Poetry Friday: Hand

Mona, has been ass over tea kettle busy the past few weeks. Dutiful as always she has continued to lead us down the path of enlightenment freeing us from the shackles of creative oppression. When I last checked the blog of our fearless leader, she had not yet posted a topic, so I will bravely proceed independently in her honor.

I’ve chosen hand. I’m fascinated by hands, their shape, their calluses, their scars. They tell stories with accuracy words fail to convey. Grab your mate’s (or a really understanding coworker’s) hand and take look. What do you see? Kitchen knife mishap, nice manicure, strength, delicacy…

Character is deeper,
Than the lines etched on your face;
The furrow of your brow;
The flare of your nostrils.

Show me the dangling appendages.
Those with which you grasp physically,
Intellectually, Individually.
Those tactile sensors of texture.

I want to see your hand;
Experience your map of the world;
Trace the joints of your slender fingers.
If you will not bare your soul;
I will hunt for it, along the life line,
Until I reach the scar below your index finger,
Faded with age.

Tickling your palm with the tips,
Dragging my thumb across.
Worn knuckles;
Battered and bruised.
The tools of a fighter.
But you are a faker;
Not a breaker of wills.

Challenge: Post a picture of your hands to your web page. Show me a glimpse of your soul. Lewd gestures optional.