"pocketknife" poems - Hello Poetry

Funny the things we recall. Images that flash through our brain. Some most vivid for me were of an old man. Skin like creased parchment paper, Lined and yellowed with age. The veins visible just below the surface, of a thin nearly transparent veneer. Liver spotted flecks of red, Charted paths from the toil of many years, Palms callused forever from a life time of labor. Big fingers knotted and misshapen, The two inch tip of one gone missing, Saw taken, at age sixteen. Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess That still there remained gentleness in their caress. For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some Companionable affection or parental love. Those aged hands could also make things, Toy sailboats, and wooden trains, complete with caboose, And guard cow catcher. A cool flute whistle that actually worked, He said it was like the Indian’s made, Out Oklahoma way. And he would know, He cowboyed there. His hands taught me to tie my shoes, Open and close my first pocketknife. Those same hands could become birds, rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things. When projected up on the wall, Silhouetted by a naked back light. His hands knew magic too, Pluck silver coins right out of my ears. His tired face matched his hands, visual weathered, creased and wrinkled road maps, Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled. Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained forever fraudulently youthful prisms, Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within. But it is his hands most of all I shall remember, Their imposing look and their reassuring touches of tenderness. I shall never forget my grandfather’s hands.

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Dec 12, 2013

Dec 12, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC

stephen-e-yocum

My Grandfather's Hands

Funny the things we recall. Images that flash through our brain. Some most vivid for me were of an old man. Skin like creased parchment paper, Lined and yellowed with age. The veins visible just below the surface, of a thin nearly transparent veneer. Liver spotted flecks of red, Charted paths from the toil of many years, Palms callused forever from a life time of labor. Big fingers knotted and misshapen, The two inch tip of one gone missing, Saw taken, at age sixteen. Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess That still there remained gentleness in their caress. For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some Companionable affection or parental love. Those aged hands could also make things, Toy sailboats, and wooden trains, complete with caboose, And guard cow catcher. A cool flute whistle that actually worked, He said it was like the Indian’s made, Out Oklahoma way. And he would know, He cowboyed there. His hands taught me to tie my shoes, Open and close my first pocketknife. Those same hands could become birds, rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things. When projected up on the wall, Silhouetted by a naked back light. His hands knew magic too, Pluck silver coins right out of my ears. His tired face matched his hands, visual weathered, creased and wrinkled road maps, Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled. Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained forever fraudulently youthful prisms, Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within. But it is his hands most of all I shall remember, Their imposing look and their reassuring touches of tenderness. I shall never forget my grandfather’s hands.