Hands

Insomuch as I have lived,
Always I have spied
Hands of different sizes
Resting at each human’s side

Respecting hands flat on the heart
And hands stretched out to greet
Hands at work and hands at play
Kissed hands so sweet

Throughout the working places
In houses big and small
Though the hand be a small member,
It helps us one and all.

The carpenter’s hands are strong, gnarled, and rough
The nails of his hands are cracked
And every line within the palm suggests the artist’s craft

The preacher’s hands are pale,
The knuckles: white as snow
From the weary task of directing poor sinner’s
In the way that they should go
The musician is a wonderment.
His hands so nimble and full of grace
But carpals only last so long,
Arthritis takes their place

God’s Hands are the most captivating to me,
They can’t be seen, or touched, or tangibly felt
Yet they are in our midst every moment

I feel them in life’s hurricane’s eye:
They are the mainstay.

When my life is naught but bad dreams, 
Loose seams, and unraveling schemes,
His Hands are in the starry sky,
I may see them on moonbeams

A touch here or there
Is not how God works:
His fingers sift through all of us as
Sand, the oceans course

And my hands are young
My fingers, long, supple and strong
But I know not how my own strength will last
Nor how long

I only hope God will grant me grace
And give my fingers strength
To hold another’s hand,
And to fold my hands in thanks.
                     
©2013

Anechoic Chamber (Hank Andover: Newspaper Writer and Author of Books)

From an alley of open doors
Into a compartment of closed doors and ink wells
All you saw before entering trails
in sensory traces and stops at the stoop.
You, a man with no name, walk into a room with no people
anticipating the pushing of a button:
compelling the singing, or wanking of a bell or buzzer.
The outside door had no lock,
the inside tells no reason why it would need one
And there is no smell to speak of.
Maybe that’s telling.

If a picture’s worth so many words
a place must be worth millions;
Perhaps this newsroom is without readers;
facing stagnation and eventual extinction
There is barely any air where you stand
and you can quite literally hear your blood course
in this anechoic chamber.

The silence seems like it’s listening to the other side of the door
And there must be a bustle on the other side.
Every movie you’ve ever seen having a newsroom,
including His Girl Friday 
-the flick your mother forced you to watch on your layoff-
depicts the unsound, unsealed offices and cacophony.

You’ve written articles, essays, ads, and poetry,
promotionals, leaflets, handouts, synopses;
and wouldn’t you like to slide in an envelope under that door
and have a look at what your life could be, rather than
walk through it when the bell rings, wanks, or buzzes?

It’s uncomfortable, paperboy
Will you join it?
The tearing, scrounging man-machine;
the system of shambles and kerosene lamps-
Parchment packers, ink fingers, typewriters,
paper eaters, lemon-sippers, and doormats.

Which side of the door shall you be on?

You know that the walking through that door
and the shaking of hands,
handing over the portfolio under your arm
May result in:
"Hank Andover- Newspaper Writer and Author of Books"

“Yes
 I’m
 Ready”

*(Buzz)*

Mr. Andover, please come in.