Best Hands Poems
Through the years they worked their spells
From drawers and cupboards, taking things
That through them, thus, were given wings
And changed to sweetness meant for kings
With warm and wafting scrumptious smells
My Nana's hands ...
Countless times we'd strolled to town
To shop for what she'd need that eve
(First taking stock before we'd leave)
A shopping list tucked up her sleeve
My wee lad's fingers, safe and sound
In Nana's hands ...
The way back home was twice as long
Our arms filled plump with paper sacks
The makings and some special snacks
Oh, how the groceries bent our backs
Yet even then, I held on tight ...
To Nana's hands ...
Still it was always worth the chores
To watch her mix and bake and cook
While dancing to-and-from her nook
And glancing, sometimes, in a book
Oh, how I marveled and adored ...
My Nana's hands ...
But sometimes they were hard to hold
Curled with arthritis, wracked with pain
She oft' times had to stretch and strain
Though NEVER did she ONCE complain
Through rheumatism's stranglehold ...
On Nana's hands ...
See ...
Those bent old hands in disrepair
Worked twice as hard so we could eat
Thus each night's meal and every treat
Was that much more divine and sweet
All from the love and tender care ...
Of Nana's hands ...
And still, my fingers long to share ...
My Nana's
Gentle ...
Hands.
- by Gregory R Barden
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Cornucopia Cooking" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
I'll always be here for you,
where else would I go.
But for you, my heart is lost,
in dream..
to counting sheep,
and always will be so.
I don't need a better picture of you..
than the one that plays in my mind.
Two hands held so close to my heart,
and you always were so kind.
Keep me near like a smile..
one you used to hide.
A whisper of your beautiful name
to my faithful heart.
It's never too far..
after all,
my hands hold back approaching tide..
to catch you when you fall.
I'll always be here for you,
where else would I go.
The Hands of Time
The hands of time stand eerie still
Where hearts chamber a cagey chill,
And whispers warn of shadows deep
With eyes that strain as shower’s sweep,
The sands of time a formless fill.
Disenchanting dreams pave their will
Seconds follow a timely till,
While the dormant lie counting sheep,
The hands of time.
Where voices scratch a shackled shrill
The hours' harbor a haunting thrill,
And the minutes tear as they weep
Behind the veils the walls of sleep,
Moon in sight above the foothill
The hands of time.
#4
The Rondeau consists of 13 lines of 8 syllables plus 2 refrains
AABBA - AAB with refrain C - AABBA with Refrain C
July.25.2018
Rondeau Poetry
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Placed 1'st
I was there
To usher you into this world
Mine were the hands that cradled your little body
The face that beamed in your presence
My hands were ready to catch you when you took those first steps
I celebrated your first words
Your smile spread across my lips
When others put you down
I was the friend who stayed by your side
You were never alone
My ears
My heart
They were filled with compassion
I held your hand during your darkest hour
Mine were the shoulders
The ones strong enough to hold you
They lifted you above the deep waters
Helping you to see beyond your own borders
You realized
You dreamed of new possibilities
My hands painted the pictures
I sang the songs
Built the buildings
Knitted the clothing that warmed you
Toiled in the fields
I was in even the smallest detail
You are that important to me
I was the teacher
The grandparent
Mom
Sometimes dad
The friend
Your wife
The stranger who came along beside you
The applause as you walked across life's stage
I was every encouraging word
I was
I am
The light
The Love
The realization of who you are meant to be
I am your God
I chose to touch you with human hands
On boulevards of memories, with you I walk
Reminiscing in yesteryear as I turn back the clock
And persuade the silence of amour to talk
As conversations of yore ridicule and mock.
When passage of time changed us, losing its way
Feelings that still evoked had nothing to say
And hearts then discarded rules of the game
For love no longer cared to ignite the flame.
Echoes of desires stopped calling your name
When lyrics of our song could no longer claim
Melodies foregone that altered our frame
As I stepped forward alone to take all the blame.
But, regrets that mount have no place to go
Except being drawn into pathos of woe
As winter emerges in the midst of spring--
In passions of ruby rose, its thorns now sting;
Like summer’s heat burns soft autumn breeze
And gusty gales shatter last leaf of barren trees,
When in serenity of blue-skies dark clouds frown
Raining on crimson arc in twilight of sundown.
We now reside in our separate new meadows,
Having barred future from sullen past shadows,
In nights of blissful reverie, kissing dreams of dawn--
Pointless it is to invoke dreadful spirits long gone.
From the fork in the road we’ve traveled far,
In abodes of our distinct worlds happy we are;
View in front is golden glow of vibrant sunrise--
Rear view spurs spent emotions of dreary skies.
October 9, 2019
Placed 2nd: If only we could turn back the hands of time poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Strand contest #670 by Brian Strand
I write upon the nimble hands of fleeting time
careful not to leave my musings behind
Sometimes penning with haste and speed
trying not to forget
a relevant word or phrase seen in my mind's eye
that could be a crucial poetic thought
When tremulous mourning escapes my wistful heart
I am overcome with sorrow and cry
tears of desolation, and yet,
it is the balm I need.
Writing offers comfort, but never peace of mind
Love sonnets, I still write for him, in rhyme.
When the clock swings its pendulum and starts to chime
I become annoyed but always resigned
to accept that my heart will bleed.
Happiness owes a debt,
paid when loved ones are taken; a price much too high
as the clock mocks me, "Time cannot be bought."
January 31, 2021
My Invented Form - I Write Upon Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllable count verifed with HMS
Her hands are what l remember most
Miss the most, crave the most
Hands that scrubbed floors for a living
Hardworking, honest hands
Hands that nurtured, gave comfort, wiped tears
Small hands fingers crooked with arthritis
Hands that held mine a lifetime
Hands l held when death decided
Hands l loved and knew so well
Her hands …..
At my ripe age it's plain to me
That wisdom can come painfully
But found within our trouble, too
The best of what we humans do
All that's drawn from mind and heart
Is what weaves object into art
Crimping spouts of twisted metal
Changing common can to kettle
Time and Heaven's weep remake
A meager pond into a lake
The finest instrument lays quiet
Without a skillful hand to ply it
Still and barren, paints and brush
Until obliged a master's touch
Pen and paper don't enthuse
Sans a poet's poignant muse
And I am but a hand-less glove
Without my faith in God above
A walking, breathing implement
The tool for His divine intent.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Standard Contest Number 70" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Kettle, Pond, Lake" Poetry Contest, Nayda Ivette Negron, Sponsor.
Man so mighty and wise
still has to define this
that another living being's life
has the same value as his
Boasted, brazened
written in stone
raised above
these highest places
where power reigns
crushing down
in white
clenched fists
gripping so tightly
to "history"
squeezing
draining the meaning
out of good intention
Those stones are weeping
as grass grows quietly around the edges
The future
chipping
crumbling
forgotten
Differences
are best listed
to be used like lines in the sand
some seen on the skin
most are though beneath
tracing
tearing
a cross marking
the surface
this land of the free
that the privileged paid for
from sea to sea
with the lives of lesser men
and their women
up for "grabs"
The women
best when big breasted
beautiful and begging
feeding their daughters
dreams of a better tomorrow
when that white clenched fist
stops squeezing her ****
before slapping
lips against her
drooling over her
in her ear
whispering
something sweet
like
"Honey
you're mine"
What lines of defense
Those lines lie on paper
written, signed and etched by those
elected and chosen
statesmen stating authority over your body
their dolls
their toys
smiling
serving their purpose
the good Word stenciled in stone
Equality
carved out in flesh
fresh cadavers
swept under the rug
serving their purpose
Gravestones weeping
as grass grows quiety around the edges
The memory
chipping
crumbling
forgotten
Keeping their hands clean
they wipe their mouths red
blood on their stained sleeves
the polish from their shiny shoes sully
the stars
and stripes
stripped of the value they once held
when they stiched us all together
and brought so many strangers home
How white clenched fists
hold power and privelege
held so high in esteem
like our stars
and stripes
teetering, unraveling
the threads shaking
as if stripped naked
and forced to wave
above that Capitol Hill
pivotal
and still
unchanging
unmoved
Our Lady
liberty
holds a tattered gown
Another layer of lavender scented lotion
Rubbed in vehement laughter
A quelling of sadness
Covered up in mascara insanity
Livid strokes of feathered paintbrushes
Hoping to see the big picture
She cried like oil paintings without a purpose.
A treasure hunter searching for rubbery remedies
Without heart’s sanctified atrium
To light the way
She bled from carnivorous pores
Bites against feeding palms
Struggling licks upon pacifier wounds
Mouth
Shut
Stone’s lonely lyric
Thrown against fragile lighthouses
Beaming through unacceptable horizons
Investigation of deity’s hidden agenda,
She questions validation’s esophagus
Its vocal chords
Torn
Another squeeze from lavender bottle
Empty
Its exhales shedding infantile whisper
…
A bounced reality check
Declaring that it wasn’t a disease
That afflicted her bones
©Drake J. Eszes
From your hands that dipped me in cool tubs
and soft morn wakes, you were the gentle lion
taming my bohemian strains; the lamb of summer
rain catching me like a feather on your palm...
always, your balm poured moon glow of bliss,
erring only when my restless flowers needed
to bend: from where pictures stood, time bowed
shaping night talks, life’s edges, and paused faces.
Then the gas light dripped on lacquered frames,
silhouettes fading as I collected our thoughts—
marbles in my pocket—to keep me safe
from cold winds, rough dreams. And tonight,
my breath grows wild, noting the fabric of revelries
as I click past lenses : you smile; you laugh.
Just when evening’s done, you reach your arms
in slow motion to hold me close again...hands
that dipped me then, gone, without saying goodbye
from a wave of coma when I was only 24. Yet among
old photographs, we embrace through love's eyes...
Daddy, you're my special treat every day!
Tell Us About Your Dad Contest
Sponsor: Judy Konos
God allowed him to see through their eyes,
feel their cries,
understand their plight,
with his body, but with their sight,
the alley way shimmered,
the night stars glimmered,
and the man found himself standing in a dark alley,
the stench of decaying rats,
discovered by hungry cats,
raw sewage, old smoke,
could lead anyone to choke,
as the less savory smells
hit him like a blow,
gagging, as he sensed hell,
displaying its best in show,
he steadied himself against a dirty red brick wall,
hearing the hungry call,
as he tried to keep himself from the fall,
his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness,
he glided up the alley as a shadow,
meaningless, but there,
ignored, but here,
if his shadow haven’t been silhouetted on the wall against the light,
he would have been another soul lost in the night.
People passed the alley without so much of a glance,
life gave him no chance,
as he was just another vague outline in society,
just like the abandoned crates and garbage bins all around,
he was just like garbage tossed on the ground,
his silhouette gave no clue on who he was,
just a flickering light,
from time to time just plain out of sight,
God’s strong hands seized his shoulders to steady him,
made him look at the people he once ignored,
made him understand,
that once in a while, people may need a loving hand.
What’s in her mind, sharp lines slice her in half,
Into faded dark red, green and blue,
And the flowers cover up each emotional scar,
From ever even shining on through,
To show the gouges ripped from her thoughts,
To show the bruised, shaken, and torn,
Slit while she slept, in a nightmare of hell,
For her public body to remain an unborn?
What does she think, where does she go,
When her eyes are wide open to black,
When her eyes are blank to all of the noise,
After her soul escaped the attack?
Does she remember those days that’ve gone,
When she obeyed every little demand?
Does she remember those days when she sold her soul,
Just to hold onto his hand?
I will not forget,
my grandmother's gentle, loving, gnarled touch;
those hands that I loved so very much,
not a day spent with her I will regret.
We made chocolate cake,
our best dessert to make;
and we liked sad movies though we got upset,
those old, old hands would reach out for me;
her grasp a plea . . .
I have a memory dear,
of grandma holding me to her beating heart;
when death came and my sister had to depart,
stroking my hair until my tears would disappear.
And when grandpa died,
we hugged and cried;
I watched her hands grow more fragile each year,
like a twisted road map of her tangled life;
her death hit like a knife . . .
______________________
April 28, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Grandmother's Hands
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1017-836-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym
Written for Jamie's Interesting Contest
sponsor, Jamie Pan, (Theme #5, Elements #2)
First Place
These hands have known the joys of a boy’s youthful play
Also known the farm work that was required each and every day
These hands pulled the weeds from the fields where we toiled
Laboring under a blazing sun; leaving these hands rough and soiled
These hands held the hand of my lady as I asked her to share my life
Held her by my side the day she became my wife
These hands reveal the ravages; of weather’s savage breathe
Held a knife in the flowing blood; in a beasts ultimate death
Hands that held many a hammer; swung too hard; swung too long
Time has taken its toll on these old hands; hands that once were so strong
These hands proudly rocked the cradle as I watched my babies sleep
Held them closely to my chest to calm some hurt causing them to weep
These hands gently pushed a child’s swing; as my children laughed aloud
Held a daughter's hand walking down the aisle, made her father proud
These hands have known the heat of a sculptor’s flaming torch
Held brush and pallet while painting out upon the porch
Cradled my pen as I spread the ink in the poetry that I write
Ink that is sometimes spread well into the night