Handprints Poems | Examples

Comfortable being Miserable

you were completely comfortable
being miserable
like pain was a roommate
like the yelling was a lullaby
like love was supposed to sting,
and silence meant everything was fine
he broke you in chapters
never enough to close the book
just enough to fold the page over
so he knew where he was up to
you wore makeup like armour
told yourself
“it’s not that bad.
he's just mad.
he loves me.”
but love doesn’t leave handprints
love doesn’t apologise
through locked doors
love doesn’t come home
smelling like fear
you were completely comfortable
being miserable
but comfort isn’t safety
and miserable isn’t love
so one day
she packed her silence
and left the echo behind
it wasn’t brave at first
it was shaking hands on doorknobs
a suitcase filled with
second guesses
fear braided tight
like her hair
she cried as she walked
on the road to nowhere
felt the weight of every “what if,”
every “he didn’t mean it,”
every “maybe i’m the problem.”
but she walked anyway
shoes worn thin
heart heavier than her bags
and maybe she didn’t know
where she was going
but she finally knew
what she wasn't going back to

Habituation

What you don’t see is the river of mind
coming through from the past.

The future also comes through,
your handprints are all in place
waiting to be nailed down.

You see a brush leaning against a wall,
it's the sweep already swept,
what it brushed away was this day.

You think you made it through,
but it's not a real life that lives you,
and only you walk through it.

Days Bygone

Sediments are yet to be cleared
From the window sill of the days bygone
Handprints of an owner's ignorance
Remains carved on the glass alone.

Fossils of a lively refuge
Still masked by dust veils
Home, where once honey grew
Now marks the tombstone of loves's grave.

Novelty springs under 
The eternal fountain of life
The creatures of days bygone 
Stop to greet the future hive.

Fever Ward

Not a room for the waiting
or the receiving of the waiting,
but a room for a liquid thinking
a turgidity
that trickles through plastic tubes.

Is this where doors remain jammed
forever between Hospital floors?

Unseen, a wall clock drops
heavy packages of time
into narrow chutes,
latex handprints are shaken
from sterilized surfaces.
The regularity
of beep and whir mechanically
sucks light in and out.

The yoke recalls it shell.
Desiccated fingers
squeeze a phantom pain-ball,
morphine as cold as ice
is delivered
to an unknown address.

A swish of a starched presence,
fingertips retrace
scorched fever-lines.
Eyes creep toward the voice.

Consciousness
scratches a self-portrait
upon a white neon sun,
a hesitant, primitive etching.

A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse
of a free-floating mind.
Space expands under her hands.

Those were the days

Looking back to that exact day 
My daughter ran towards me.
Waving something held in hand, 
Something you made  for me 
You couldn't wait much  longer 
 for mummy's eyes to see 
How exciting Starting a nursery
how great that feeling must be 
To a child who only recently 
Turned the age of three 
 Bright red  handprints painted 
 So small 
So glittery 
You will always be a super star 
To me, especially
Im glad I kept a hold of 
This precious memory

The stony wall of freedom

On the stony wall laid the handprints of heroes;
Their bloody prints serving as a reminder of the past
Their fight for freedom was a rocky journey 
With the air mixed with the scents of blood and gun powder and the little voices of freedom in them
They fought for their country even though victory was lacking on their side.
Their hardwork, courage, determination and faith helped them through their journey 
At the end of the day, even if they didn't win,
They knew their efforts had made a great change for their country.
The wall that separated their land and their enemy's land was that stony wall;
The wall where their handprints laid,
Paved way for their country to continue to fight for freedom and to not let their efforts go to the drain.

ON THE FORECOURT OF THE STARS

ON THE FORECOURT OF THE STARS

Mama Mia! What a voice!
Her depth of emotion carries the show.
Cast of friends slow burn the audience.
Shimmy of stars with sensual overtures.

Mama Mia! My eyes fill with tears.
My granddaughter’s resonance reaches the rafters.
In overalls, flashy jumper, robe, and evening gown.
Inevitabilis, her handprints and footprints
                            on the forecourt of the stars.

Theater in her veins! Mama Mia! What passion!
She hits the high notes, with dolorous countenance.
Her range displayed through high school years:
comical timing in Mean Girls & Hairspray.

Bit parts were jumping stones. Her theater group
allowed her one performance, as The Wardrobe,
singing opera in Beauty and the Beast. On sides,
older performers, The Candlestick and Mrs. Potts,
                    gave her adulating applause.

Mama Mia! Grandparents are proud!

A Barcode

I didn't notice that the lines had appeared. 
Tendrils of color stretching across my pale skin. 
The blacked lines from a tight grip,
Handprints made a map of the lines I crossed. 
I started to think they appeared because I didn't hold my tounge, or maybe because I didn't speak up enough. 
Because I'd done the wrong thing, or I hadn't done something at all. 
I looked at the black and blue handprints spread across my white skin, 
And in the lines I started to see a barcode. A price tag.
As if this hurt determines the price of my faults, or what I am worth to the world. 
It took a long time to understand that I was only seeing what I was worth to me. 
I didn't notice that I was becoming more aware. 
And you didn't notice I'd had enough. 
My asking to be treated well came as a shock to you, 
And I'm only shocked it took me so long.

To My Father

I can feel the ghosts of your handprints on my body
Like scars that don’t hurt anymore but once did.
No one else can see them,
But I’ll always know they were there.
You didn't ask if you could leave your mark on me,
But before I could stop you,
You did.

You will never know 
what it’s like for shadows
to loom over your body
Suffocating its innocence.
You will never know what it’s like to feel as if
Beneath your skin, you are made of glass
Breakable at any instance
But I do hope that one day,
Someone takes something as important from you 
As you did from me

Your Road

i sit in my car,
idling with the burning engine.
my radio only plays your voice,
my rearview mirror only shows your car.
handprints plastered around the seat, the doors;
a part of you lingers,
except for the part i want.
headlights glow alone on the road,
circling around your neighborhood,
trying to pretend
i'm still looking for your house.

The Immortal Roach

North for the fields of corn grow and many feasts cleaning dirty skin in the white river bath they laugh they cry slaughtered like sheep in blind carnage they die.

East rain of slime beckons my wall of no emotion many flies to feed many yellow gardens to seed. doves with handprints of blood on them singing pitchily with eldritch songs.

West the man hands with laitance my eyes identify the invisible mountains a prominent tornado coming to me in red dust I see Babel and its army of stone statues and cocoons for great bugs men.

South home of the beast and his army of blue-skinned and their metal shell of magic stars.  The one-eyed men were enshrouded by false-hearted white shadows and their flaming messiah. The shadows face a gray army only to be contemplated by an army of rainbow.

Flowing

I miss not worrying about 
anything at all,
I miss being ok on my own; 
Now I’m busy thinking;
I want to but I can’t 
once again become numb; 

Flowing like ice in my veins 
 tidal waves crash;
Fragments of who I once was 
rebuilt into a brighter vision;

Emotions of a falling star
too much for the likes of me;
Keeping company with shadows 
no one there nothing to see,
but it was always so easy;

 Flowing like ice in my veins  
tidal waves crash; 
Fragments of who I once was 
rebuilt into a brighter vision;

Heavy is the price
of flushed paint;
When you realize it’s tricky 
to maintain the color;
With your handprints on my mind 
it’s simpler to remain broken.

Innocence

A boy stands at the window, 
showing his sister how to breathe fog onto the glass,
leaving tiny handprints that linger 
and slowly disappear.

Across an ocean, the world is ending.

A High Five To Joleen

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

Mirror Mirror

Smudges tell a tale
Two tiny handprints
Frame a tiny kiss
 ~  Fairest of them all

12/4/2021

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