Hands
Earned their keep
These hands of mine
The following poem is a real mish-mash. I couldn’t decide whether to rhyme or not rhyme and the rhythm is illusive. I’m sure I’ve broken every rule in the poetry rule book by now. I should have just skipped the “door” poem, but it’s been snaking through my brain tissue and had to come out,…
Ever listen to the weather channel?
Partly clowww deee
I hear the mechanical voice say…
I did not go willingly into a past me reflection. It was my failing iPhone 6s Plus that forced it upon me. As I flicked through old photos, they reminded me of all the things I’d done. It wasn’t long before I was wondering where that Maery had gone. I’m simply not the woman I see…
It’s been a few days since I posted. Not that I haven’t written tons and tons, but thank God I have demonstrated some degree of self control and not publicized my sad, grieving, horrifying thoughts. A word of advice, when you lose your love, do not read poetry like this: The Summer We Almost Split…
Canvas Stark white Untouched My horse looks dubious Perhaps there’s a reason This place lies untraveled Powder over ice? Frozen ridges to trip on? Who’s to know? He isn’t the one Who wants to find out But I ask And he moves Does he trust my judgment? While I do not? So far so good…
It’s my birth father’s birthday today. He died over two years ago. I decided to try and make today’s poem about him, even though it’s been two years since he died and I’ve already written several poems and posts about him, including: Happy Father’s Day Dad’s Birthday Poem First Birthday Without A Cowboy Poem Horse…
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Fantastic! These hands have earned their keep? I love that! And your photographs are stunning – as are your hands! I often think that way about my body in general – you know, that it’s earned its keep – but specifically hands? What a lovely meditation. I loved, loved, loved this and will look at my age spotted, somewhat scarred, crepe paper textured skin hands more lovingly and appreciatively after reading this.
Your hands, poem, and photos, are beautiful. (but I do know the feeling of looking at my own hands and thinking “who’s are these?”)
Lynn