#handprints
I bring her coffee, plus a custom made admixture of
kashi-go-lean and fruited loops,
and an almond biscotti with fresh berries,
to wake her up, @9:30AM,
since s-h-e, bad girl, been watching
some Jane Austen stuff (duh) till the AM of Three,
will dare to try to get away with sleeping
the holy moly entire Sunday -a!way;
quite a lot to carry, and sadly cursed with but two hands,*
so various prints from nose, and toes, fingered tips and and upon
an occasional, full on five on five, a free single hand print
on a mirrored bedroom door
behind which she hides
now when the light hits said door,
every smudge is crystalline clear,
and my OCDC insists I tsk tsk take
my sleeve to rub them out of existence
she loves this cleansing idiotick-oh-synchrow-nieceity o’ mine,
and smile lovingly while observing my back acleaning…
what an idiot, she thinks,
she forgets,
I see her every move,
because I am before a rear facing mirror
revealing her
espying me with loving for a man who cares enough
to rid the world of smudges, curmudgeons and peeps
who write poems way too excessively
so clean up this
poetry smudge in aisle five,
and we can both get a laugh n’ a giggle,
on her foible-a-bility
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
One day,
The roof of this ancient building will cave
And the remnants held within
Will fade away with time,
And the hourglass will empty,
Never to be flipped again.
As the sand drops,
Dust will be left in it's wake;
A new home for stories and handprints,
Visceral imagery that screams,
"We were here."
Humans have always and forever
Wanted to be known,
You and I,
Wanted to be known —
Known by each other,
In those few hours we spent together.
This old building knows our story,
And our lives are written on the walls.
It broke my heart to see,
That our handprints had been erased.
It broke my heart because,
To disturb the dust,
Is to disturb the story.
At least,
That's what you told me
In that brief moment
So long ago.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 4:45 PM UTC
My niece is sat opposite me
My niece is in possession of paint
And a paintbrush
And I’ve surrendered my hands to her.
That tickles!
My face scrunches
Paint properly plastered
The newspaper in front of us her dad had put down for her she swaps for plain
I wiggle the digits on my
Upward facing palms.
Now flip!
Like this?
She nods
And splat
SPLAT!
The One That Married Into This
Via me
Comes in from the kitchen.
I rise from my cross-legend position
And pat his cheek as we meet in the doorway
Then I rest my hand on his shoulder,
Trying to gaze lovingly,
As opposed to smirking.
He doesn’t notice the paint
Because it’s warm
And maybe I’ve just got clammier hands than usual.
I go to wash my hands off.
Your turn!
Le artiste demands
My turn?
Everybody turn!
Great-aunties groan.
Alright then.
SPLAT!
The One That Married Into This
Touches a reassuring
Painted
Palm
To just below my back.
So ordinary
We only notice the paint prints
As we graze the hall mirror
As we start the 30 minute process
Of saying goodbye
Walking art
He whispers
As we walk out the door
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 10:22 AM UTC
I'm sorry your hands had to leave bruises on my skin
and that my love breaks your ribs.
I'm sorry for the bruises I made in your heart
and for the lies I told with the same lips you tasted.
I'm sorry for the bruises I bore in my heart
and for the storm I brought to your mind.
I'm sorry for the bruises I left in your life,
and made you see my chaos with your eyes.
I'm sorry for the bruises made from holding onto you too tight,
and for the hate that filled your lungs.
I'm sorry for the bruises I can't erase
I'm sorry for the bruises old scars replaced.
I'm sorry for the bruises my fingertips left
I'm sorry for the bruises my lips marked on yours
I'm sorry for the bruises on your wrists with my handprints
I'm sorry for the bruises that took your breath away.
I'm sorry for the bruises.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Put your hand in mine
I whispered to
my newborn son
I’ll try to keep you
safe and warm
Put your hand in mine,
together we will fight.
Let me carry you, my boy
for your feet are weary,
even though they have never
carried a load.
Lend me your hand,
dear Michael,
for once you are gone,
I will see your prints
on my heart.
Walk with me
in memory,
dear child.
For someday,
we will walk
together.
Put your hand in mine,
and bid us farewell.
Lay quiet, my baby boy
Jesus will take you
home.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC