Hands (ver. 5)

[brynmawr1]

Hands

I.

Mechanical marvels
stiff tentacles
full of touch 
with nothing in them           holding nothing
but the future.

II.

For months now
in idle moments
I’ve studied them,
reading the creases
on empty palms and fingers,      I think fingers needs its own modifier on a separate line or cut fingers part
the scars on the backs
of my knuckles
looking for an answer.    asking my questions

I don’t know what
the question is.

III.

Three years ago
working on a lawnmower                    The beginning of this stanza looses some of the power you've developed with a little too much catch up pause.  I would get right to the loss.
I amputated the tips of three fingers,
middle, ring and little.
I can press them 
against stone, wood, or flesh
feel them plunge inside,          but I think you don't 'feel' them. you see them and know they do but they don't really feel like yours
phantom fingertips
explaining their absence.

IV.

They are my mind’s actors,
set loose upon realities           I like the 'set loose' as in beyond your control, out side yourself
they can hold back or set free.

Hands ver. 2



I.



Mechanical marvels

stiff tentacles

full of touch 

with nothing in them

but the future.



II.



For months now

in idle moments

I’ve studied them,

reading the creases

on empty palms and fingers,

the scars on the backs

of my knuckles

looking for an answer.



I don’t know what

the question is.



III.



Three years ago

working on a lawnmower

I amputated the tips of three fingers,

middle, ring and little.

I can press them 

against stone, wood, or flesh

feel them plunge inside,

phantom fingertips

explaining their absence.



IV.



They record my history

keep me still

and at the right moment

grasp the attendant joys

of books, tools, and lovers,

trained to trace

the murmur of reality.













Hands







I study my hands



mechanical marvels 



stiff tentacles full of touch



palms with nothing in them



but the future.







I’m asking them something,



just what I don’t know.







I’m only sure they are mine.

Hey TqB,
I like the expanded version.  I've been thinking of starting a separate thread related to whether it is always best to reduce a poem to its heart.  But I digress.  Hands are a powerful metaphor for our lives.  There are stories from my life that are only written in the lines on my hands.  But our hands are more than a record of the past but a means to a future.  We don't ask them. We ask of them, to provide either answers or labor.  I'm digressing again!  Fourth stanza isn't working that well for me but I don't want to muddle around with your vision for the poem.  Only my thoughts so take it or leave it as you prefer.
bryn