PALM TO PALM

- Dedicated to My Great – Grandma Myrtle, who gave me my hands


Some hands are graceful,
They speak of their souls,
Their words sticky sweet,
As they dance Flamenco.

My hands,
Not so soft, for they are on loan,
Third generation, recycled
But I long for my own.

Maybe for length it is that I wish,
Them slender and petite
Subtle to the touch,
Maybe for lively hands
Set ablaze with epic weaving
Of tongue knotting monologues,
Or masterfully bringing forth
The kaleidoscope of my mind.
Maybe for simple hands
That are just held
And caressed,
Yes,
I’d enjoy that very much.


See, My patience I’m finding lost
Within the rough cracks
Of these hands.
I have palms that gulp lotions and crèmes,
Then glide as sandpaper does.
I have knuckles that turn white,
And palms that stretch wide,
They open up and spew all that they have seen,
These hands,
Because as you know,
These hands are on loan to me,
Third generation,
Recycled.
And though I’ve wished for a set,
Exclusive and brand new,
I have to stop and think, that,
Maybe these hands will do.

I have hands that can clean,
And can cook,
They can fold, but usually they don’t,
They create,
And MAN can they play!
Watch them!
As they dance upon chords,
And strings,
And keys.
They’ve been scratched and busted,
And they’d BLEEEED,
Yes, they would bleed.
MY GOD, how they’ve bled.

But they’ve worked,
To their core, they have worked for me
To the bones, twice their worth they have worked for me.
They’ve been nervous,
And at time they just wouldn’t SHUT UP!

They have broken,
And pulled,
And carried,
And crushed,
Yeah they look tired, but hey guess what,
These Third generation, recycled hands of mine just might do.

My lines, I am adding to ‘em,
My patch to this quilt,
I only hope she understands what it means
To have FOURTH GENERATION HANDS
Once I pass them on through.