The
Internet
Is the wild west
Of the modern era, with
Vast, open space, laws with few sheriffs
Fights between groups rights and religious beliefs
Unknown connections waiting, and some rustler's crime rings
And a presence of *** overlooked when this is taught to kids

Sixty words per minute// no errors
Five hundred plus poems// written
Thousand firm handshakes// given
Countless prayers cried out// frantic
And if you ever saw me work// well
You'd be surprised

My hands
wrapped in yours
My hands
wrapped around your hips
My hands
holding you hostage to my
             love

Your hands
wrapped in mine
avoiding a goodbye
Your hands
holding my heart
Your hands
squeezing at my
metaphorical throat
asphyxiating the bad dreams

My hands
Your hands.

There is a place in my garden
Where I let things freely grow
Never tasting sickle, rake, or ***
A place planted by God's hands
Not mine you see
Always fascinated how his garden
Is always much prettier than mine

©  2017 Jim Davis

As a toddler my mom taught me
to use hands for games,
Patty cake, patty cake,
We had so much fun.

In 1st grade Mrs. Z taught me about hands.
The big hand represents the hours,
The small hand is for minutes,
And that skinny red one counts the seconds.

In high school Sarah Kay taught me
about holding hands, and hand models
She said "I read hands to tell your past."
Hands learn she said to me.

A coworker taught me to speak with hands.
Thumb in, 4 fingers up, thats "B" she said.
We could talk without moving our lips,
It was magic.

No one taught me the importance of hands,
Though.

The way you need to stretch your hands,
Reach out to the world and say,
"Here. Grab on, I won't let you fall"

How to make my hands, helping hands.
The kind with strong cracks and callouses
But they have a soft touch, gentle hands.

Hands that can stand the beating of
Negativity
Hatred
Rejection.

Hands that stay open,
Ready to accept whatever...
Gifts
The world gives them.

I want to learn how to use my hands,
To inspire a nation.

Who will teach me?