Best Handprints Poems
Remembering when
Perched high above on rocky crags
Cliffs weathered by times handprints
I saw far and wide to distant shores
Tendrils of desire radiating outwards
Riding the briny mist
Being carried by the breath of the ocean, my constant companion
Hearing the distant voices, the silent tears
The bursts of passion ~ love and loss
I ride the wings of hope and change
Towards the beckoning landscape of
Creation, mystery, and nuance
A vibration fills the air
The quiet chanting of our ancient brothers and sisters
Their words floating in effervescent bubbles
Tinged with melodies so clear
We are one ~ We are here
Let us bathe you in light
Let us heal your wounds
Let us give you hope
We are all mirrors of one another
We share one breath
We are connected like the mycelium under the ground
Our journey is peaceful
Come to us with your pain, your heartache,
Your fear and your loss
We are here to listen
Our ears and hearts are open
You have come to a safe sanctuary to reveal your secrets
Your darkness, your desires, and your bliss
Without judgement
This is a time of renewal
Tiny green hummingbird lays lifeless on the ground
Surrounded by new life
Glittering musical notes sound as
Pink butterflies gather
Gentle wind of wings bringing change
Warm rain falls as we make our way
Through the kaleidoscopes of turquoise, teal, lime and chartreuse
Sunlight reflections
Moss, furry seedlings, and ferns
Intertwine dancing in the shafts of light
A steady illuminated procession
Sweat running down our bodies
We are a train of humanity pushing forward
Through the dense moist jungle
Coming upon a clearing to witness
The newborn baby girl wrapped in velvet greenery
A majestic glowing beacon shining her light
On all of us
Howling
The chatter of monkeys as they scramble down limbs to join us
We feel her heartbeat
We meld into one another seamlessly
Swaying gently in unison
To honor, rejoice and celebrate
Receiving the gift of what it is to be human
Slowly the child is lifted into the air
Aloft on fingertips of joy
The Circle of Life begins
And we return to the simple act
Of loving and giving to one another
Into eternity
Categories:
handprints, appreciation, birth, celebration, creation,
Form:
Free verse
One day, you'll be dead to me
My life is a hazard to everyone
And myself
My desperate detestation for you
The way you are
What you do
How you breath
My hatred for you is an endless pit
Of Hell and dark memories
The heart inside my weeping chest
is sewn in grotesque shades of purple
and its all your fault
You're a beautiful creature
of misery and despair
the painful tears you shed
slowly pull up the corners of my lying mouth
to my sweet, innocent ears
I want your head on a stake
bloodied scissors in your chest
your blood in a jar
You disgust me
the twinkle in your eyes is a knife to my neck
soon to be turned on you
cutting out every bleeding piece
of your perfect soul
One day you'll be nothing more
then a crying, screaming memory
a haunting melody that plagues my sorry heart
My love for you is a complete lie.
Categories:
handprints, betrayal, conflict, deep, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
The Ancient Odyssey of clubs to bombs
from red ochre handprints on cave walls
to the destroyer of worlds
is a long-traveled road with the wormy flesh of war
and blood-soaked fields
where wailing tears of Mothers fall endlessly upon the Earth
as footprints vanish from battlegrounds over and over
and barriers are built to hide behind
leaving silent confusion standing as sentinels
guarding the internal workings of the soul
that clamor in times of plenty
and hide in times of hate
locked in the mortal human shell
pacing back and forth in prisons of their fears
finding man has not changed
trapped by bridled thinking from the past
frightened by new worlds, new faces
whose dreams become nightmares
trampled on by those who've become mummified flesh
dressed in cloth ranting in unison
believing in things that exist only in their minds
like ghostly shadowed imagined images
as they travel through the portal of time
creating new battlefields, where flies and crows feast
on the dead
before their names are etched in stone
covered over a thousand times by new fields, new stones
in a continuous thread
from red ochre hands to the destroyer of worlds
Categories:
handprints, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt
raised you as a monument
to his empire, and why shouldn’t he.
From humble beginnings his art was
monopoly. He understood the art in craft,
it seems, for grand indeed you are. You
never belonged to him though, not
for a minute. You are touched by the handprints
of the thousands of souls who have built you:
ditch diggers and rock breakers, immigrants with picks,
sand-hogs and men off the reservation who walk in the wind.
Carpenters and engineers, plasterers and track men,
free men from the south and young men off farms
along the Erie Line from Chicago. You are oiled
with their sweat your memory holds their faces.
You have grown with progress, made adjustments.
In application you are a multi-chambered bellows,
you are the compressing and expanding cacophony of the accordionist,
you are the venturi effect. A pair of lungs. A beating heart;
pulling and pumping in all directions the flowing
blood-life of our nation. Beneath your dome of stars
you blanket the needy. Lovers rendezvous under your all-seeing
four-eyed clock: keeper of centuries with its secret
spiral staircase optical nerve. See’er of millions,
taking an imprint of each. Living. Breathing. Alive.
Categories:
handprints, america, history,
Form:
Free verse
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Death is but an empty grave,
And the soul dies in that slumber,
Which will rot its bones away.
Death is merely but a passage,
No, the grave is not its goal;
Beyond the boundaries of age
Hearst you true words of the soul.
'Tis enjoyment and 'tis sorrow
That destined is to fill our days
And 'tis true as we grow older
We find us farther from today;
Yet art is long and time is fleeting
And we must wisely choose to change
How we spend our current meeting
While onward march we to the grave
In the world’s broad field of battle,
And torment of impending death
Be not scared, nor be frightened
Rather lift up high your head
Believe in the coming future
Learn from the passing past
Make your living in the present
Leave handprints on many a heart
Lives of great men are all studied
But truly remembered are only those
Who’ve departing left behind them
A bright smile, of love a dose
Memories, that perhaps another
Pushing through the feats of life
A forlorn and shipwrecked lover
Seeing, once more shall fall in love
Let us then be up and doing, persevering
With a goal deep in our hearts and minds
Still achieving, still pursuing, knowing
With love nothing is far behind
And even though one day we surely
Meet our passage through death and grave
We boldly move on forward trusting
We’ve made the best of every day
And behind us that we loved ones leave
To spread the knowledge we’ve acquired
“Of death afraid you shall not be,
And can become all you aspire”
Categories:
handprints, life, love, mystery, nature,
Form:
Verse
Handprints cold,
Heart feels blank,
From young to old,
Family I thank.
As beauty falls,
Short to one,
The baby crawls,
Children have fun.
Wisdom speaks,
Feedbacks plotted,
Saving antiques,
Problems knotted.
Shielding length,
As wrinkles flare,
God given strength,
My life affair,
Leaking fault,
Numbers multiply,
A glare shares halt,
Others walk right by.
I may be old,
But please be kind,
I’ve grown bold,
A critical; instigated find.
Categories:
handprints, courage,
Form:
Alliteration
Sticky handprints on my door
Muddy truck tracks across my floor
Laundry piling up galore
Imperfect photos for decor
These are the things a mom adores
Little feet headed towards my bed
The darnedest things my kids have said
Neatly cut corners on sandwich bread
These are the thoughts occupying my head
Watching as my babies grow
Learning things, they didn't know
Tossing a ball to and fro
Wishing time would go so slow
The candle of my life, I dare not blow
Categories:
handprints, mother,
Form:
Free verse
As I sit and look out my window
I dream of days gone past;
My memory drifts to happy times
Of tiny handprints on the glass.
I can still hear their little voices sing,
still see them running through the grass,
Their favourite toys in disarray,
Their tiny handprints on the glass.
Those chubby little hands in mine,
No other memory can surpass;
Little hands that played and loved and prayed,
And left their prints upon the glass.
Those little hands are now all grown
For time does surely pass,
And from them God's blessed once again,
With tiny handprints on the glass.
I sit and look out my window now,
I watch the season go by fast,
Rich with the love from God above,
And tiny handprints on the glass.
.......Shiraine
Categories:
handprints, childhoodmemory, memory,
Form:
Rhyme
We start out with our tiny feet inked, to show our paper footprints. Through our lives and years, we see our footprints change and grow. The ocean waters wash away, the footprints that were just pressed into the sand. Forest paths have footprints, some are old and waiting to be discovered. Footprints like handprints, are tied to one's soul. We are all creative and unique, no two of us are alike.
Date Written:4/29/2021
2 Place
Footprints" Old or New for a Prize Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Carolyn Devonshire
“Size Six”
Categories:
handprints, beach, ocean, old, people,
Form:
Free verse
Let the waitress put the chair up.
And th glasses tha tyou broke.
To keep us in the moment.
Tomorrow we'll smell like smoke.
You can come around if you really want.
When your hair looks new agin.
And you're the one you love again.
I've got a bad feeling about this.
Back a thome on his white bed.
Forget how hard it's been to you.
Let your face go to your head.
His blue bandana over his hair looks stupid, but I...
Yeah, it's still cool.
And I know you're the better Jedi.
Protect our secret once more. With feeling.
You said the handcuffs left you sore.
But you never got around to leaving.
It occurrs to me that all my favorite stories have
Really great happy endings.
Why cuts aren't healing.
We liked this game; Muddy handprints on my jeans.
I was the one standing outside in the pouring rain--glad that you mentioned it.
Where did you put last summer? This will never be the same.
Somedays I'm just a mess. ANd I can't pick up th ephone
Can't get dressed alone.
Did you cut his hair like that?
When did you stop being so entertaining?
I still don't know the color of your ryes even though you stare.
I'm over it now.
And believe me guys, I've checked-
There's nothing under there.
Categories:
handprints, angst, funny, life, loss,
Form:
Free verse
Last Night
There is a stillness in the house
While I wait, as quiet as a mouse
I soak it up, this quiet respite
For very soon, I'll be more desperate
I will need the peace inside myself
To put my needs up on the shelf
For at this very moment
I hear the gravel of the tires
No warning shot, no cannon fires
Coming up the winding driveway
I can hear the troops, they are like an army
I hear them comin' ...., (and yes, I love them!)
This Morning:
Pots and pans fill up the sink, with baked on, crusty bits
There are several plates of dried up cheese, and dips with soggy Ritz
The kitchen floor has sticky goo, where the bowl of gravy spilled
And scattered glasses here and there, (a few are still half-filled)
New sofa pillows are on the floor, the dog is sleeping there!
The gift of chocolates, someone brought me...have somehow disappeared!
A rumpled afghan, lies in a heap, where someone took a nap
Beneath the chair, a scarf, a shoe, and someone's fleese lined wrap
There is Chex mix, legos, tinker toys, helter-skelter around the floor
Chocolate crumbs, beneath my feet, and handprints on the door
The remote control, was out the door, I found it on the porch!
The telephone was ringing too, and took an hour's search!
I'm finding candle wax, and a few thumb tacks, a mix of this and that
I keep finding things, ...then can't find things, has anyone seen the cat??
A turkey carcass stares at me, ......(I guess I'll make some soup)
A messy bunch of people, they are, but if you think I'm duped................
Thanksgiving Day, with family here, (although they leave a mess...)
A holiday, the best of things, and yes, I know I'm blessed!
Categories:
handprints, family, holiday, humor, thanksgiving
Form:
Rhyme
If, as hippy folklore claims, it never rains in California,
Then the watermark is never washed out of the phoney cheque,
And when you’re dead and gone there’ll be no one here to mourn ya
For it was only God above urinating down your neck.
Carbon monoxide inhalation, it’s said, is pretty good for you,
So quit that forty a day habit, baby, move it with the flow;
Auto-suicide will wend its merry way and turn you blue,
So wrap your ruby red ones ‘round a tail pipe instead and blow.
Handprints down at Graumans, stoned celebrity status crested
Of the celluloid long-dead and the many who are soon to be;
My shopping list wants tummy-tucked, liposuction-sculpted, silicon breasted
Platinum blonde-haired bimbos who are certified free of H.I.V.
The boardwalk stretches like a sunshine catwalk by the sand and sea,
That roller babe looks good enough to eat, this must be heaven,
A junk food, high-cal sex blitz, glitzy steam hammer driven reality,
Her brain and heart aged sixty, yet her body twenty-seven.
Hang loose, chill out in air-conditioned stretch limo deep freezers,
It sure ain’t safe to mosey around alone, so don’t take chances;
And the infrared sun might fry your cheek to cancer and bejeezus,
Tough to keep your tongue in it, then, under the circumstances.
At night the stars reveal themselves, yet don’t look to the skies,
Dead super novas are never seen through pollution and stagnation,
Diaz, Hanks, Di-Caprio hold heaven’s wonder in cash cow eyes,
Down here that just about outshines every thing in God’s creation.
Multinational, mega-corporate, Hollywood moguls kick sorry ass,
Bedroom or boardroom these bondage freaks wield Olympian power,
Snorting lines of purest coke, feeding teenage pussy a champagne glass,
A minute on the screen, her life destroyed within an hour.
Gordon Gecko got it wrong, for greed is far from good you see,
Ray Chandler’s quip about this place a compliment and a half -
You know, the one where he gave this town a paper-cup personality -
Still you’ve gotta laugh, don’t you? Well, don’t you gotta laugh…?
Categories:
handprints, parody, social, cancer,
Form:
Verse
A HIGH FIVE TO JOLEEN
I would like to give a big High Five
To my wonderful niece, Joleen
For the devotions of God’s Word
She gives to us on a daily routine
It is shared on her Women’s page
Giving one another encouragement
With Biblical sagas and testimonies
Like offers of religious nourishment
As she takes us through the Gospel
She often displays a map of location
It reminds me of our own handprints
How we were made by God’s creation
Like a blueprint of our individual path
I look into the palm of my hand to see
That it is similar to a map or a guide
And it may help on my biblical journey
No two are alike in His written book
God made us each in a special way
Joleen is so very encouraging to all
She is a vessel of blessings each day
The steps she takes sharpens others
With perfect time like in Proverbs 27:17
As I learn the journey He put in my hand
I raise mine to give a High-Five to Joleen
Florence McMillian
Categories:
handprints, encouraging, god, gospel, life,
Form:
Narrative
The crease in the bedspread, the fold in our pillows,
the bends in the doormat’s bristles, the off-angle shoe by the stairs.
The lip stain around a wine glass
and toothbrush borrowed, still damp.
Your tissue, scrunched, unfolds gently in
the bin like a seed amongst pebbles.
It’s your cough in the air,
your hair in the shower.
You left an indentation,
a mould and mark of you
with handprints that cover the walls.
You’re in that paint and part of this plaster.
A door creaks and you’re the hinge.
An envelope drops through your mouth.
Your skin is in the dust floating,
awakened by a closing curtain.
Categories:
handprints, analogy,
Form:
Free verse
PART I.
I.
each night...
I think about the moment when we'll vanish
on the doormat of an empty house
because I know some day they will come -
the malignant conquistadors and their moon colored hounds
when this century of the sleepless will come to an end
so I'm trying to unravel the missing monologues
while indulging in many contradictions
stranded on remote beaches
seeking the redemption with sand in my hair
like a famished cormorant rambling the landfill
in a very weird mental state
II.
it's becoming clear...
that time has shunned this godforsaken place
and as I'm following the familiar landmarks
following the strange candlelit pathways
I know that your bedroom is in a saltwater heaven
far away from the angry masses
becalming myself in my transient refuge
while you're deploying your crying talent
we went loose from our moorings and you refused the safety buoy
now tide of our sensations is coming up fast
turning us into these crumpled wrecks
left to rust at the shallow bay
III.
these sleeping islands...
are just relics of my hopes, diaries of fading sunlight
after we carved our scriptures on the dormant rocks
creating museums of our own memories
at the very edge of despair
and I think that we'll never be missed
you, me and my companion of delusions
but remember dear, there are no boundaries
be sure that I'd row my soul over the vast seas
to see you standing on the abandoned shoreline
and our handprints will fossilize in the interim
imprinting the fatal visions to rocky soil
Categories:
handprints, lost love, ocean, pain,
Form:
Epic