For what so impresses
Up through each of its life form's
Widespread uniqueness
Your one fingerprint, lord
A maker's, disclose.
For what, more sombre-stilled
Out through each of its face's
Mercy-softness, spilled
Your own reflection, Lord
Do, clearest expose.
today tilted
just a little
like a bowl catching light
unexpectedly
a shimmer
slipped across the floor
quiet as a moth turning
I felt something
rise
not loudly
not even clearly
just a pulse
a warm thread
unspooling toward the edges of the hour
and the moment
barely a moment
left its
fingerprint
in the air
a faint
silver
echo
as if the world
remembered me
for a
breath longer than usual
I want to believe in something-
There must be something more.
Faith lives beyond the labels,
In fragments I explore.
Right and wrong are currencies,
My conscience pays the toll.
I walk between belief and doubt
To nourish my own soul.
My sins are mine to carry,
No mortal hears my prayer.
But Thine and I move silently
Through time beyond despair.
I trace a path through darkness
Still something moves along.
Like Voyager, I journey
Where mystery makes me strong.
Accepting the “not knowing”
It is the way it’s meant to be.
That is my answer
Contentment with Thee.
Soul Fingerprints
By Mark Stucky
From the midst of multitudes,
elusive, unique fingerprints
identify individuals
as owners of their surface smudges.
Beyond their barely discernable
two-dimensions on smooth surfaces,
memories of casual causal touches,
ethereal fingerprints possess power
to unlock phones storing private secrets
and to solve whodunit murder mysteries.
God’s mysterious, stealthy fingerprints
invisibly mark creation and our lives,
at the core, below the surface.
No ridged whorls outwardly appear,
but those uniquely hidden codes
identify their covert Owner.
Distinguishing fingerprints
requires crime labs no longer.
My fingerprint unlocks my phone.
God’s fingerprint unlocks my heart.
(First published as “Fingerprints” in Agape Review, 6 April 2023. See also my poems "The Invention of Love" and "Gloria in Eggshellsis.")
(Photo by ar130405 on Pixabay.com.)
Chapel suite rebirth
spiritual jacuzzi flight
restless man in space.
"FINGERPRINT"
the paper and the pen
were invented to
imprison our scream.
the typewriter
invented to turn our
tears into bullets.
eventually,
everyone gets tired of
hearing your pain,
they just want theirs
to be heard.
had someone listened,
it would’ve been the
death of me.
now,
only,
death is the death of
me…
and I wait
patiently.
By: Chicano Eddie
Fingerprint
Fingerprints.
A distinctive, unique mark that gleams and glints.
The very identity of each of us.
An even rarer specimen of Creation's most perfect gem.
A wonderful example of what was and what is to come.
A tactile clue of where we are from.
Fingerprints. The reality of this earth whispers its hints.
Listen carefully or you might miss it.
It's the very essence of where you choose to stand.
Where you choose to sit.
Unique, rare, perfect, distinctively different,
yet very much the same.
Give it such a name.
Find the secrets in the subtle hint of every fingerprint.
The hallow inside the given tree that calls and beckons to me.
I cannot help but become enraptured of all there is to see.
The dancing faeries hop around with immense delight.
Oh, this is such a pleasing sight.
But, behold!
The night is free!
I feel drawn to the murky blanket of the nocturnal time.
The glittering hues of pale pink and baby blue
Don some sort of mysterious hue
As I walk around the cobblestone path,
The mystique of the undulation of colors derives from those
who purloin babies from mothers as the giggle and laugh and steal.
The hated lies that come
Foaming out and dropped of children that formed not a bout.
As they are pacified by glittering dreams tonight.
The lullabies soothe and bathe them as they lie down.
The songs and chants are hypnotic as I tread that path.
I warily glance to the night as I could be taken.
The last dew left on the bottom of the lily tonight.
It was the Eve of the Hallow and not a soul was in sight,
yet twinkling lights kept rebounding up high.
I clutched my child unto my chest.
Lest he be taken from my breast.
Oh, behold, as the shining intensified.
Nothing was left for me to be pacified.
An onyx ink impression
spirals in unique form,
from the dizzying loops
etched in soft flesh--
where furrows weave
like trenches in the earth,
dotting the surface
with ridges and islands
that protrude in
evidential patterns.
Applying for teacher certification
I caused one technician much consternation
My fingerprints had simply not registered
Again and again the test he administered
“Guess you could have had a career in crime,”
He retorted reapplying ink grime
He said this had never happened before
But the results he surely couldn’t ignore
He sent me to an experienced tester
Who made many cracks, joked like a jester
He claimed my blank prints were quite unique
Turned over my hands just to take a peek
The delicate lines could scarcely be seen
And the fingers themselves were awfully lean
“What work do you do?” he asked with a scowl
As he removed the ink with a towel
“I now type 82 words per minute,
Most of my life I’ve been immersed in it"
My helpless fingers were worn to the bone
And my tester let out a mournful groan
Apparently pounding on my keyboard
Had produced an undesired reward
Faint thumbprints revealed no criminal record
And I won an overachiever award
Typing is essential to the work I do
Next time they need prints, I’ll remove my shoes
** True story for the Finger Frenzy contest
A watercolor world resounds within my child mind
Painted lilies in the filed and cloud shapes aloft to find
This world bears your fingerprint for all of your work is signed
Not a thing goes by without a purpose or rhyme within
Each feather gently stroked on the crested brow of a hen
Each mite of bark upon the back of a tree your hand has rend
From the gentle glisten of a new born dew, child of the morn
From a mother swooning her gentle babe, a gentle soul newborn
The ocean filled from your eyes, the grass your coat old and worn
From the wrath of man that fills you, the frigid mountains conceived
That the apple of your eye came from naught, he a fool to believe
One day to be crowned in passion and love, I will wait to recieve
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