Denise Krebs is the chief learner in life’s adventure. Since she retired from teaching at the end of 2021, she has had time on her hands (sometimes too much). When she wrote her mentor poem on hands, she realized she needs to do some planning for this next chapter, which will include something in teaching again.
Inspiration
Sometimes while working with my hands, I am so thankful for all they can do. Let’s think about hands today–ours or another’s.
_______my mother’s hands
would moisturize
my face from jaw inward
the days she had too
much on her hands
when what needed
to come through
did or didn’t show.
~Nate Marshall
Please read the rest of this powerful poem here.
Another mentor poem by Margaret Simon:
These hands
are waving to the pelican above the waves
trying to stay hydrated in this heat
trying to love in a way that is welcomed
wise and whole
These hands have held hard
and gotten softer
with age and lavender lotion.
These hands reach out
for help and receive it in gratitude
knowing that grace is found
when gifts are held
precious in these hands.
~Margaret Simon, draft
Used with permission
Denise’s Poem
Pre- and Post-Retirement Hands
Yesterday’s hands
Shuffle 53 papers (3 haven’t turned theirs in yet)
Pour cold cereal for dinner again
Pump air as they move rapidly to my next class
Take notes in meetings (sometimes one after another)
Key boatloads of emails (while poetry sinks before starting)
Grade and record assignments (regardless of what I really believe about grading)
Strive to stay human to nurture connections with my students
Yesterday’s hands sacrifice in the name of indispensability
They always keep moving, spinning plates that threaten to drop
Yesterday’s hands produce, juggle, contribute, spill, repeat…
repeat…
Today’s hands,
Today’s hands
Hold a cup of tea and genuinely
look at the leaves as they steep.
Steeping is a slow word
and today’s hands take time.
Today’s hands pause the book and wait
while that idea steeps deep inside.
Today’s hands crochet a baby’s toy,
turn to the next page in their daily poetry book,
and make seedy peanut butter sandwiches for the birds.
Today’s hands hold, thrive, create, make, wonder.
Process
Consider writing about hands today in a free verse poem, as all of us did. Or choose a form you would like to explore.
- Consider someone else’s hands, like our mentor Nate Marshall did as he wrote about his relationship with his mother, evidenced in her hands.
- Write a poem like Margaret’s about what your hands do or may represent.
- Write a poem about yesterday’s hands and/or today’s hands. How have your hands changed in the way you use them between different chapters of your life, how they look, what they do, or metaphorically? Interpret yesterday’s and today’s hands in any way you would like.
- How about writing a children’s hand rhyme, like “Pat-a-Cake.”
- Or, choose a different body part to write about today.
- Of course, feel free to write anything in your heart. I look forward to reading whatever you leave here today.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Hi Denise, little late to poetry this month, I was super busy yesterday with family.
Yesterday’s Hands
Yesterday’s hangs made my mom’s favorite sun tea
Yesterday’s hands helped to hang the birthday banner.
Yesterday’s hands set out five dozen cupcakes
Yesterday’s hands cut and served the birthday cake
Yesterday’s hands held babies
Yesterday’s hands will never be here again, even when doing it all again
Yesterday’s hands
DeAnna,
I love that you make it a philosophical thought, like never stepping in the same river twice. Such a truism for life! Nicely done.
DeAnna, I love the image this poem paints and the concept that Cara pointed out too. It makes me think about my yesterdays hands and if I’m proud of all I accomplished yesterday/the past. Thank you for sharing!
Oh, DeAnna, I love those two ending lines. It makes me more appreciative of today. With just those few words it makes me want to seize the day and make the most of every moment. What a great way to live. That was one big party! I love the “held babies” too.
We celebrated my mom’s 75th birthday.
Hi, Denise! I am so late to this, but I wanted to say what a great prompt you presented. I loved how you “showed’ us your yesterday’s and today’s hands- two seemingly different lives, but the same kind, considerate, and thoughtful hands.
I went with the first thing that came to mind besides my main work and wrote this one quickly.
Back to Life
When I don’t know what to do,
My hands know.
They bring me to the kitchen
And make me forget.
They don’t ask for measures,
Pour water, add salt, and yeast
(Or baking powder), sugar, and flour—
Whatever they think is needed.
My hands knead the dough.
They form bread, rolls, meat pies,
They decorate cakes and pastries,
Experimenting with ingredients,
Appearances, and people’s taste buds.
My hands give me a break
When my head can’t,
But my heart desperately needs it.
My hands bring me back to life.
Oh Leilya, I love this! It reminds me of Linda Mitchell’s poem where her hands preparing for the new school year with muscle memory. I hadn’t thought of all the things our hands do without our conscience effort. It is amazing that your hands know the amount of ingredients for your recipes. I love the healing and life that baking gives you, and you really convey that in the last stanza. Did you make all those delicious treats?
Thank you, Denise! Yes, I made these. When you make it to Louisiana, I’d be happy to treat you to something special 🥰
Oh, my goodness! I would so love to see you in Louisiana. (and have something special baked by you.)
Leilya, the head and the hands working together here to bring peace to the mind and comfort to the spirit – – what a celebration of taste sensations! I want to dive into that tray of pastries.
Thank you, Kim! The pastries in the tray are mini-Pavlova: Swiss merengue with whipped cream and berries inside the nests and in decor 🥰
Lielya,
What a wonderful treat for you to have hands that can give you a break when your mind cannot. I use knitting for that, but baking is another good one. Your treats look amazing, thank you for sharing.
Kim Van Es wrote a darling poem about hands for her grandchildfren tonight. I used her poem as my springboard. I went with feet. I love this space of poets/friends/explorers. <#
Feet are for clomping
Feet are for stomping
Feet are for walking
Feet can wear stockings
Feet can wear shoes
Feet cam have tatoos
Use feet with intention
To stifel oppression
To quiet the violent
Give voice to the silent
Feet march to unite
Us in sharing the light
Oh, Allison, so powerful. I love your idea here. It starts out like Kim’s did, as playful, and then goes into more serious territory. However, I think it’s good for children all the way through.
My favorite lines:
Amen to what you said about this space! And thank you for sharing the “Making a Fist” poem.
Love this poem, Allison. March on!
Allison, I love it! I love everything about it – precise, rhymed lines with every word that counts. The second part of your poem tells us that feet are not just for walking and stomping; they are carrying their mission to make this world better. Thank you!
Allison, what a treat to think of feet as a way to unite. We often think of holding hands across the globe or how we are united in thinking or by hearts, but the feet bring us together in a bond of unity. Delightful!
Denise! I love this prompt and what you did with your two-timed poem. The “boatloads” (of emails) contrasted to the poetry that “sinks” was perfect.
When I think of “hands” poems, I remember this one:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54308/making-a-fist
Okay. I’ll go write a hands poem now. <3
I love all of Denise’s ideas for hand poems, but since I am “Mimi” (grandma) to young children, I thought I’d try a hand dittie about hands. You can imagine what actions go with each line.
Hands are for hiding
Hands are for peeking
Hands are for clapping
Hands are for tapping
Hands are for setting
Hands are for petting
Hands are for molding
Hands are for . . . holding
🙂
Kim, what fun!
Enjoy sharing this with your grandchildren.
Thanks for sharing with us,
Jennifer
Oh, Kim, how fun is this? I love the repetition of “Hands are for…” I have a 13 month old grandbaby now, so I will keep this handy for when I see him next., and I’ll think of you and your grandbabies. So sweet.
It’s good to see you here writing today! We’ll be back tomorrow and following through Wednesday. Hope to see you again.
A future picture book!!
Kim, I make it a practice not to read anyone else’s poems before I write my own–but I accidentally saw yours when I posted my (above) note. I LOVE this little rhyme and want to immediately share it with my little ones <3
Since I haven’t started writing my own poem yet, I’m tempted to add stanzas to this precious Granapple rhyme!
Kim, such a kind and loving poem! I am also a grandma, so this was just right for me. I smiled reading your poem, and now I just want to hold the little hands of my sweethearts. The final stanza is my favorite; it just brings the poem together. Thank you!
I love what you’ve done with hands and what Allison Berryhill did to use the same idea for feet. I like that this could be so interactive with grandchildren as a collaborative rhyming poem, too. You crafted a sweet poem and planted the seed for a growing idea.
If These Hands Could Speak
These hands have stories to tell —
both literally and figuratively.
Two decades ago, these hands learned
to speak,
to provide access in the library
for those with limited hearing.
Fourteen years ago, these hands learned
to cradle my baby’s tiny head,
to tickle little baby toes
and meet all her needs.
This week, these hands TYPE!
to order all the books lost,
to connect with school, district, community supporters
so my students can have a library again.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek August 2023
Denise, thank you for the prompt and getting me thinking of all my hands do. I chose to focus on the following three events:
1) learning ASL to better connect with the Deaf and Hard of Hearing students in my school;
2) caring for my child when she was a newborn;
3) the many hours of typing emails and entering book titles that need reordering after the fire in my school library this summer.
This was a fun prompt and I think I’m going to revisit this poem; I think I want to play with form.
Jennifer, I’m sorry to hear about the fire in your school library! Your hands have definitely “seen” a lot. Thank you for allowing us to witness these events with you.
Jennifer, “two decades ago these hands learned / to speak” is so powerful. It’s one of the things hands can do that I hadn’t thought of lately.
I love the verbs you chose for your daughter–to cradle, to tickle, and to meet her needs. So precious.
When I read your poem, I was afraid the books had been removed somehow due to censorship. I’m glad that is not the case, but heartbroken that the school library had a fire. I’m so glad you are at the stage to be able to order them again.
I am sneaking this in at the last minute! What a wonderful prompt, and the contrast between pre and post retirement hands. This line is my favorite: “Steeping is a slow word.”—I had never thought about it, but that is so true!
Hands
My hands
are no longer my hands.
They are becoming
my mother’s hands,
my grandmother’s hands.
Veins have found their way to the surface—
maps of the years spent doing things
that my mother and
my grandmother and
all the mothers before them did for their families.
My hands are my history, and theirs.
My hands
tell me things about myself
that I am not really ready for.
It is too soon to wear my mother’s hands.
GJSands
August 17, 2023
Gayle, I love how you compare your hands to your mother’s hands and express your feelings about how they are changing.
Thank you for sharing.
Jennifer
Thank you, Gayle. So much lies behind these words. I especially liked the line–“My hands are my history, and theirs.”
I’m with Kim here, Gayle! I love the line, “My hands are my history, and theirs.” And each year, I find myself thinking along the same lines (of your last line): “Wait, how am I this old, already?”
Oh, my goodness, I laughed aloud when I saw that. I can so relate. Did you see my photo above? Of all my sisters, I’m the youngest, and I have the most Mom hands of all. I love the idea of the veins being maps of things we’ve done. That last line “It is too soon to wear my mother’s hands.” Yes, indeed.
Denise,
I neglected to properly thank you for the prompt earlier, but as I return to this space this evening, I feel even more grateful for all the beautiful poems that were inspired by your prompt. Isn’t it quite a miracle that hands evoke such strong connections and emotions. Thank you.
Thank you, Marilyn. That was sweet of you. Yes, “such strong connections and emotions.” So many varied hand poems today!
Denise, I love looking at hands, thinking about all that they do. This is a wonderful prompt, one that I need to revisit, explore some more. I love your line, “steeping is a slow word,” and it is really lovely to have the time to study your tea so closely.
do tell
her hand closes
around my thumb and
she strokes
her thumb on mine
I know she is sad or scared or tired
it has always been this way
little sister,
on the other hand,
holds her own, sure and steady
fingers interlocked
at ease
it has always been this way
when I hold
a child’s hand
in mine
the world becomes tender
it has always been this way
Maureen, you focus on not only the hands but the ways people hold them, and this is a sweet perspective on the way our outward gestures reveal our inward feelings – securities, insecurities, fears, confidence. Indeed, the world is more tender when a child’s hand is part of the picture.
Maureen,
These lines are so lovely and soothing:
I thought about how our hands connect us as I read and how important it is to remember to let our hands draw us close. Lovely poem.
I love the reassuring tone of this poem. It was just what I needed to read and remember.
Oh, the hands “do tell” so much about a person and who they are. Love, love, love the “it has always been this way” and the last stanza–what a treasure of love. That word “tender” is perfect here. Thank you, Maureen.
Oh, Maureen…it HAS always been his way…
I love the repetition of “it has always been this way” throughout your poem, Maureen! And I also love the crafting of the “hold[ing]” of the “child’s hand” leading to the realization that “the world” is, indeed, “tender.” So true!
Without a lot of detail, I’ve had two surgeries this last week–one unexpectedly expected, and one emergency rectification. It is definitely a time of reflection and disjointed thoughts as I attempt to recover my strength.
Hands
The last thing I remember is looking at my hands–
you know, when you’re just doing nothing?
But then I woke up, shaking with withdrawals
from the second round of anesthesia in two days.
One second I was there, feeling a bit numb with
all that had transpired, and then I was back,
hours of my life erased from my memory, again.
Life doesn’t always prepare you for the unexpected
road bumps you encounter around blind corners.
Wow, Cara. The way you tied today’s prompt with your experiences is haunting. Thanks for sharing this vulnerable moment with us 💜
Oh, Cara! It is such a frightening feeling, I think, to have “hours of my life erased from my memory, again.” What a powerful opening line to your poem…how quickly things can change. Here’s to your recovery – may you feel much better very soon!
Cara, I do know “looking at my hands…when you’re just doing nothing?” I’m so glad they were able to rectify the problem, and you will need some time to recover your strength. Two surgeries in one week is not for sissies. Hang in there. I’m so glad you stopped by.
Wow Cara, you did a wonderful job tying your rough week into the days prompt. I love how poetry allows for that. Know I am here for you.
Denise, Thanks for the opportunity to remind us the value of hands and the reason we must be ready to
Hand It Over
Sometimes we hear it in a movie
A handsome cop is looking groovy.
Sometimes we hear a teacher say it
When a student would rather play it
When we retire, it’s not so groovy
When a young one says, “You’ve done enough!
Now just hand it over.”
How do we relinquish what has brought us such joy?
How do we keep it and not look cold and coy?
Just hand it over, like passing the baton.
The work we’ve done will be carried on.
Our career has not been a bust
Just hand it over and trust
That what we’ve modeled has been learned.
It’s not bridges being burned,
When we hand it over.
The repetition of “hand it over” is wonderful, Anna. I sense how hard this is to do. Yes, truly, “The work we’ve done will be carried on.” Well done!
Anna, your poem is just wonderful. I really like your interpretation of the prompt.
Anna, sweet poem. I like the various times one might use the phrase “hand it over,” and then when you make the connection to teachers handing over the work in retirement. I often see so much hope in the younger generations. Perhaps education will go through a process of renovation and make improvements that we never imagined.
Denise, the contrast between your two stanzas really emphasized the way we use our hands for work and play. It ends so positively.
I’m sick today, so I kept it short but I loved the prompt. I didn’t intend to make it Lady Macbeth-y, but it just kind of happened.
Guilt
These hands are contaminated
and I go on about my day
assuming as much. I wash
and wash and wash them
raw (sometimes).
I’m not sure if they’ll ever
be clean.
Rachell,
What a strong first line. I reread that a few times and thought — darn.Then, the next few lines going into washing and raw and wondering how clear makes me think of cleanliness in the literal and figurative way. I read this as the harm our hand cause in their actions or the hands as a metaphor for our being – -wondering how clean we will ever be.
Thanks,
Sarah
Rachelle, I hope you feel better soon. I started thinking guilt as a mother/woman before, during and after reading this. There is a lot to unpack here and I appreciate you sharing.
Rachelle, I’m sorry you are sick, but I’m glad you came today. I love your Lady Macbethy poem. I like that you named it “Guilt,” as it then is so much bigger than a germaphobe’s hand washing. The ending is so powerful.
Rachelle,
Not sick, but compulsively washing my hands this week. I love how without even trying, you ventured into the Bard’s territory. That swerve perfectly captures how it feels when sick, unable to escape being “contaminated.”
Great title – such an interesting twist, I think…contaminated hands, contaminated guilty conscience? Love the last stanza – “I’m not sure if they’ll ever/be clean.” That is most definitely the way guilt works.
Rachelle— amazing metaphor! The first line—wow. So much in so few words!
Rachelle, sorry to hear you are not feeling well. I personally dislike being sick in the summer. I often say it should be illegal, but that is not really something that can be controlled. Your first line is super powerful, pulling the reader in wanting to know more. Thank you for sharing today.
Thank you Denise for hosting today! This was such a powerful prompt and I wish I could’ve contributed more, but I just wasn’t feeling it. I loved all the mentor poems, with lines from each one I liked, but the overall theme I felt was that each of those hands represented in each poem had a purpose. And the purpose was to fulfill a need or task, but more importantly, those hands showed love. I wrote my poem about yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Yesterday
These hands:
navigated Carmen down the interstate, heading to the building with the maroon metal roof.
held a triple package of Kleenex so a student could carry her tray.
peeled a banana for breakfast, many left atop a pile unwanted by children.
were placed over my heart as the Pledge of Allegiance was led.
carried a heavy backpack and balanced a computer from place to place.
held donuts, while the chocolate coated my hands due to the rising heat of my palms.
knocked on several doors to enter classrooms, ready to provide services.
grabbed freshly popped popcorn, a quick snack for others, but lunch for me.
pressed keys for the umpteenth time as my schedule needed revising.
threw my hands up after being frustrated with my daughter.
pressed together in prayer hoping for a great day.
Today
These hands:
Navigated Carmen, again, taking the kids to a respite program
and coasted around town from errand to errand.
Hand-picked the best 5 for $25 meat deals.
Handed out donation forms to businesses for a silent auction.
tackled laundry, oh the dreaded chore.
were thrown up in frustration from bickering children.
typed away my thoughts of my yesterday and today.
will eventually retwist my hair, a chore that’s an entirely different level.
will press my hands even tighter in prayer because parenting is hard!
Tomorrow
These hands:
Will prepare the building, stocking and cleaning.
Will greet guests and clap to the beat of the music.
Will lift my hands up in praise!
Jessica, oh, what joy to get a glimpse of your school day yesterday, today’s busyness and tomorrow’s worship.
The verbs you chose were powerful, like: “tackled, coasted, carried, knocked, grabbed, pressed.” It’s interesting to see all our hands can do.
By the way, is Carmen your car’s name?
Thank you Denise! I get to do it all again tomorrow. And yes! I’ve had her for 5 years. She’s my best gal, lol!
Jessica, I like the way you formatted this with the stanzas representing yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It’s a wonder you’re able to make time to write such vivid poetry! This line stood out to me because I just loved the imagery. It’s so rich! “held donuts, while the chocolate coated my hands due to the rising heat of my palms.” Thanks for taking the time to write and share this poem today!
Thank you Rachelle! I love food so I try to do it justice when I speak of it, lol.
Whoa, Jessica! This poem is stunning in its specificity and detail. I love every line and hung on every word and phrase of the hands promise. It is truly incredible — the hand of a teacher, but not just any kind of teacher: YOU! Those hands are serving, and I am glad to see the final lines of joy and rejuvenation in praise.
Peace,
Sarah
Yes, thank you Sarah! I run around all week and on Sunday I look forward to resting and reflecting!
Jessica, thank you for sharing today. I think your use of past, present, and future through the movement and impact of your hands. My favorite line is “thrown up in frustration.”
Thank you Stefani. I’m hoping my hands will not do that as much as the school year progresses. I prefer hand claps and high fives!
So many fabulous uses of hands! I’m realizing I need to be more grateful for all that my hands do. I am smiling at “while the chocolate coated my hands due to the rising heat of my palms.” – and craving a donut!
Thank you Maureen! We do so much with our hands! I had several donuts last week. I need to replace them with nature’s candy now!
Spirit Fingers
Jazz Hands
You name it
We’ve done it
Live Long
and
Prosper
Take a hike
Hang loose
OK
Thumbs up
Eff You
Peace
Evil Eye
There are
27 bones
in the
human
hand
and if you
contort them
a certain way
you’ve got
Come here
Go away
I love you
Loser
Rock on
I’m squishing
your head
amazing
really
Give me five
up high
down low
(oh) too slow!
__________________________________________________
Thank you, Denise, for your (and Margaret’s!) mentor poems and your prompt! I love the repeated use of “steep” for your present hands, the fact that “today’s hands take time.” This, I totally agree, is such a wonderful reminder for what we need in this hectic, frenetic world of ours.
What an all-encompassing view of your hands, Scott. I really enjoyed your clever approach!
What fun, Scott. I love the fact of the 27 bones in the human hand. It’s making me appreciate all the more what they can do, and in your poem, all they can SAY! I love this. Thanks for writing it.
I was noticing myself using these signs as I read the poem! You made me see hands in a new way and I love the light heated way you ended it
Scott, as always, your poems give me a smile at some point. I want this poem to be connected to a science unit! Thank you for sharing.
So many playful hands, here! Love that you went from “Thumbs up” to “Eff you” – and closed with “(oh) too slow!” So funny!
Amazing, what those 27 bones can do. That fact anchored the poem for me! Excellent!
The thing is, all the uniquely crafted Scottness comes out in this one poem – I can visually see your hands performing all of these gestures.
Denise,
Thank you for your prompt and your beautiful sample poems. I love the peacefulness conveyed in your words about retirement and especially these words, “Hold a cup of tea and genuinely look at the leaves as they steep.”
My Mother’s Hands
I
remember
welcoming hands
waving “Come into my
home. Come into my heart.”
Hands like exclamations points, animation to
spoken words. I remember hands of devotion, mixing flour,
beating batter, kneading dough, feeding hungry bellies and
nourishing hungry souls. They were sun-kissed hands, cultivating,
digging, planting, plucking. Nimble fingers creating, pinning, stitching, snipping.
I
remember
gentle hands nursing
sickness and wounds,
applying Vicks to ease congestion
& aloe to soothe sunburnt skin. Her hands
were strength and beauty, nails painted pearly pink
& and they were perfection combing out my gnarled hair,
braiding it, twisting into a tight bun. I remember that perfection sometimes hurts.
I
remember
when death approached,
hands betrayed her. Grip loosened
by disease, she could no longer hug, hold,
squeeze. In the end we rubbed lotion into her cracked
skin, held tightly to her slack hands, remembered strength once
held, remembered her resiliency in pain, remembered her hands were devotion & love.
Tammi, this is a beautiful tribute to your mother and your relationship with her through the years. The movement through your stanzas is so touching. Thank you for this poem.
Tammi, I love the shape of your poem, and how it shows the continuation of your relationship with her–that at the end she was still your mom and her hands were still hers. “Hands like exclamation points” and “feeding hungry bellies and / nourishing hungry souls” really allow us to get to know her.
The devotion and love you remember are really conveyed in your poem. Thank you for sharing about this sweet woman.
Tammi,
All the details in your poem honor your mom through noticing the many things she did for others through her hands, with her touch. I just finished “I’m Glad My Mother Died.” Your mother’s hands are such a contrast to the hands of Jeannette McCurdy’s mother’s hands. When I chose the book I expected an ironic, humors play on the title. That’s not what I got. The title is literal. All children need the kind of mom w/ hands like your mom’s. What a lovely portrait you’ve given us of her.
Tam is-your love for your mother shines through. And I love the line, “I remember that sometimes perfection hurts”. A bit of reality…
Remainder
Not every poet knows what she shall compose in the end,
watching phrases float from memory, or mourning this poem lost in digital space,
when she’s held by smudged pages of ancient notebooks there at the end,
or what she shall hope for once another syllable in tongue or touch is still,
when the time has passed to caress the home of F and J, reach pinky to ENTER,
when holding a pen is too much effort to press, the calloused rest too tender a touch,
not every poet knows what she’ll discover in the white space waiting maybe
a remainder after the past has been poem-ed enough, and the hands
carry as witness summer tankas, golden shovels, women wonders —all small
fictions, containers of life, of ego and homage, of ways of looking and mapping our voices.
Not every poet knows what is waiting for her, or what she shall compose
of a life lived in verse, but I hope she can muster an ode to her hands.
I loved this poem so much! F and J; pinky to Enter—
I also think this might apply to last notes played on the piano—the hands will remember.💕
Sarah,
What a poem. Your thoughts are so poignant and thought-provoking. “Not every poet knows what she shall compose in the end…but I hope she can muster an ode to her hands.” Yes, indeed.
How beautiful it was to click on all the links and remember or see for the first time these remnants of your hands at work.
Sarah,
You’ve truly captured the essence of the process of writing and how a poem evolves. These word “in the white space waiting” build anticipation and “the hands carry as witness” is just beautiful. This whole poem feels like an gentle exhalation. Love it!
“Not every poet knows…” That’s what I love about poetry. It’s a creation that is pure and authentic. It can’t be faked!
My favorite lines remind me of a revelation from a wise generation:
“Not every poet knows what is waiting for her, or what she shall compose
of a life lived in verse, but I hope she can muster an ode to her hands.” Thank you for sharing Sarah!
“and the hands/
carry as witness”
The way that these words straddle two stanzas is especially beautiful, I think.
Hi Denise! What a treat for us today as we begin the August Open Write together. I love all the mentor poems. Your poem gives me warm fuzzies about what my hands might do in a few years once I retire. Thank you! 💙
I am preparing for our first Los Angeles hurricane warning so I will not be responding to others until I return from shopping for supplies and finishing chores. Hopefully, Hurricane Hilary will be gentle on us because folks in L.A. don’t even know how to behave in regular rain.
Here’s my contribution today. I felt inspired to write about my son and daughter.
In Hands We Trust
My hands held his
Shortly after his first breath
He gripped my pinky
His trust in me
Sparkled in a chubby dimpled grin
My hands held hers
Minutes after her first breath
She squeezed my other pinky
Her trust in me
Poured from tender loving eyes
Their hands, almost identical
Long fingers
Perfect nail beds
Hold each other’s in prayer
For lasting trust and friendship between siblings
©Stacey L. Joy, August 19, 2023
Oh, dear Stacey. I love this so much. “long fingers / perfect nail beds” Observations by a mother in love. So sweet. I love imagining two children holding each of your pinkies, with you in the middle.
Here’s to “lasting trust and friendship between siblings” That’s my prayer for my two daughters.
Such precious moments…forever in a mother’s memory no matter what. This poem brings me joy.
Perfect love.
Stacey,
I love the details you include “Long fingers/Perfect nail beds/Hold each other’s in prayer
For lasting trust and friendship between siblings.” A beautiful ode to your children.
Stacey Joy! This is beautiful! I hope my children will one day
“Hold each other’s in prayer
For lasting trust and friendship between siblings”. It’s amazing how powerful our hands are, and when they are joined together, what a powerful feeling it is. Thank you for sharing!
Stacey, what a beautiful poem full of beautiful images of lives connecting through hands. So many of us are capturing our children today and I just love how you brought yours to us with a trust that we would hold them as carefully as you held them. And that chubby dimpled grin – so sweet!
Stacey,
I love the way you weave words to take us from holding your babies’ hands to them holding one another’s hands. I’m seeing the cross crossing of arms holding this tight-knit family in love. Beautiful. My heart is w/ you and all in and around LA as you face the hurricane. Stay safe.
Denise, Thank you for hosting, sharing your story, and sharing a variety of mentor poems.
these hands are
waving
goodbye to
summer
the season with a
soul
where it warms us with
rejuvenated sense of being
who brings
growth
a reminder of beauty through
petals
yields of food
to replenish our tired
minds
fingernails full of soil as
a meditative practice
grass growing
shearing
bringing scents of death
rebirth
splashes of salt, chlorine, or
fresh muck
as these fingers flitter their
“so longs”
it is a reminder of
appreciation
of what was given and
what will come
Stefani,
“the season with a/ soul/where it warms us with” is a lovely few lines. The preposition “with” lingers that at the end to welcome all the ways summer warms and the many needs we, especially teachers but certainly humans, need a season with a soul. You have me thinking about seasons as weather but also seasons of life here.
Thank you,
Sarah
The season with a soul really spoke to me. Your natural images as metaphors for growth are just lovely. The fingers flittering made me smile. I find your ending so hopeful. Love this!
Oh, Stefani, what a sweet ode to summer, “the season with a soul.” How beautiful, and your list of some of the glorious things summer brings is delightful. I love “fingernails full of soil”, and then with the added “as a meditative practice” it’s even better. I’m feeling the “splashes of salt, chlorine, or fresh muck” Here’s to being appreciative of this gift as you are in this beautiful poem.
Stefani,
Summer always flies by so quickly but I love the positive spin you place on the end of summer and wave goodbye. Your last lines are spot on “it is a reminder of/ appreciation/ of what was given and/ what will come.”
Stefani, what a beautiful new perspective I have now because of your poem. I love the lack of punctuation, but it was difficult of where I wanted to stop, but I resonated with these lines:
“these hands are
waving
goodbye to
summer
the season with a
soul
where it warms us with
rejuvenated sense of being
who brings
growth”.
As a teacher, we always hear about the “summer slide” and the lack of growth some students experience after returning from a long break. But this gives me hope, for summer. Summer is a reflection of fun and games, but also when some expect children to mature between grades. So, let the growth begin as fall approaches. Thank you for sharing!
The season with a soul..wow.
Stefani, your images of various so longs that educators experience at summer’s end make me sad and glad. Sad that the fun of summer is over and glad that we still long for time again with students.
Denise, I love your idea to compare the past and present using your hands. I could see each image so vividly. Thanks for the inspiration today!
Hands
The second-hand jerks around time’s face.
Nothing can impede its progress.
The relentless
tick
tock
tick
tock
Echoes from his throat,
A constant goading,
To act and cease idleness.
For that is the key to the Devil’s workshop,
Warn the elders,
With rough, calloused hands,
As they wring the pain away,
And wag a stern admonition,
A remonstrance,
To seize the day,
Grasp the brass ring,
Strike while the iron is hot!
Wow, Shaun,what a great take on the theme today. “The second-hand jerks…” Yes, indeed. It does and you have captured that speeding of time in this gem. “tick / tock / Echoes from his throat, / A constant goading” I feel I’ve received the “stern admonition” from the elders. Well done.
Shaun,
I experienced comfort in the lines of tick and tock with that familiar rhythm and some music lullying me in between relentless images of time before the contrast of “Echoes from his throat” and “Devil’s workshop.” I have had odd feelings about time lately wondering what brass ring is out there for me.
Thanks for this,
Sarah
Such vivid images!
Shaun,
I love your use of the clock hands as a metaphor for the fleetness of time. It is a great reminder to live in the moment and make each day count.
Denise,
I love that you’re writing poems about hands and love the mentor poem. Your beautiful hands are active and busy shaping your beautiful grandson. I love the contrasting structure your poem uses.
Hand Poem
Before I hold a poem in my heart,
before my eyes hand a poem to my mind,
before I gaze upon a poem for the first peek at its words,
my haiku-sized matacarpalia
cradle the verse like a newborn baby birthed, &
my phalanges swaddle the poem’s body—-
I nestle the poem & touch its tiny-fingered phonemes.
Reading, I cling to the poem in my hand &
breathe its essence into mine so that
I might hand the poem into a
friend’s outstretched palms.
—Glenda Funk
August 18, 2023
Wow, Glenda, you are the master at research to find all the perfect word play choices. So much magic here: “haiku-sized matacarpalia” and “phalanges swaddle” and “tiny-fingered phonemes.”
I so love the title and your marrying of aspects of hands with aspects of poetry reading and sharing. This is gorgeous and one that can be read again and again.
Dear Glenda,
The “haiku-sized matacarpalia” is a innovative phrase there that threads “phalanges swaddle” and “tiny-fingered phonemes” so cleverly and tenderly. I just love the final lines of “hand the poem” and the image of friends welcoming these poem bodies into “outstretched palms”.
Thank you,
Sarah
I love the structure—before and before.
I appreciate the poems you’ve handed me over the years.
Glenda, your poem breathes like a beautiful newborn. I love the imagery and language. The closing action is especially moving. I can feel the precious presence a poem can embody in your line “I cling to the poem”. Gorgeous and compelling poem! Loved it!
Ooooh, Glenda, the birth of a poem here is a sacred experience, and I’m so glad you shared the moment with us! There is something about swaddling that gives the feeling of safety, security, warmth and acceptance – – and love. You are the master of crafting words to draw wonderful images.
Glenda,
I love the way your beautiful images of holding a poem make the poem come alive. I especially love your last lines, “I might hand the poem into a friend’s outstretched palms.”
Glenda, this is sheer genius! I’m in awe. 💚
Glenda— your last stanza is so beautiful:
Reading, I cling to the poem in my hand &
breathe its essence into mine so that
I might hand the poem into a
friend’s outstretched palms.
isn’t that what we do here every month?
In Good Hands
By Mo Daley 8/19/23
They were in good hands for many, many years.
These hands loved them, and nurtured them
through the most turbulent of years.
These hands held them, pushed them
both firmly and gently (how is that even possible?).
These hands comforted and encouraged them
through the euphoric days and the abysmal days.
These hands worked nonstop—
until the day they stopped.
And now they busy themselves looking for other loves.
Mo,
No need to say who those hands were busy with. Mom hands do the work and continue their transformative power long after tiny hands grow and go their own way. Lovely poem.
Oh, Mo, so much to love here. First of all, I’m intrigued by the pronouns–they, them and these–they conjure up so many possibilities and questions about what is left unsaid. The title adds love and comfort to the poem.
“pushed them / both firmly and gently (how is that even possible?)” is perfect.
“euphoric” and “abysmal” are such great words to describe days. We have had both kinds, haven’t we?
Lovely use of hands in your poem.
Mo,
The pronoun offers such space for the reader to consider “them” as children or as students or as maybe more abstract beings (maybe bees). I want to think of all the ways your poem works. I also think about the speaker and the work the speaker has done — the many ways we can think of work and service — and what it means to stop. Is there relief, grief, maybe both.
Lots to ponder here. Thank you,
Sarah
Mo,
Hi! I love this poem from start to finish! The ending opens the imagination and makes me wonder what/who you’ll find next to love! Thank you, Mo, for this treasure.
Thank you for hosting, Denise. I love your poem and photograph. I’m moved by the powerful touch a hand can have on another’s life.
Remembering
here, hold my hand, feel
warmth, powerful hope—our lives—
engraved—forever
Barb Edler
19 August 2023
Barb, so beautiful. I love that you added a title to your haiku. “Remembering” together with someone else can be so warm and powerful, giving hope. You have captured so much here in so few carefully chosen words. I so love “feel warmth, powerful hope” Breathtaking.
Barb,
”our lives engraved forever” is a gorgeous line w/ the permanence of a fingerprint. You are a master of concision, my friend.
Barb, I love the power and strength of a Haiku and the concentrated simplicity of each carefully crafted word. The I picture a sunset walk on a beach! This is a lovely image.
Thank you for this prompt. My poem is very narrative, but I’ve been thinking lately of the last time I saw my grandma alive and I wanted to write some of my best memories in this way. I think I’ll spend more time on this over the next few weeks.
Grandma’s hands
In the lobby of the retirement home, I watched her sleep like I used to watch my babies. Purple veins and brown spots covered the thin skin of her hands, joints swollen with arthritis.
I remember those hands, different then, clutching a wheel of her little white sports car, racing down our canyon road. An old man, about her age, out for his daily walk gave her a glare and shook his head.
Those hands, grasping a cage with a tarantula that my brothers had caught and she had found on the stairs. She was just as terrified of the huge hairy spider as I was, but she removed it from the house for me.
Her hands resting on a blanket that covered the both of us, as we watched a marathon of Gone with the Wind mini-series until early morning hours.
I remember her hands pulling slot machines with my French cousins and me in Vegas late into the night.
Her hands turning the Lazy-Susan in her kitchen to pass me the marshmallow-covered yams at Thanksgiving. Uncle Andy and his boyfriend were there that year and Aunt Kay and Uncle Doug. I watched them play Yahtzee and laughed at their sibling bickering. The couch we sat on was long enough to fit ten people and looked straight out of the Brady Bunch set.
Visits at the retirement home were never the same as when Grandma lived in her home—the end always came too quickly.
The automatic door to the home opened and Grandma and I slipped out into the sun, my hand on top of hers as she clutched the walker. After a hug and goodbye, I turned to see her raise her wrinkled hand and wave it to me one last time.
Emily, your poem is the perfect narrative to share your precious memory. Your images are striking and precise. I love how these actions show what your grandmother was like, and your final few words add such a moving close to your compelling piece. Hugs!
Emily, wow. This is so precious. I love how Barb described the images as “striking and precise”–so true. That couch from the Brady Bunch set made me smile, and I can see everyone on it.
Your Grandma sounds like a firecracker, full of fun and frivolity. I think focusing on her hands was effective here. From “purple veins and brown spots covered the thin skin” at the beginning to “Her wrinkled hand” waving at the end.
Emily, I was pulled right in by your narration and your evocative imagery. What a lovely tribute to your grandma!
Oh, Emily. Your series of memories let’s us know who your grandmother was, and we can love her, too…
Emily, your poems reminds of watching my mother transition to the afterlife in August several years ago. Reminders of before…in childhood, after as an adult and then after after. My faith helps me deal when I read poems like yours that remind me that after all, I do have fond memories and am bound to see her again.
Thanks.
These Hands
Daytime Hands…
Push and pull heavy weights and “getting-heavier” bodyweight
Meal prep for lunch and prepare caffeinated drinks for others’ wellbeing
Pack and lug multiple bags (to and fro)
Clap in celebration and to get their attention
Type lesson plans, write notes, and send emails
(This is in no way an exhaustive list!)
Evening Hands want to…
Fix a nutrition meal upon arriving home
Journal, Notebook, Poem, Slice
Hold a book for shear pleasure
Be present with loved ones
(But, Evening Hands are usually exhausted from Daytime Hands’ productivity!)
I thank the Lord and lift These Hands in praise for Weekend Hands!
Donnetta, your poem shows how much a teacher does for her students and I can totally understand the desire in the evening to do more when the day has been exhausting. Your praise at the end is particularly wise and moving. Beautiful poem!
Donnetta, bingo. You have captured the truth of our day and evening dilemmas. I love your “in no way…exhaustive list” in the first stanza. We know it would be pages and pages, and then I love the second stanza of what your evening hands want to do but don’t likely have the energy for. That last line was a sweet surprise. Thanks for sharing your poem today.
Donnetta,
I loved the clever juxtaposition here — and could relate, especially to the exhaustion!
Loved the prayerful ending —
The organisation of your poem makes it special. The rest after the day’s exhaustion is clear. Thanks for adding the hands for praising God, that completes the poem so well.
Your poem is a testament to all the good you do with your beautiful, strong hands guided by your beautiful, strong, faithful heart.
Donnetta,
So much to love! This resonated with me because I feel so good holding a book, not necessarily to read it. Have a fantastic school year and take care of those hands!
Amputation
My mother’s hands were hands
that had made music on pianos and organs
great and small;
hands that had won competitions
performed with soloists and choirs;
hands that had made people cry
at weddings and funerals.
Her hands were small and dainty,
her manicured nails always filed.
Caring for her hands was as much a ritual
as practicing.
She used her hands to say “I love you”
with Bach, Mendelssohn, Franck and hymns.
Especially hymns.
Then one day, after the Christmas program,
she lay in a hospital bed
gazing at her left hand,
cradling it with her right.
What were her thoughts?
Her face showed no perceptible emotion.
Just her gray-blue eyes staring at her hand.
I knew she was saying goodbye
To her sorely infected third finger.
Sadness at the proximal interphalangeal joint.
Marilyn, I am deeply moved by your poem. You show how your mother shared her musical gifts so well through her hands. The loss of her third finger is such a gut-punch at the end. I was especially moved by your question near the end, “What were her thoughts?”. Such a provocative line when the reader can easily understand the tremendous loss she is facing. Thanks for sharing such an incredible, compelling poem!
Marilyn, your title captured me from the beginning. It was so helpful to warn your readers, and it affected the way I read the first two stanzas, with some sadness. I love the idea of her saying, “I love you” with her music. You wrote such a powerful and poignant poem.
I hope you are able to write the afterword poem about what your mother did in music after the amputation.
Your use of the medical “proximal interphalangeal joint” reminded me of a powerful scene I read yesterday in the novel The Covenant of Water.
Marilyn, your poem was so moving and just heartbreaking. So sorry for you mom’s loss. The structure of this was so effective in furthering the development of her story, and I really loved the haunting rhetorical question in the last stanza — perfectly placed and poignant. <3
Marilyn, this is so touching. As I read about your gifted mother’s hand I could actually see them,”Her hands were small and dainty, her manicured nails always filed.” These images are special. ‘Cradling’ her hands at the end is also very symbolic. Thanks for sharing this special poem.
Marilyn, the sadness at the end is palpable. Your mother’s gift of music through the years was her heart – and the gray blue eyes saying goodbye to the finger was a goodbye to the music on the level she was accustomed to making. The memories live on in the hearts of those whose occasions were sweetened by her hands.
Oh, my goodness. What a story. What a loss. I have chills…
Marilyn,
The technical language offers a scientific detachment that contrasts w/ the emotion of music and pain of losing a finger. I’ve always admired musicians and can only imagine the grief your mom has to have felt. Powerful poem.
These hands have opened doors
Poured coffee
Made the bed
Started the laundry
Turned the knob for warm water to flow
Soaped and shampooed and shaved and rinsed
These hands have dressed and adorned
Mixed granola into yogurt lemony sweet
Peeled a peach and uncupped a muffin
These hands clasped the wheel wending the way to work
These hands have greeted
Posted lesson plans
Opened books
Gestured to add emphasis
Responded to emails
Rescued copies from the printer
Replaced paper (a lost art)
Responded to calls from the office
Wiped down desks and boards
Sprayed away the coughs left behind
Turned up the air and off the lights
These hands have resumed the homeward journey
To smell the love of home in husband’s cooking
Washed up to eat in front of Jeopardy
Loaded dishes, fed dogs and stroked their smooth coats and warded them away from the grading to be done
Tapped the remote to view British crime dramas
And called it quits
These hands plopped pills,
Brushed teeth, applied eye drops,
Put the dogs to bed
Pulled down the sheets
And held a book with precious words
Finally, they rest and yield to sleep, closing away the world
Katrina, reading this was like eating something sweet. I probably feel that way because of all of the lovely food imagery at the beginning, lol (that lemony yogurt with granola!). Loved the way that you led most lines with verbs and the way that this used listing as a rhetorical strategy while still retaining the poetic feel. Satisfying ending: Beautiful!
Katrina, I was so engaged whilst reading your poem. You draw your reader through your day so expertly, sharing what you do. Your hands don’t stop all day, even whilst resting, “Pulled down the sheets
And held a book with precious words”. Thank you, I enjoyed it.
Katrina, your poem is so full of action. I love the flow here, the aside about the paper tray, and how you close the poem with the world closing away. You’ve captured the sheer beauty and power of hands so effectively in this poem.
Katrina, what a day full you have documented here. Some of my favorites are the all those R words in the first stanza: Responded, rescued, replaced and then responded again. Also, “to smell the love of home in husband’s cooking” What could be better after a long day at school then to arrive with food cooked in love for you? I also smiled at “Sprayed away the coughs left behind”
The last line is a welcome relief and helped me sigh and smile.
Katrina, I love the journey through the day from pouring coffee to pulling back sheets and holding precious words of a book. Uncupping a muffin may be my favorite part – – the soft paper peeling back and the smell of the breakfast bread is just appealing to all the senses! I love that you put the dogs to bed. I also love that your husband cooks and you smell the love language in his work.
Denise thanks for the prompt. It brought memories I’m sharing in my poem.
Mama’s Hands
Inscribed with veins
Cutting fruits
Chopping vegetables
Stirring stews
In the sweltering kitchen
Produced for our needs
Drawing patterns
Pinning samples
Tucking skirts and blouses
In the busy workroom
Encouraged us daily
Patting me
Hugging us
Soothing them
When achievements or woes were shared
Mama’s hands were overworked
From waking till sleeping
Those knuckles engaged
Not for self
But for us all!
Juliette, loved this beautiful tribute! The active verbs at the beginning of the lines underscore the image of the powerful mom that you describe here and drive this poem: lucky you to have such a force in your life!
Your words made her hands visible and so beautiful! Thank you, Juliette!
Juliette, this is a beautiful tribute to your Mama’s hands and to all she did for ya’ll. As Mamas ourselves, we know that what we do for others is also for us, though not directly. I love how each stanza starts with a description and then elaborated on what it looks likes/means. Thank you for sharing your Mama with us.
Juliette, What a wonderful celebration of your “Mama’s Hands” I love all the actions you share to show how loving and dedicated she was to her family. Beautiful!
Oh Juliette, what a glimpse we get into your selfless Mama. You have captured so much with the precise verbs you chose. I love “stirring stews” and the busyness in the sewing room. Wow. Not only the cooking and sewing, but she was there for you emotionally too, to listen “when achievements or woes were shared” Beautiful!
I found myself really appreciating the form you chose here with the past tense verb in the first line, but then switching to the -ing form, as if she is still there with you, (e.g. hugging and soothing) Peaceful and lovely poem that reminded me of my sweet mom too.
Denise, thank you so much for this lovely prompt! I loved (and envied!) your pre- and post-retirement poem! (Four more years!). Clever idea for a structure. Beautiful imagery and quite the juxtaposition of harried and calm — so accurately captures what the school year feels like (sigh). Kudos to Margaret, too, for her poem full of soft and sweet euphony — made my heart sing.
Yesterday was bittersweet. It was my daughter’s 17th birthday, but our beloved neighbor unexpectedly passed away — talk about strange juxtaposition of feelings. Your prompt gave me occasion to reflect on it. I started with a terzanelle, but didn’t quite keep it up, but I was still happy with the result. Thanks for this. 🙂
Elegy for Marty
The thing that I remember are his hands:
Paws that seemed like they enveloped yours
The years upon his back – his stoop, his stance –
That morning, clouds of gray skimmed by like hours:
The world enclosed by heaven’s breezy dome
And life was small when viewed through leafy bowers.
Steps spry and full of life bent southward home
I contemplated picking bushes bare –
But saved for avian’s late summer gorge and roam.
Hands gripped leash, and stayed ‘neath warblers’ glare
Shadows at my feet and autumn’s chill
Bit at the heels of August, unaware.
My daughter’s birthday, smooth hands, life to fill.
Unnoticed, hands lose grip and ope to death
Unmanned tractor sighs down open hill.
As chapter starts as chapter loses breath:
The thing that I remember are his hands
Not dignity ignored by cruel death –
The years upon his back – his stoop, his stance.
So many beautiful images in your poem, Wendy. Something caught in my heart with the phrase, “Unmanned tractor sighs down open hill.” That’s an image I won’t soon forget. Bless you at this time of loss.
Wendy, wow, you have tied these two juxtaposed events into a beautiful elegy and memories of Marty that will live on now that you took time to pen this poignant grace. The form is rich and gives one time to linger through your poem and enjoy each turn of phrase. Like Marilyn, this image caught me too:
“sighs” is a perfect word in that line.
The repetition of lines 1 and 3 at the close of the poem is very effective.
I’m sorry for your loss of Marty, and for all those who loved him.
Wendy, the repetition in your poem adds such a beautiful rhythm and music to celebrate Marty’s life. I hope you’re able to share this with his family. Love the imagery throughout, especially “through leafy bowers” and “summer gorge and roam”. Powerful poem!
Wendy, I love that you wrote an elegy today! It has been awhile since I’ve read one, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever written one. I love this tribute to Marty. These lines grabbed me:
Shadows at my feet and autumn’s chill
Bit at the heels of August, unaware.
The imagery of the last stanza truly draws a picture – the hands, and the age and years. The metaphor of the tractor unmanned going down the open hill foreshadows the ending. Beautiful and touching!
This is a loving poem in honor of Marty and I’m sure he’s sending extra heavenly comfort your way.
My condolences, Wendy.
Denise,
What a great prompt with so many options. Your poem about what your hands did yesterday then today . . . wonderful. And it was my inspiration.
Parentheses
Yesterday’s hands
cradled him
bathed him
changed his diapers
gently cocooned him and
placed him in his crib
held him as often as I can.
Today’s hands
carry boxes into his house
unpack things and find homes for them
assemble newly purchased items
iron his shirts
hang his slacks so they are creased just right
clean the kitchen of remnants of the last tenants
Dependent then independent
Needs then wants
My hands touch things
and not often him.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 August 2023
Oh! Susan, that last line…
And loved this so much:
“Dependent then independent
Needs then wants”
This was sad and lovely — and relatable as I’m taking my oldest back to college next week. <3
Susan, wow, that ending stanza really ties the two previous ones together. My first reading through it, I didn’t notice that yesterday’s hands were all about touching him. Then the second touching his things. It’s so obvious, but I didn’t notice until I read that last stanza. It’s all about love, though, isn’t it? Showing our love in whatever way is needed in that season. Beautiful poignant poem, Susan. Thank you for sharing it!
Susan, I love how you’ve captured the change that occurs between a mother and her son. Your end is so powerful. I can completely relate. Sons grow up too soon.
Wonderful perspective in this poem…I’m at the moving boxes stage. Where did the time go?!
Susan, these are the heartfelt (and heartbreaking) words of a mother as she sends someone she loves so much off. I can feel every word of your poem. And those last two lines are just powerful.
Denise, what a lovely prompt. Thank you.
Today’s poem
are hands polishing floors
Charging new laptops
And taping names on desks
Today’s hands
Line up new folders
and yellow pencils.
These hands are
Dark from time in the sun,
steady with muscle memory
of how to begin
a new year
again and again.
Linda, knowing how to begin, to charge laptops, order folders and pencils, and tape names – what a lovely testament to the years of experience of a seasoned, suntanned teacher. I can smell all the newness of the school year and sense the excitement of the coming days!
Linda, I loved this so much:
“Today’s poem
are hands polishing floors”
The unexpected grammatical twist was awesome — and the metaphor it seems to create for teaching as poetry is beautiful. Loved this:
“These hands are
Dark from time in the sun,
steady with muscle memory
of how to begin
a new year
again and again.”
So true!
Your poem captures the joy of beginning a new year. “Taping names on desks” is something only an experienced teacher would know about. I love it!
YES! I love this so much. I’ve also spent this week preparing my room for another year. It was an interesting exercise in deciding what I really needed and what no longer serves me. I love the phrase, “steady with muscle memory.” It hints to the mind still living a bit in summer.
Linda, Oh how I can relate. I pray you have a PHENOMENAL school year. May God bless your hands as the do all-the-things for students and school community.
Linda, this beautiful poem makes me feel hopeful. Those sweet times of lining up “new folders and yellow pencils” are always a time of hope for a new school year. Here’s to this one being the best! And those hands “steady with muscle memory” helped you to continue to keep a little summer in your heart.
By the way, your line about being “dark from time in the sun” brought me back to school when I first started teaching in the Midwest. I wasn’t used to a climate of four seasons, and the change that came over children during the school year. (Many of them were from Dutch heritage, so maybe that was it). They came to school in the fall with brown skin and blond hair, and by the end of the school year, they left with brown hair and white skin, ready again for a summer at the pool.
Linda, what a magnificent poem to begin a new school year. The actions make it clear that this is a teacher’s life and the repetition at the end shows the dedication. Wishing you a very successful and enjoyable school year! I hope you can share your poem with your colleagues.
Linda,
This is a wonderful poem, a reminder of the many tasks a teacher’s hand perform year after year. Wishing you a fantastic new school year.
How beautiful. Linda, your poem shares the kind of break you’ve had and the beginning of the school year you are preparing for. Hands can help us share a lot about our lives..
Linda,
Yes! We started school this past Monday and all of your “hand-work” hits the nail on the head. I hope you have a successful and enjoyable school year!
I hope you have a successful and enjoyable school year!
Linda, the muscle memory of repetitive beginnings sitting next to the hands darkened from the sun perfectly captures where we are as teachers heading back into buildings, taping names, lining up folders… There’s something about that “again and again” that feels natural and expected but also a little tiring (we’ve done it so many times), despite the energy felt as we are ready to go. So many emotions captured here!
Denise, thank you for a stirring prompt that makes us think about a lifetime of hands and a career of hands – all the things we hold dear and all the things we carry. Your poem and Margaret’s spark the thinking of where we are on the lifeline of emotions and experiences. Thank you for inspiring us and investing in us as writers.
Welcoming Magnolia Mae
yesterday, these hands
gripped handlebars, holding on
for the ride with friends
yesterday, these hands
swaddled babies, bandaged knees
as children grew up
yesterday, these hands
stitched a quilt for a grandchild
I will meet today
for today, these hands
will build Legos and fairy
gardens first, and then…..
today, these hands will
swaddle a new granddaughter
in rosettes and sage
This is the poem I was wishing to write. You captured so many moments. Thank you. The babies and bandages and legos…so many things these hands do.
Oh, Kim this was was gentle and joyous and made me feel so happy for you! Loved the imagery in this. Best wishes and prayers that everything goes beautifully today. <3
Kim, your poem reminds me of how fast time flies. I love the notion of swaddling “a new granddaughter in rosettes and sage.”
Congratulations! I love the anticipation you built in your poem. Arriving at the new arrival. So dear.
Kim, I love the repetition of hands in those first lines. So many beautiful haiku. (Will we (hopefully) someday get to read a haiku anthology by you?) “in rosettes and sage” oh, me or my! That is so gorgeous, and beautiful synecdoche of that sweet quilt you are swaddling her in. So much love and beauty here.
Ahhh, Kim, what a beautiful poem. I love the sensory appeal to all the things your hands are doing in this poem. Your ending is such a wonderful way to close. I can just smell the rosettes and sage and feel the gentle weight of a newborn. Congratulations! Enjoy!
Kim,
I swear I did not read your poem before writing my own! Of course I’m here for the swaddling baby and the bike ride. What can our hands not do? The truly are miraculous. Have fun w/ the littles! Love your poem
Ohhhh so gorgeous!
And forgive my late expression of gratitude for the post card! You’re such a gem of a human!
💜
Kim, what an incredibly beautiful poem to share with your new granddaughter and with us. The individual haikus take us with you as you travel through time. The play from one age to the next as you move from your childhood to the childhood of your own children and finally to grandchildren within the concept of hands reminds me of things being “handed down from one generation to the next.” And the way rosettes and sage sit with one another in that last line is so wonderfully soft and lyrical.
Denise, the rush of activity in the first half of your poem sitting against the steeping activity in the latter half connects with me as I sit between the start up of the school year and the languidness of summer. I’m not quite ready to give up the calm, and most especially the time to think and let ideas resonate and percolate. Thank you for this invitation to consider hands today.
I went to take your hand today
but found it wasn’t there
words were meant to follow
but they dissipated
in the air
much like
ash
Jennifer, your poem makes me think of a friend who lost her husband on Monday. Yesterday, she begged everyone to hold dear the people we love today, because life holds no guarantees. Those words dissipating into the air like ash also make me think of the times in life where harsh words were spoken and then it takes a while to mend things. Above all, the absence of the hands we love is so strong here that it speaks of the forgiveness I need to offer others and the loving I need to do today. Beautiful words, as always.
Oh. sad…but beauituful sad. I like how the poem dwindles from “your hand” to “ash.”
Jennifer, this was so elegant and evocative. Loved this.
Wow! I just finished SING, UNBURIED, SING. Your words, “I went to take your hand today but found it wasn’t there” are so poignant. Your poem expresses the loss I felt in the words of the book.
So much longing in this poem. “Words were meant to follow…” I loved the visual shape of your poem, too.
Jennifer, I’m glad you are still sitting between the languidness of summer and the start up of school, which seems to come too quickly for so many schools. Enjoy your last days.
Your poem “I went to take your hand today” could tell so many stories. The grasping of a hand, followed by words, and the words dissipating when the other isn’t there. The sadness that follows and ash is a perfect word for that last line. The internal rhyming of there and air makes the first five lines seem lighter; then the last two add a somber stop to the poem. Beautiful.
Jennifer, I love the format of your poem. It starts so hopeful and ends in a sad reality. May God hold you in his loving arms and give peace to your heart. May He fill your mind and heart with all the loving memories of the one whose hand is no longer there.
Oh, Jennifer, I feel the loss you share here. The desire to hold the hand and the movement to dissipating ash, the words you wanted to speak. Riveting piece!
Jennifer,
The word that comes to mind as I read your poem is “reaching.” For me it’s the lost words that precede the touch flight as I draw away. So much to ponder here in this deeply moving verse.
Hi Jennifer,
The way your poem dwindles down to one word is just as riveting as the message. My mind pictures so many different scenarios: in the bed, at a rest home, across the dinner table…
Hugs 💛