The thunder screams outside my window.
The low, rumbling threats seem to decipher the knots of the obscured gag in my throat.
The white shocks my room with a stark, sudden white, coating the walls in a raging light.
I look out the window.
I ask him what’s wrong.
He screams again, louder this time.
The scream seems to coax itself onto the cracks of my skin, solving the puzzle of my silence.
The rumble tries to pulsate beneath the callouses of my skin, quieting the throb of my silence.
The white appears to alarm the calamity of my skin, triggering the mortification of my silence.
My silence.
That is all I find in the brown of my skin.
That is all I find in the amber of my eyes.
That is all I find in the silver of my rings.
A silence sculpted from an ignited plea for obliteration.
What is the measure of a man?
Is it the number of churches he attended?
Or the diapers he has changed
Is it the child he had to discipline
Or the one he constantly praised?
What is the measure of a man?
Is it the hours he clocked in
Working for the Man
Is it the sacrifices he has made
Leaving callouses on his hands
What is the measure of a man?
Is it the times he said please and thank you
Or the birthdays he has missed
Is it the vows he's kept or broke
Or the women he has kissed?
What is the measure of a man?
Is it the time spent doing hobbies
Or the hours watching TV
Is it the home he built for his family
Or the scars on his hands and knees?
What is the measure of a man?
Is it the degrees hanging on his wall
Or the empty praise he got
Is it the knowledge that he gained
But then soon forgot?
The measure of a man
Is not what he says or does
It's not the money he amasses
Or the great deeds he thinks he's done.
The measure of a man is hidden
It is what he is at his core
The measure of a man can be anything
But the true meaning of a man is hidden
Deep in his very core
It is being true to himself
That he can be that much more!!!
There’s somethin bout death
that don’t sit right with my soul.
It’s a bit much
to think that one day
the draft won’t flow,
the birds won’t sing,
and the feel of her smooth skin
against the callouses on my fingers
won’t feel like magic.
There’s somethin bout death —
the way it creeps into memory
the same way high school sweethearts do,
sudden and smooth,
leavin in the wreckage
that old craving
to taste life again.
Ya see, I’ve spent my life
fillin the hourglass
with love notes and apologies,
makin sandcastles,
leavin footprints
on the shores of hearts
I couldn’t reach.
There’s somethin bout death
that feels like a song —
and I’ll sing out of tune
till it all makes sense.
Courageous stories end courageous words, issuing peaceful assemblies
Laid away as day was valued, enjoyed without symbol
Divisive victory hiding overtures of bread
Hardships and arrogance about how we fed
In adams apple, the evening gowns
And cities skied believing hounds
Talks behind, collard barrels as wine
Another stretch and dance
A loft, building a glance
So far ahead the subway can fly
Counting callouses torn, empty greetings sigh
Departing mystery of burning sisterly
Caverns of sounds
Jostling of crowns
From the sweat
flowing down the laborer’s brow,
the cuts and callouses
etched into their hands,
to the steely determination
engrained on their furrowed faces,
freedom was born and fed.
As such they should be given
the same respect and admiration,
as any beloved parent is due.
when analysis
while walking in palaces
many callouses
Today was the first day I held
a sledgehammer with intention
Callouses connect palms to fingers
tiny fleshy boa constrictors.
There is no catharsis
I know this to be a hollow act
With a face smithed of iron,
a body lathed with linseed wood,
and a head full of nothing.
No I am not thinking, I am
in fact refusing to do so.
This is an act of refusal
I am choosing childish behavior.
The empty parking lot
execution spot greets
the glass bodied shelf
Which will no longer take
the space of memories it held.
What should be cold and angular
Void of anything aside reflection
is a monument of mourning
a future I shall never know.
Light refracts upon my cones,
my tunneled vision only to show
a mangled miscarriage of the man
I can never grow into with you.
You can't beat feet,
They're really kind of neat!
Toes and heels,
Small bones in between.
Travels the world,
Wherever you've been.
Can't leave them behind,
When you pack.
They are attached,
You can't give them back!
There are also extras you see,
Nails, boils, and callouses for free.
No extra cost for each separate toe,
Fitted quite well.
In descending order almost like a bell.
You could play them very well,
With a toe stick,
Maybe buy one or make one for free!
Toes on your feet,
Can be a treat!
All can be tickled,
And that causes a shriek!
Those fools atop the hill are at it again.
Pissing away the money that we never really had.
Another trillion or two in debt.
To fund my neighbor's welfare checks and Cadillac.
Another frivolous war fought by the poor...for rich men.
Another tax yoke upon my blue-collar neck.
Those inside trader-jesters atop the hill.
Lack any respect for America and her people.
To them, we're just an impish afterthought.
An overtaxed and underrepresented peasant.
Those fools atop the hill
(whom some vote for over and over again);
Have stopped working for us.
Coddler of criminals while raping the good citizens.
They only look after themselves.
Building their wicked nests from our callouses and blood
From our fathomless "In God we trust".
Hands met each other again this morning
they touched gently - caressed - loved.
It has been a long time
since they prayed together like this.
It was a silent sermon
a benediction.
Fingers intertwined like sea anemones
tenderness kissed each fingertip.
Left hand was shy
right hand coaxed and urged
until they danced slowly, as one
with their bones, veins,
callouses and crinkled skin.
They are old hands, beautiful hands
they will stay together now
and not stray
for they live in faith
bound as one with the blood
that nourishes them.
Together
they have accomplished many great things,
they also have shared shameful times,
they let those memories
flow away as they rest together
in pillowing palms.
These hands weep as only the shape of love can.
They have explored, they have cradled,
they have known violence,
experienced
horrors and dark deep nights of despair.
They bathe together now
wash the mind that moves them,
remain devotional
until at last
they fall from the flesh into the earth that
birthed them.
When my mother said I could wear heels
I thought HIGH heels; was disappointed it was almost a flat.
About an inch high.
It did not make a satisfying click.
I had hoped to be taller.
At five foot two, I coveted being higher up.
Only one eighth grade girl got to wear heels to our first dance.
The rest of us hated her; our jealousy floating around the room.
Until her feet got so sore she started to limp.
None of us cheered, but there was some gloating.
I gave my girlfriend a thumbs up.
I wore my first high heels at prom.
They were beautiful. I could barely contain my joy.
Now I was the one limping with callouses.
It was worth it, I told myself, because I felt beautiful.
But it wasn’t.
When I was a young mother in my early twenties,
I fell off both high heeled shoes when I was walking up concrete steps
On my way to work.
I had sprained both ankles.
I went from “feeling sassy and sexy” to miserable.
It was the last time I wore high heels.
This was in 1980.
Today was a good day
Today he walked on legs unbent
And erect spine of a man intent
On stilling the cacaphony of monotony
And smoothing the callouses of convalescence
For today, we both forgot
The wasting rate this cancer's wrought
Today, he teased and squeezed and poked
Fun at his trademark old school jokes
Laughter's remembered warmth evoked
Today he drove his rattling truck
His feet sure on the pedal's pump
And carried boxes of tradebooks and tools
With hands that know weighted control
Today, without a splint or cane
He tamed steps of receding pain
Today, through a briefly calm sea
He is the man he used to be
So today, I can foresee
The luxury
When days like these
Are ordinary.
1/23/21
~ Papa ~
Dawn broke uneasy o'er damp, dreary lane
Fish markets open, the merchant a-bustle
Hawking his fresh catch to eke out a gain
Daily routine, one of stressed, ceaseless hustle
Perils of prepping each fish for display
Callouses, cuts and old scars that he'd hide
Leathery skin soaked in brine and dismay
Profits already had started to slide...
Meanwhile at home wife and children slept sound
Knowing that Papa was busy at work
Earning a living straight up, pound by pound
Back-breaking labor which he would not shirk
Papa Giovanni, a man oh-so-proud
His praises be sung in the fish market loud
August 15, 2020
Strand Completely New (#25) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Analysis of Paralysis
of paralysis
we took an analysis
and had callouses
Jim Horn
Sting
Strolling along the sandy beach
The tide is far and away
I cannot glance into the sky, so blue and bright that day
Lit upon the grainy sands
Sucking from below
Quenching the tiniest of thirsts, just along the row
My sandals left behind
For a lovely natural abrasion
Callouses aside by a softer, watery fashion
Camouflage and coloring
While sipping sweet relief
There is no buzzing from below, or as I place my feet
The sounds I make that crack the heat
While hopping all around
Come forth from the tiniest of beasts, who simply defends its ground
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