Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Beautiful Hands

Bruised.

Veins bulge close and blue
underneath thin skin sagging
crepe-like and hairless. These
knarled, knotty fingers reach.

Out.

Wedding rings swirl loose
behind knuckles swollen
with wisdom's work and pain's
unrelenting throb.

Inside.

Eyes try to tell what lips
cannot speak. Hands grip
hard without loosening
when it's past time to go.

Alone.

Names cause confusion -
blank stares - faces turn away.
Familiar songs and hymnody
make eyes bright and hearts hum.

Sing.

Fingers - if lifted from wheelchair
arms and placed on ivory keys
try to play familiar songs
abandoned and free.

Play.









This is a tribute to all our loved ones - care facility residents in captivity. They can't feel the sun on their faces or the wind cut through flimsy coats. Do they miss seeing sunrises and long to raise eyes to moonlight? Are they able to recall a vivid sunset or double rainbow - one that gave them lasting hope or deep peace? 

They don't carry umbrellas, wear hats, put on jackets or tie real shoes. Kind, paid caregivers bathe them, diaper them, clothe them comfortable and feed them. 

I miss holding these hands. 

Clutch.