the pick.

These are the hands,
That dug the canal.
That tore and split,
As they toiled with the shovel.

These are the hands,
That tilled the earth.
That weathered the elements,
As they scattered the seed.

These are the hands,
That comforted you.
That never wanted to let go
As they held you close.

These hands were all I had,
That even now as they grow old
That though they are tired,
Have stood the test of time.

I Don’t Have a Poet’s Hands


a-poets-hand

I don’t have a poet’s hands.
Instead I have clumsy fingers
That grab at words,
Like a vending machine claw.
Often dropping them,
Cursing my lack of ability.

These are stubborn hands.
Grasping a pen
Like a hammer.
Driving words into paper
Haphazardly,
Sometimes hitting my thumb.

But they’re my hands.
I daub them in ink.
Covering them in
Scribbled ideas.
Then sometimes,
They let me write poetry.