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
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.
