Hands
Prior to their mutiny
these hands were legendary.
As a child, notorious for
lighting fires, stealing rhubarb.
They battled clotheslined "bears"
with a nail-tipped stick,
left my mother speechless
seeing four loads of tattered sheets.
Hands that bore the rebuke
of the nuns' ruler formed
little fists to protect the new kid,
found the paradox of waving hello/bye,
the worlds unfurled in books.
But most of all they loved
to throw stones
shatter windows
pick off passing cars.
Chaplenesque home movie:
Island lake, paradise
a finger-shaking lecture
on the rock-strewn shore
the moment my enemy
submarine father dives
he is bombarded, deluged
in a rain of rocks.
The jerky frames of film,
betray my mothers laughter.
I remember the first hand in hand,
my first stiff waltz, the wonders
of nape and knee and all
the soft acres in between;
these hands held my diploma,
my first paycheque, beer.
My staunch allies- one caught
that screaming line drive at short,
the other threw seven strikes
in a row at ten pin.
Same hands missed 6 inch putts
threw putters and cards...
and one sweet day slipped on
a wedding ring-proud hands that day-
(the right a trifle jealous).
Then another hand, so tiny
grabbed my heart through my finger
opened another world of pins
and snaps, insanely complex toys
ignored for empty boxes;
then another tiny hand...
Then the first signs
my hands awkward, clumsy
fumbling with buttons
then the tremors
spilled soup, forgotten laces
until here in my lap they catch
only tears and whispers.
If I could lift them I would
pray to hold again
my wife, my sons,
but they're withering,
dying now.
I put myself
in Your hands.
Bill Harrington
THat's what it's like havng pd, fo me anyway
There are no simple solutions, omly intelligent choices.
({:O})
Bill Harrington
