"handprint" poems
Separate beds and shades
Of reds. Intimacy is
A ****** handprint.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
Her name is Halima
And she leans from her window
In her hijab that covers her hair
Halima don't spit on the people below
Her mama laughs - My Halima!
But that's her little daughter
And she knows when Halima spits -
It's - the purest rose water
Halima's hijab is of the greenest green
That covers her chestnut hair
With the handprint of a man
Large and brown embroidered there
And her long white dress embroidered
With buds and leaves and thorny stems
And secret roots and blooms of roses
In her house above the Thames
Halima don't spit! Her mama chides
But the people sailing by
Think the air is filled with roses
So they smile and they sigh
As Halima in her hijab
With the handprint of a man
Turns the ***** river to rose water
As only Halima can ...
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
i laid on the bed completely defeated
with tears in my eyes and a handprint that left my skin heated.
i said no, and i meant it.
but you begged, you just couldn't accept it.
after you ****** me and used me at your disposal
you turned away from me and the phone screen lit up your face
so i turned my back on you and cried into stained sheets.
i never looked at my body the same
after you branded my body with your all-too-common name.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 8:45 PM UTC
The sea fades into a well blended orange sun. the deepest blue stretching its fingers grabbing the horizon line. ripples in the waves of color they crash into stars. the explosion peaks behind the darkest of clouds. the sea is drowning the colors of love and turning them muddy. the ocean is wrapped in brilliance laughing at the unattentive ones. the sun dissapears. its warmth gone Texas is now the spring of bluebonnets and sweet air. the handprint of faith stretches across the sky i believe to be my open sea.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
A warm hand pressed up against cool glass
Making a hot handprint appear.
The maker of the print lifted their hand
To study the unique swirls and whirls they left.
There is no pattern to the lines that created the handprint.
No precise angle of arches,
Nor perfect precision of patterns.
The transparent window displayed the differences,
Unique to only one person.
Sculpted at birth and remodeled over the years.
Recoding every hardship experienced by the hands.
Each line, arch and swirl different from one another,
All part of a life.
Each hand telling a different story,
Each story created by a different hand.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
[i'm sorry. i'm not very good at love letters. i've confessed my love to more angels than real people, but please hear me out on this.]
to the girl i ran into yesterday, with love from the girl who ran into you yesterday
i'm pretty sure i'm in love with you.
you left a handprint on my heart (a literal one;
your fingers curved over my collarbone like you were afraid you would break me)
i have cigarette butts for nerve endings
and i'm pretty sure that you must be a lit match
because i haven't felt this alive in seventeen years
please tell me you feel the same way.
i just want to feel your heart beat against mine, and i know we've only just met, i know you will probably never come to this bookstore again,
but if you say no i will pretend that this is a letter to the galaxy
(my favorite constellation is the one stretching across your shoulders;
a thousand and one stars disguised as freckles
play connect the dots with ligaments and fissures)
i will pretend that you are not the sun in my solar system
and okay, maybe i'm being overdramatic but have you ever looked into someone's eyes
and wanted to memorize every fleck of gold you see
i wrote down the things i want to know about you, a wishlist ten miles long
with nothing but your name on it
i wonder how you'd react if i held your hand in public
the sea swelling up to meet us there are wires from my heart to yours
and i know there is approximately an 86.3% chance you will never see this love letter but i wished on a star for something real
and then i ran into you
(i'm sorry again. i hope you enjoy to **** a mockingbird. it's one of my favorites.)
i hope your hair is still a preposterous shade of blue because it makes your eyes look like constellations
do you want to form a galaxy with me?
to the girl i ran into yesterday, who wore bright pink flip flops and had a tattoo of a star on her left anklebone,
i think i'm in love with you
please reply at your earliest convenience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
There was nothing plastic
About the way your smile showed
Or about the way your arms felt
But a voice in the back of my head told me so
And last weekend
I melted a carpet I thought was wool
You could have fooled me
Except now there is a hard, shiny, iron-shaped mark
Plastered into the carpet's soft mat
To be honest, I was a little disgusted
When I pulled the iron away and found
Strings of green and red clinging to it like bubblegum
And to be honest, I felt a little disgusted with myself
Not to mention you
When I left a handprint in your soft back
And strings of skin still sticking to my palm
Prove you, my little plastic boy, are just a doll
By all the tests that matter
A human illusion too easily destroyed
By an excess of warmth
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
Some only seest her flesh
And her bones;
I seest God's handprint
That brushstroked
Her soul.
Some only heed her outer
Reflection;
I seest a masterpiece
In paradisal direction.
Some only observe her comings
And going's;
Not perceiving
Her tears, beyond year's;
Hath been like white water's flowing.
Some only descry
Her Filipina eyne;
Whilst under her roof
She's lonesome, aloof;
Pain is her daily bread,
As is her heart's
Screaming proof.
Some only espy, the girl
They seek to know; not
Knowing nothing of who
She really is, an Angel from
God's throne.
Though this Queen doesn't seest
What I seest, she is blinded by
Worldly lies; demon's art her
Enemies, because she's God's
coruscating light.
If only she could take a step
Out of her body and her mind;
She'd be free, to perceive
The treasure she is
As the creator made
Her after his
Kind.
If only she could
Seest, the elegance
Inside her soul;
She would
Knowest
She was
Created to be
God's light, lamp;
God's perfect mold.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Sardua nagley ( agapi mou) dedicated
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
A LATE 1962-ISH PUDDLE
It was a late 1962-ish
puddle.
A Curragh puddle
to be exact
but you
...wouldn't know that.
A moon had fallen
asleep in it
with scattered silver stars
nailing it to the ground.
I was 6-ish
by then &
had encountered more
puddles than you
could ever splash
about in.
But, this was
the first puddle
I ever
remember.
An Ur-puddle.
To the rest of the world
it was as if
it had never been &
existed only for me.
A robin stood
at my side.
Us both...staring at the puddle.
Suddenly the robin
made up its mind &
stepped defiantly
into this miniature ocean.
The robin stood on the moon
which shattered &
reformed itself about
its tiny feet.
It was the first robin
I'd seen
walking on the moon.
The puddle lived
inside my head
for many many
years until
these words came along
and took it away.
It was like the hand
of a man
long long before
history was invented
pressed against
the flickering cave wall
leaving a sooty hand print
in celebration of himself.
"This mark means
me!"
My late 1962-ish
Curragh puddle
and that robin walking
on a watery moon
is my handprint
on the cave wall
of my mind
in the long long ago.
I laugh at
the me-ness of me!
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
how do i even begin to describe this color,
because it is so
******* versatile.
firstly it is the color of royalty and magic--
stuff of fairy tales that leap from the page
and into your mind's eye.
richly-hued gowns reach the polished floor;
crowns and scepters shine with amethyst,
with jasper,
with tanzanite.
this color shines in the stardust of a wizard's cloak,
shimmering in the candlelight as he pours over texts and trinkets
with a glowy-eyed owl brooding on his shoulder.
it billows from the smoke of a witch's potion--
eye of newt and
wing of bat and
toe of frog
combine into a roiling haze that will make the princess
fall in love and then kiss death.
"double, double, toil and trouble...
your dreams and despair await."
this color is also one of spring.
it dots on the hills in delicate petals of
heather and lavender,
and the slightly darker
pansies and geraniums.
it scatters on the wind and leaves its perfume for
butterflies and
bumblebees and
girls in love.
before the sun rises and paints the sky in its warmth,
the world stands still in a state that is
neither dark nor light.
the stars have gone but
morning has not quite arrived to take its place;
birds are not yet chirping and
bugs and not yet buzzing--
in fact the only sound is your own mumbling
as you press your face into the pillow as though
trying to push away the responsibilities that
loom in the daytime.
it is here that this color is perhaps at its softest.
now, there is one more place this color shows itself,
though I'd rather it not be the case.
it is the shade of hurt and fear,
the shade of loneliness.
this color blooms on her back and shoulders and over her eye--
in bruises dark enough for her to seek cover-up
and a restraining order.
this color outlines the handprint of his attacker,
when he was wrenched into an alley and
stripped of his sense of security.
this color looms over the dispossessed
no matter how brightly the sun is shining.
instead of hugs and kisses,
these lost souls are met with remarks like
"loser" and
***** and
******
solitude is sanctuary as invisible hands
attempt to choke the life out of the outcasts.
do you see what i meant when i said
that this color is versatile?
it is a color of kingship and witchcraft,
of nature and pain.
it is not the color of singular definition.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
You’ve left a handprint on my heart, from where you reached in and nurtured the burns and scars and helped life to grow again. you held your hand out to me and lifted me up to dance with you, a slow waltz that I had to learn as you lead me ‘round the room. When you left me to catch my breath, the fear of leaving you almost paralysed me - and the realisation that I must nearly broke me.
You showed me what it was to live, and to live in such reckless abandonment that I knew I would never belong in the place I once called my home. you redefined home for me, showing me the truth of “home is wherever I’m with you.” Your sunsets were painted more beautifully than anything I’ve ever seen, and the way you always lead me to the artist behind such great sky-paintings left me in awe. Who else can teach me to fall in love with two beings at one time.
I still reach for your hand subconsciously, lean in to rest on your shoulder before I realise that you’re no longer with me. You’ve left me homesick, wondering where home may be, the place where these itchy feet can finally rest. You’ve filled my mind with reminders of cities, people, prayers and dreams, and I’ve found that as long as these thoughts rattle in my mind, sleep and rest are impossible.
You’ve shaken me to my very core, and all that remains is that still beating heart, with your palpable handprint glowing in the darkness
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
He reaches down to the dwindling Soul
Wrapping an arm around it
Forcing it to piece back together
Into something more human
Something more righteous
Than just a soul with no flesh
It hadn't meant to cause hurt or harm
But sending a man’s Soul back to his
Body has its repercussions
The tighter he holds the more the flesh burns
A burst of light in somewhere that
Has more than darkness
And the surroundings change
A man whom had been just a soul
Tearing and torturing other souls until he broke
Was once again human
A human with an angelic handprint
On his left shoulder
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
1.
I heard the sound of your crying
from a bird.
Animals have souls, too.
Like the moat round Mont St. Michel
The size of the soul
Shrouded by
Accidents of life.
2.
Cobwebs and wax round the candles.
The woods are alive
Pariahs have eyes thrown at them.
Why **** the floor so?
Don't sit with your back to the doorway
Monkey's monocled eyes stare back,
glass orbs, while
Empty chair a-rockin' - a-rockin' - a-rockin' - a
Puppets dance
No solace in the shades
Don't follow the shadows
Which lurk and lead...
Marionettes and tin soldiers
On pedestals long forgot
A dead child's toy chest
A lion in a tallish glass cage.
Little drummer boy, rusted
Plays agitated drum
To match heart beat of......fear
Of drying sweat ....on upper lip.
Dusty frames on the wall
Interfere with flow
Handprint on window frame
Dog barks warning.
Spectre's trudge in mud
Closer...closer...from grave waters
Scream in windowpane: a figure holds
A face of anguish, trapped eternal.
Letters on the wall
Writ in heavy blood
Silhouette of an axe
Windy.....Branch tap on window frame.
Brass door handle turning
Staircase winding up to forever
Gargoyles leer
Leaves on the dry floor....wet footsteps.....
3.
Who knows who dwelt in this place?
Who's hanging from the ceiling?
Whose body....felt that pain?
4.
Then, into head flits one 'I love you'
Of gentle memory
On the lap of the mind
Of a lover
Of a friend.
Grey skies, musky odour.
5.
Then...
Wielding weapon to defend
Against....
The....
Self.
6.
Stop SCREAMINGGGGGGGG!
Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
I always loved your hands.
Not in any kind of lustful way, just the look of them.
I still love your hands, henna-ed and smooth
And so soft- startlingly soft-
If my fingers accidentally brush yours.
I used to marvel when you'd lace your fingers through mine-so casual- as we walked,
At how they felt like moonlight looked.
I love to watch you work, the careful way you do everything
Like it's all art, like it's all important.
Hell, you make a sandwich like you're carving a sculpture
And I find myself watching you, fascinated like always,
And I want to laugh, and I want to tell you you're beautiful.
And my smile turns wry
And I say nothing
Because who thinks of things like that?
I have a favorite photograph from long ago
Of your hands as you were drawing.
They've not changed.
That's why I always ask "Is that ring new?"
Because I catch myself noticing them
The way you might catch yourself absently holding a smooth stone you left in your pocket and forgot was there.
I used to secretly wish that someday you'd draw on me in henna
And I'd have the daring to ask you
To leave a handprint on my shoulder
Like a promise.
I've told you you look like a sculpture, too perfect not to be planned
And
I remember long hours in the museums as a child
Walking through a maze of white porcelain and marble women
Wondering how rock could look softer than my own skin.
I wanted to reach out and touch
See if they would be cold and hard like they should be
Or warm and velvety.
And their hands... So graceful and light-
The sculptors of old strove for perfection
Believing that they had not found it in humanity
Always imagining something smoother, something lovelier, something more delicate and more exquisite.
(You weren't around yet.)
Your hands always reminded me of something from that soaring hall
With all its silky looking statues and its ceiling of cross-paned windows.
So when I sit here, watching Art
Make ham sandwiches
It feels so incongruous.
Something here just doesn't belong.
And I can't tell if it is me or you
But honestly
How many people can say
They have watched Artemis sit down at the counter beside them
As if she has no idea she's divine?
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Petal-soft lip
Dancing tips
Handprint on my undulating hip
Twist my hair
Ember in your stare
Circle me like a piece so rare
Arms praise the sky
Worshipping my thigh
trailing up my stardust side
Silken-scarf wrapped 'round my waist
Gliding up my ******* posthaste
Hands are proud, anything but chaste
Confident, urgent, pressing on
Convincing me what's right, what's wrong
Your long black hair, Samson's song
Mind is spinning, tripping, slipping
All I feel is your heart and breathing
Nothing's holding me back from giving
Rhythm, fast, space, beat
Touch, glide, hot, heat
Two heavenly bodies collide and meet
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
i have survived
storms.
i have survived a father's voice like thunder;
handprint lightning flowers petal over my skin
like i am a garden to sinners-
adam and eve call my grassroots their home and hum lullabies-
i have survived
anger.
pros and cons of
clock-ticking therapy sessions where money is thrown at my gaze,
fixed on the wall,
dollar-a-second drumming fingers
screaming so loud that heaven shuts the blinds and hangs a "closed" sign on the door.
pros and cons of
stumbling home,
under a murky peerless crowd of smoke,
slurring words trail around and behind me like moths to a porchlight.
morning headaches,
angry adults
damaging drywall and breaking family portraits
exhausting search for answers
exhausting search in a silence that lengthens the disconnect from child to mother
where your mind goes red and the honest truth that stays stuck to the roof of your mouth falls out
where you become an overflowing mailbox and your hands shake
the absence of parents who never taught you to hold your tongue
i have survived
hurt.
i have survived the specific type of loss that you feel in the pit of your stomach
the one that lies next to you
when you stare at the ceiling and your face hurts from crying
tears scrub your eyelids raw and you promise,
"if i ever make it through this,
i will never be here again."
i have survived giving up,
taking it all back, throwing it all away,
parallel structures of contemplation and decision
i have survived
lonely.
angry storms of abandonment, melodies of the lonely and the hurt
i reprise to the ones that add injury to insult,
you are not the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
i echo choruses to the people that force me to grow up at sixteen
i have destruction embedded into my neurotransmitters
i have shooting post-traumatic pain in my memories
i have survived
a hell that your hands are not stained enough to touch.
i assure you,
my love,
i will survive
you as well
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
Writing on The Walls
A bloodstained handprint
Are you alive to see this
Do your eyes pierce now?
Where the soul sees a mirror?
Oh God why cant they see
Why can't they see
The writing on the walls
Wed like to stay blind
But the rest wont last
Time to break a flatline
And wakeup from your bed
Pray now
You fall on your knees in grief
Do you see what you've been doing?
Do you see what you have left?
Another bloodstained hand print
The writings on the walls
Wed like to stay blind
But the rest wont last
Time to break a flatline
And wakeup from your bed
Press your face to the floor
Don't leave your posture
Don't move a muscle
Your eyes see it now don't they?
You can't hide
The Writings on the wall
The Writings on the wall
The Writings on the wall
The Writings...
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
Girl, you can’t keep treating love
Like kindergarten.
It’s not time to play with plastic hearts,
Or treat rolling in the mud with the same
Respect that you show the ice cream man.
I don’t care if love is already
Messy like Hiroshima and Pompeii,
The walls don’t need your handprint,
Covered in the blood from
Some poor boy’s heart,
All over the walls.
You crawl along the floors
Swallowing the shiny silver pieces,
Of stranger-sex and even stranger dreams,
And call them romance.
But *** is slapping glue
On that random soul you find.
But when you leave in the morning,
He rips a piece of your laughter,
And you rip a piece of his wife.
Your heart has been slowly carved and
Hallowed out like a Jack-O-Lantern
That makes a very disappointing thud
When some **** smashes it against the concrete.
Now Girl, I’m not saying that
You need to color inside the lines.
I’m just saying that you have to stop
Shoving crayons up your nose
To try to draw hearts
On the gray matter of your brain.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 6:16 AM UTC
There are some people out there that have wanted to **** themselves for some time now.
And there are some who have bled blood from their bodies to drown out the tears.
There are some people out there who were once the brave ones.
The cool kids.
The strong warriors.
These people, they were once dreamers.
Who are now haunted by nightmares.
These people, they were once believers.
Who are now wearing the handprint of life bitchslapping them in the face.
These people, they were once fearless.
And now fear is the only thing they want less of.
But these people, they haven’t given up yet.
These people fight every day to better themselves.
They fight to be strong once again.
These people haven’t ended it all, even though they feel like the world is pushing them to.
They haven’t given up.
They haven’ killed themselves.
But that’s not something you can brag about at fancy parties.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
I recall, caramel mocha frappe
Taste was good and that's about all
I recall, delusional chemistry
Breaking up seven times and making up six.
I recall, English 101
Meant to be in high school but stuck in eighth grade with me.
I recall, A Wing
An Amazon
I recall, freshman orientation
Handprint staircases
I recall, Spanish class
Skipping lunch to digest some knowledge in the biblioteca
I recall, Chick Fil A in a mall
Back of a car with a handful
I recall, sneaking out with the boys
Upset over Pink Floyd for the wrong reasons
I recall, a trip down memory lane
Writing a poem
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 5:52 AM UTC
Wo es war... ________________
Eyeing one sticky handprint;
left behind--
another's form, whisked away before
I got there, just in time
with an issue
"Field" Nobember of 2012,
even though they don't print them in that month.
I had empty paper, a notebook. A story
at a ***** table.
I would write on top of all this,
thoughts of avoiding the mess
left, there, unwanted by others.
I have been wrong
in as many ways as I have been right
I have been wrong.
It's true, what Freud said:
Wo ES war! [Where IT was!]
Wo war es? [Where was it?]
Wo ich jetzt bin! [Where I now am!]
ES IST ICH [IT IS ME]
ICH BIN ES [I AM IT]
I am here.
IT
is Omaha,
and
in so many ways,
it wasn't. ______________________
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
You'll always be one of the reasons I love being alive.
The look on your face when you walked into the Disney Store.
The way you take nothing too seriously, but always take the things that truly matter just seriously enough.
The inch of skin at your hips that refuses to stay concealed beneath any of your shirts,
(The one that drives you crazy,
That always drove me crazy, too.)
The fact that all the time is time for some good food at your house.
And the unspoken promise that whenever I am feeling truly desolate, you will appear like a distant golden searchlight on a stormy sea
To guide me back from the darkness.
I used to love you in only one way.
It's expanded, and I imagine it will, always.
If ever someday we stop saying hello to one another,
I will find memories of your smile in every foreign city,
And on every morning that I decide my day will be a good one.
Hey, you know, maybe you're the truest love of my life.
Maybe the point is that I don't need to touch you to know
I always have your handprint on my heart,
Keeping me warm,
No matter how foolish or wise I ever become.
If that time I spent with you was the best I'll ever know....
You know,
It was pretty **** wonderful.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
i.
Duchess of the still splendor,
Southeastern wind of the faraway;
Prestige of foreign king's and Queen's,
O' fair lass on display.
ii.
I'm here mine love,
Verily, I'm not going away;
The moon must taste ourn shadow's,
As we pirouette the starry plains.
iii.
Tablet's wilt recordeth us
By ourn handprint's with
Ourn name's; the flambeau
Is warm mi amour', please
pirouette with me again.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
We've murdered "Goodbye"
With our ball point pens and summer vacations.
Now all that's left of it is a shell,
A crater created by etiquette and empty promises.
We've stuffed it full of double intentions,
Filled it with unspoken "I love you"s, and "I'm sorry"s.
Our fear of leaving has left its muddy handprint
On the innocence of closure.
We've dragged it by it's syllables,
Drawing out each letter until the sound becomes muffled and obscure,
The very epitome of all it stands for.
Goodbye should be whispered in the final moments of one's presence,
Not proclaimed in shopping malls and late night diners.
The more we try to save it,
The further it sinks into causality.
The deeper that we engrave it,
The more goodbye parts with reality.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
I am a sum total.
Every instant of my existence
Has built me from the ground up.
I am no such thing as original.
I am afraid I am ordinary.
-They say you are what you eat.
This much is true.
Food for the soul.
Friends.
Music.
Loves and hates.
Passion and empathy.
-I am such a glutton.
Make no mistake
This sin’s far from deadly.
I want to dive into my subconscious
And ask him a few questions.
Pick his brain so I can understand my own.
Understand every little piece of me.
Every shard of glass in my life’s mosaic.
Gleaming and smiling and sitting pretty.
I strain to break the quality control.
Slam my fist through the mirror.
Setting my own standards.
Seeing around the subjective.
Striving through the superficial.
Discover how to make me
Better than what is expected
-An autodidactic psychological modest narcissist of mind and body.
Achieving perfection through imperfection
And realizing perfection is imperfect itself.
Letting my imagination create my purpose.
Finding my dreams and aspirations through my being.
Blinded by their somber cries.
Take them by the hand and turn them
Into lucid sunlight across my face.
Watching reality as I sculpt
My life with my own two hands.
The power to caress the clay into beauty
Or smash it into the dust of the Earth.
But alas, I am not of my own.
My ideas are not my own.
Merely borrowed thoughts juxtaposed
Into a pastiche of individuality.
My extensions to you
Are what I can call my own.
Creativity.
Belief.
Love.
Impact.
A handprint on your shadow.
Endeavor to reach out.
Palm your shoulder.
Wrap a finger around your mind.
And put a piece of me in you.
Memory and emotion shall succeed me
And live through you.
-We truly are immortal.
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC