My Old Man's fingers,
like crags unexplored.
Outcrops of rocks from boulderous palms.
Snubs of nails, hard worked and worn.
Worn skin, worn well.
And yet I've never seen them before.
Sure,
I've held them and they've held me.
But,
I've never known those comforting limbs,
those analogue digits;
Old school, schooled hard, hardened by life.
They can break, they can hold;
They can hold a family together.
They can dig...
scratch...
fix...
make...
create.
My Old Man's hands have seen so much,
experienced it all.
They may not feel as well,
but others have felt because of them.
They may not clutch with a strength once known,
once abused.
They may not do many things.
But they have done many things,
and many things more.
My Old Man's hands.
Weathered.
Torn.
Battered.
Delicate.
Flawed.
Perfect.
Perfectly feeling...
felt...
feel,
perfect.
My Old Man's hands.
Random Poems
Ode To Bourbon It's 5 PM, your work is all done. In your hands is 80 proof of that. Time to relax with…- Sober Is The New High I have finally realised, I am not that guy, And that sober is the new high. I…
- Fatty & Skinny Jack Spratt was a skinny chap, His wife was a fat old hen. When they stood beside each…
- Father Knows Best When I was a little boy, I was short and not too thin. My father put me on the…
- Name Unknown She lives in a cramped apartment, stark grayed walls and dim light. A painting fades from…
No comments:
Post a Comment