Night and day, you show your way
Rain or shine, you taste like wine
You float in my mind, my eyes not blind
On boat or in coat, you stick and bind
Tokens or ticket, I bring without a bucket
Chips or biscuit, on tables you drain my pocket
Everyday you control my mind like a paddle
Sweeping me like a deck of cards on a mantle
With strokes you show your clean hands
Win or lose, burning my locks and strands
You know what you are
Everybody knows your name like a star
Star embodying a business that never dies
All nations benefit from you, in coins or in pies!
They say her hair remembers sunlight,
even when the rooms are windowless,
even when the questions stack like files
no one wants to open.
From Tampa’s salt-stung air she rose,
a practiced smile, a courtroom voice,
a lacquered certainty that learned
how to live inside microphones.
Power is a mirror with bad lighting—
it shows you only what it needs.
Behind her, paper storms keep forming,
names half-redacted, dates that bleed.
She walks through corridors of flags,
through praise that claps like shuttered doors,
while somewhere, whispers learn to swim
in darker, colder drawers.
Is it guilt? Or just the gravity
of standing near the grinding wheel?
Even clean hands smell like iron
when history decides to feel.
The cameras love her confidence,
the way it doesn’t flinch or break—
but truth is a slow, patient thing
that never hurries for our sake.
So she stands—bleached, branded, framed—
between the oath and what it hides,
a silhouette of certainty
with doubt stitched softly in the sides.
And Tampa’s sun keeps shining anyway,
as suns have always done before:
indifferent to who holds the keys,
or what is buried in the floor.
I built my fortress out of counting—
fourteen hundred twenty ways to say I’m safe.
The light switch: off, on, off again, again.
The stove knobs all aligned at six o’clock.
My hands know every doorknob’s texture, how
the deadbolt clicks when turned exactly twice.
I check the rearview mirror: once for cars,
and once for certainty, and once for luck.
The numbers line up clean as soldiers, march
in formation through my racing thoughts.
If I can just complete the sequence, then—
but there’s no then. There’s only one more check,
one more loop around the house at night,
one more time washing my already clean hands.
I know the math is wrong—this isn’t safety,
just arithmetic I use to build my cage.????????????????
The master cracks his whip
across the horse’s trembling flank,
pushing the beast to its limits
until the wildness snaps and the horse reacts,
a flurry of chaos beneath the sting.
When silence falls, the master
believes the animal has learned,
believes the wounds are healed.
He reaches out with clean hands,
petting the horse's weary muzzle,
his fingers gentle, but not soft enough.
The horse, though still, does not forget.
It smells the leather polish on the master's skin, the lingering scent of cruelty woven into the fabric of his flesh.
The horse knows the weight of that smell,
knows it cannot be washed away.
And no matter how tender the touch, the horse remains wary,
the scars deeper than the skin, unforgiven.
The master must face the truth of his actions.
the horse may no longer fight,
but forgiveness does not bloom on the soil of mistreated land.
The horse is not healed,
and the master is not forgiven.
Red eyes might grow...
What pure mind don't show.
White eyes might cook,
What dirty mind can't hook.
Clean hands could build of fold...
What plan A can barely withhold,
Filthy hands might weigh of cheers,
What plan B does rarely adheres.
Crazy heart might run bloody metre...
While calm vein don't shy as repeater.
Lovely heart could walk lonely garden,
While lousy vein can't for once be pardon.
A supposed tough date;
Can't be of bargaining bait,
To beat daring procedure...
When love isn't for adventure.
They say words shouldn’t hurt,
but mine are crafted,
a perfect match for the tender places
you believe no one notices.
I don’t need to throw punches;
the right words can strike
with more force than a blow.
The best part?
I can smile afterward,
clean hands, no marks,
just your pride,
folded like a flimsy chair
at a backyard wedding.
Did my telegram never arrive?
Like the truth from your lips when you pushed it aside.
All those months in the darkness, you twisted the knife
Now claim clean hands, try to blind my eyes
I fell on the battlefield, then I bruised my mind
All the clues were left for you to find
But you never once looked at the damage you’d done,
To you it was over as soon as you begun
But I was scared to hear the door creak, scared to look you in the eye
Always waiting to hear your next crafted lie
So don’t try to reclaim us because I know the reason why
You’ve realised what you’ve lost and what you caused to die.
I will love you more at parting,
When everything hangs in the balance, in agony,
When a farewell pierces the soul more intensely,
And I have closed the door of your home with sadness.
I will take my suitcase heavy with inner storms,
And a photograph faded by the whirlwind of time,
The chance of our wedding, a moment lost,
Today I leave it in the hands of other young lovers.
And I will kiss you with dignity and respect,
For destiny has intertwined my life with yours for so many years,
And even though we have conquered in this sin of love,
It still persists within me.
At parting, I will invoke you more often,
And will depart towards an unknown destination,
You were my solace in this tumultuous love,
And support in each year that has passed.
And I will leave with clean hands,
I will lock the memories in the box of time,
And even the stars fall in the middle of the night,
Forgotten in flight by the loves that are no more.
Lord, please fill our hands today
And make us holy unto You
Please take all sin and guilt away
That we might raise clean hands to You
Fill our hands that we might be
Your ministers who spread Your Word
Till all the earth Your reign shall see
Till all have known and all have heard
Fill our hands, that we might spread
The glad, good news of liberty
That You have risen from the dead
To save our souls and set us free
Fill our hands that we might fight
And train our fingers for the war
To stop the wrong, defend the right
Fulfilling what You made us for
Fill our hands with strength, that we
Might heed whate’er You say to do
Equip our hearts that we might be
Your witnesses of what is true
Fill our hands, that we might guard
The covenant we made with You
For Your commands are not too hard
The things we promised, we shall do
Fill our hands that we might be
A temple made of living stone
That in us might Your presence be
Within our hearts, Lord, take Your throne
Fill our hands with Your strong hand
That leads us toward Your mission’s call
That guides us homeward, to Your land
Please consecrate us, Lord of all!
The first inevitability of summer is
that your fingertips will never be clean
They will at all times be covered
in fruit juices
strawberries first, then cherries,
watermelon, peaches, blueberries, blackberries
pears and plums if you’re lucky
The only way to cleanse them is to
jump in a lake, sometimes a river
without pretense, whole body at once
in a way that is sure to get water up your nose,
really it’s unavoidable
But a fair trade for clean hands
and conscience
The second inevitability of summer is
that it never has the same number of days
as the calendar shows
Therefore, children have conspired amongst themselves
to steal back handfuls at a time
from the night to counterbalance
I’ve done it once or twice myself
Old habits don’t seem to die for me
they just get harder to cover up
what with the sticky fingers and all
kids are men flowers
free from all guilt or evil
so clean hands pure hearts
There are certain colours in the world that dogs can't see.
There's a dog in my neighbourhood,
Always alone,
Always sitting patiently,
As if he's waiting for something, or someone.
They say he ran away from his home on his own.
He couldn't sit and he couldn't sleep.
So he ran as far away as he could.
Now he waits to see if they were ever looking.
If one day, around the corner will come a face he recognises.
But he is the one who chose this solitary wait,
And he completes it dutifully.
All the people that live nearby call him to their houses,
All of them want to give him a home.
Give him what he lost, what he has long forgotten.
But how do you expect a street dog to love?
How is he meant to move on,
From all he knew?
They can bathe him and feed him and cherish and love him.
But under his fur,
His heart still beats,
For a soul his mind has left behind.
You fight long enough, you forget what to do with clean hands.
You run long enough, you forget how to rest.
Some things, cannot be.
Some colours, a dog will never see.
Above all limitations we move!
Amidst the storms we move!
Storms get tougher,
the waves and the wind.
We have no choice but to cry
''God please save me''!
We fail a lot
Discouraged we get
but we have to make a move,
Persecutions we face .
Have you ever felt discouraged?
Like you want to quit
I tell you there is 'no time to quit'
Business, academics, life is not working
Come on!
Every one wants to be successful.
We try a lot but it gets so tough.
I write to give you hope
Job 17:9 says- The righteous keep moving forward, and those with clean hands become stronger and stronger.
Philippians 3:14 says- I run straight toward the goal to win the prize that God's heavenly call offers in Christ Jesus.
So 'move'!
No matter the limitations or the adversaries
Make Christ your firm foundation.
WE MOVE.
Here lies the hypocrisy of God
A man that lived with what was given
Learnt to make due with his condition
But still God left him to his struggles
Here lies a man of God
A man whose life is proof of God
But his life was marred with pain
While all he did was chose to be a good man
It's sad the man never faltered
If he had maybe God would have had reason
Reason to not come to his aid when needed
For the same life that he tried to live killed him
This man taught himself patience
And hoped that God will come to his aid
In his wait he remained loyal
But his reward was eventually pain
Does it mean that this man was unworthy
Or why would God let him suffer this way
For if its a test then it's leaving a bad taste
Or is it punishment for being good?
If so the man lying here is long gone
And the one that awakes will be born a new
For if life is by his hands he better soil his hands
Cause he's clean hands were deemed guilty and lazy
The PO£T
.
Awash . My clean hands. My paws
I pray with folded hands. I pause
I hold. No gaps in my fingers
I give. Receive compulsive
An Order Humility wish
Still...I ...Pray
for
all
for
Me
Free
in love
in faith
no fears
to receive
and to give
Unenforced.
There I hold thee
no fears ....nor guilt
Paradox to wash clean
in gallons of synthetics
Hold on. A spoof this
All the hand sanitizers of WHO CDC
will not sweeten this little hand. Alas
Now I suffer compulsive fear of giving
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