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Array ( [sid] => 179135 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => These Hands Of Mine [time] => 2014-08-21 07:40:25 [hometext] => Just looked at my hands and those scars that never leave and what they mean to me. [bodytext] =>
Were they ever smooth?
These hands of mine, this life in lines?
I don't recall the parchment
on me-
ever so long, parchment was
just for those dead Egyptians-
not skin I could see
on my hands-
papyrus- exotic, (not from me), from other lands.

Memory Lane they have become-
this road map of scars and whispers of cuts-
(In some cases)
my only reminder of what once was.

Palm of white-lined remembrance.
Two inches long- my how it bled
that day in the woods on the run
as sheet metal traced the memory in red-
forgotten now but for that scar...
memories of childhood telling the tale.

My knuckle scar traced over two fingers,
deep and white still- 5,800 days and nights
to heal-
Kelly (I almost forgot her name)-
thank god for that scar;
not for that, would I retain her?
Shame it is; residual violence,
all that's left of her-
scars don't lie and I'm better without-
it took a phone slammed in my face to find out.

These hands, these scars, this fading skin-
a tale of life etched deeply
and toward (I hope) a set of hands
with no new scars of tales-
this parchment is not so hardy
and accepting as those child's hands
of smooth skin and undetermined path.
[comments] => 3 [counter] => 112 [topic] => 44 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Nostalgic )

These Hands Of Mine

Contributed by invierno on Thursday, 21st August 2014 @ 07:40:25 AM in AEST
Topic: Nostalgic

Were they ever smooth?
These hands of mine, this life in lines?
I don't recall the parchment
on me-
ever so long, parchment was
just for those dead Egyptians-
not skin I could see
on my hands-
papyrus- exotic, (not from me), from other lands.

Memory Lane they have become-
this road map of scars and whispers of cuts-
(In some cases)
my only reminder of what once was.

Palm of white-lined remembrance.
Two inches long- my how it bled
that day in the woods on the run
as sheet metal traced the memory in red-
forgotten now but for that scar...
memories of childhood telling the tale.

My knuckle scar traced over two fingers,
deep and white still- 5,800 days and nights
to heal-
Kelly (I almost forgot her name)-
thank god for that scar;
not for that, would I retain her?
Shame it is; residual violence,
all that's left of her-
scars don't lie and I'm better without-
it took a phone slammed in my face to find out.

These hands, these scars, this fading skin-
a tale of life etched deeply
and toward (I hope) a set of hands
with no new scars of tales-
this parchment is not so hardy
and accepting as those child's hands
of smooth skin and undetermined path.

Copyright © invierno ... [ 2014-08-21 07:40:25]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: These Hands Of Mine (User Rating: 1 )
by shelby on Friday, 22nd August 2014 @ 10:21:52 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

I really loved the way this is written.
Though I am sorry about the scars:(
Im packing a few around too, strange how no matter what
we never shall forget the moment they were created:)
We carry them along.

Michelle

Re: These Hands Of Mine (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Saturday, 23rd August 2014 @ 11:32:08 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Interesting voice that mends
itself yet leaves hardened scar
that transcends
I was born sadly I thought
with old wrinkled hands
The soothsayer said
I was an old soul
But it didn't seem like
that to me at all
when I got my first real scar
I didn't let myself love like
that until I let myself go
and got hurt
I only remember hammering
away and building something
I thought was good
And I became occupied
for a time as a cynical
idiot who would never learn
Only it seemed much worse
So then I went to college
Night school after work
And it seemed like a long
long time before I began
again to learn
You see, I said myself
just be silent and do your
best to just learn, there's
so much,
But I thought I'd never
make it, the road each
night after night seemed
endless,
And when I finished school
Strangely I felt as if
I was starting off new
Nishu Mather's poem
"Marigold"
I went back, and a packet
of Marigold flower
I later gave to my daughter
Grace which I helped her
plant
Made me think of the name
to your poem, entitled
"These hands of Mine"

Peace!

Re: These Hands Of Mine (User Rating: 1 )
by ladyfawn on Saturday, 30th August 2014 @ 02:35:57 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

we all have scars... the outward ones don't matter- its the heart scars that do...

hugs n' love nessa

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