En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Hands And Fingers

Palms of hands
Tips of fingers
Takers and givers
Touchers and squeezers

Beckoners…pointers
Caressers and holders
Massagers…anointers
Pleasurers and pleasers

Punchers and pokers
Wavers And patters
Signers of letters
Scriveners of prose

Holders…lifters
Sea-side sand sifters
Flails…cradles
Scratchers of nose

Bowls and ladles
Shovels and buckets
Our Hands and fingers…
Are all of those

Withered…chubby
Always within reach
Long, short or grubby
And we have not one, but two

Miraculous, duplicitous
Grasping…solicitous
Sensuous tools
Dangerous weapons too

Players of instrument …Writers of tune….
and lets not forget…
they help keep our arms…
From ending too soon

poem by David Whalen
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)

i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.

hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!

hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....

whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life's Joys

There are givers
And there are takers
A takers joy only last as long as what has been taken
But a givers joy can last a life time

poem by David Kush
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Givers And Takers

There are givers
There are takers
A takers joy lasts
As long as what has been taken
But a givers joy can last a lifetime!

poem by David Kush
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Fingers

In that photo of yours
I saw you –
Your face, your shoulders,
Your hands, and then
Your fingers…

My lips quivered
So did my hands
And I felt like touching you,
With my quivering lips
And unsure hands,
Those very beautiful
Exquisite fingers…

Reading your poems of love
And pondering over your letters…
Sometimes I imagine
You writing to me
With those very same
Slender and artistic
Adept fingers…

Very often I feel
And wonder…
If your fingers
Ever do ache
Writing so long,
So nice,
And so very endless,
Day after day…

And if they do, my Love
I feel like pampering them
With tender, loving care
A kiss here, a kiss there…
Holding them,
Caressing them,
Sucking them slow…

Your fingers in my mouth
Taking turns to go
One by one,
I feel them,
Nibble them,
Suckle them,
Make love to them,
Within the deep recesses
Of my oral crevice…

Till they feel pampered
And satiated
And I feel the same too…
Contented and happy
Making love to you
With your fingers
In my mouth…

A wonderful tryst
Of love and lust,
Warmth and arousal,
And then if you wish…
And if I'm also willing,
We can play this game
All night long…

Where you don’t win
And I don’t lose
We both win over together
And lose ourselves
To each other…

I give free rein to
Your fingers…
To touch, feel
And explore
The inner crevices
And every pore
Of my body…

The mouth has had its turn
Now, do you wish to go
Further down..?
And see how it feels
To caress my breasts,
My derriere and my
Yoni,
With those seeking,
Exploring fingers of yours…

You’ve penned a lot of poetry
And your letters intoxicate me…
How about writing
Some letters of love
And a few lines of love ballads
On the spaces and margins
Of my body…
Dipping your fingers,
And drinking into
The juice of my
Dripping Yoni…

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Givers Takers

life is full of givers
stealers of life takers...

givers give to all races
takers take leave empty spaces...

it is impossible to give to compulsive takers
takers never satisfied with deleting happy faces...

life is full of givers
givers give to all races...

stealers of life takers
takers take leave empty spaces...

poem by Terence George Craddock
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My father said there were two kinds of people in the world: givers and takers. The takers may eat better, but the givers sleep better.

quote by Marlo Thomas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You in your closed bleeding hands

The palm that closes
Cannot hold anything
Just like this narrow mind
Unable to grapple with
What is newly given

I see your fingers are closed
I tried to tickle you so they may open
I tried to tell you something puzzling
You closed your fingers some more

What is it that you are hiding there?
It is causing you so much pain
Your hands bleed, please open them
Is it the nail? Is it a broken glass?

You are not nodding still
Is it something so important?
That even with death you still refuse?
You are not nodding still
You shake your head, you keep mum
And numb to what I am asking

So be it, close your fingers
Hide the lines in your palms
Let your hands bleed some more
We shall wait what happens next

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Frenzied Fingers Run Amuck

When I get you into my arms
I can't control the things that I do.
Fingers grab the hair on your head.
Fingers caress the small of your back.
Fingers travel down your spine
and back up again.
Fingers reach to all corners of your being,
quietly unnoticed at first,
but more frenzied with passing time.

Wild fingers travel your soul
with frenzied action that is hard to stop.
Uncontrollable fingers run wild
until you beg them to stop.
But even then, there's no counting on it.
These fingers like to run wild.
Whenever I place my fingers on you,
frenzied fingers run amuck.

poem by Bob Barci
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Short Peoople

Short People got no reason
Short People got no reason
Short People got no reason
To live
They got little hands
And little eyes
And they walk around
Tellin' great big lies
They got little noses
And tiny little teeth
They wear platform shoes
On their nasty little fett
Well I don't want no Short People
Don't want no Short People
Don't want no Short People
Round here
Short People are just the same
As you and I
(A Fool Such As I)
All men are brothers
Until the day they die
(It's A Wonderful World)
Short People got nobody
Short People got nobody
Short People got nobody
To love
They got little baby legs
And they stand so low
You got to pick 'em up
Just to say hello
They got little cars
That got beep, beep, beep
They got little voices
Goin' peep, peep, peep
They got grubby little fingers
And dirty little minds
They're gonna get you every time
Well, I don't want no Short People
Don't want no Short People
Don't want no Short People
'Round here

song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ad Manus Puellae

I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.

I remember an hand like a _fleur-de-lys_
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?

They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?

I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.

poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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After Watching The Sand Artist

it is within
my power to
change the scenes
to hop from
one chapter of my
life to another

with my fingers
and palms
i chart the course
of my life
i write my own
destiny

i like an ending
where we are finally
talking.

just that.
nothing miraculous.
erase the
kissing scene.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Child Ego

i push you
you pull me
we laugh
we lay on
the grass
we see clouds
our hands hold
fingers to fingers
more than flesh
and bones
we gaze
deep into our
eyes
we are more than
oceans
more than lips
and tips
it is getting dark
and mothers are
calling us home.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Short People

Short people
Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
To live
They got little hands
Little eyes
They walk around
Tellin great big lies
They got little noses
And tiny little teeth
They wear platform shoes
On their nasty little feet
Well, I dont want no short people
Dont want no short people
Dont want no short people
'round here
Short people are just the same
As you and i
(a fool such as I)
All men are brothers
Until the day they die
(its a wonderful world)
Short people got nobody
Short people got nobody
Short people got nobody
To love
They got little baby legs
That stand so low
You got to pick em up
Just to say hello
They got little cars
That go beep, beep, beep
They got little voices
Goin peep, peep, peep
They got grubby little fingers
And dirty little minds
Theyre gonna get you every time
Well, I dont want no short people
Dont want no short people
Dont want no short people
round here

song performed by by Randy Newman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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329

you cannot blame me
if i have not touched your
cheek with my fingers
you were too high for my
reach and my hands are
feeling short of that distance
now that i am alone you
cannot blame me if i
touch myself with my own
hands and rub it like an
Aladdin's lamp when
i even have to stretch
myself and giggle and
then something in me
explodes and for all the
the women whom i have
not kissed i am none of
your goddamn business

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love's Triumph In Isolation

joy faces me
two hands hold my
hand calloused
by sorrow

the past fades
your fingers
entwine with
my fingers

as we walk
to a distance
no word comes
to say to sing

there are trees
and palms and roses
there is a bright day
ahead of us

such a beautiful world
we affirm

love can triumph
in isolation

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pre-Existence

I laid me down upon the shore
And dreamed a little space;
I heard the great waves break and roar;
The sun was on my face.

My idle hands and fingers brown
Played with the pebbles grey;
The waves came up, the waves went down,
Most thundering and gay.

The pebbles, they were smooth and round
And warm upon my hands,
Like little people I had found
Sitting among the sands.

The grains of sands so shining-small
Soft through my fingers ran;
The sun shone down upon it all,
And so my dream began:

How all of this had been before;
How ages far away
I lay on some forgotten shore
As here I lie to-day.

The waves came shining up the sands,
As here to-day they shine;
And in my pre-pelasgian hands
The sand was warm and fine.

I have forgotten whence I came,
Or what my home might be,
Or by what strange and savage name
I called that thundering sea.

I only know the sun shone down
As still it shines to-day,
And in my fingers long and brown
The little pebbles lay.

poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
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United In Pain

my fingers
are not mine anymore
they are running
out of control
i do not wish
to write some more
to infuriate you
but my hands are
rebels
coming out from
my arms
into their
fingers
writing these
lines

i am detached
severed
from the rest of my
parts
i have no more control
about
destiny in the making

birds of blue
feathers
are coming out
from my mouth

and they are not
coming back

my fingers are
automatons
writing now on
their own

i am not
responsible for your
anger
i am a useless man
and my fingers
are not mine anymore

my C5 chokes a nerve
i am numb
my fingers are at war
against
each other now

thoughts converge
without much meaning
united
in pain.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Opening A New Window

come to my room
let us open a new window
that opens to another window

look at my face
and hold the side of my body

i will caress your hair with my hands
hold your body softly as a wind holds a feather

my fingers shall travel from the tips of your hair
down to the last tips of the toes of your feet

let us be happy, let us try opening another window
let us see the other windows hidden from our eyes.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters.

quote by Solomon Short
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Touch

Touch

To a loved family member…
a caress, a touch
A loving hand on ones knees
Can convey e’er so much
Just a soft gentle squeeze

To a child….
A finger’s soft glide
Down child’s turned up nose
Can start the slow slide
Into dreamland repose

To a friend…
Friendly pat on the shoulder
Gentle nudge in the side
Head lain on one’s shoulder
Floods one’s heart like the tide

To a real close friend…
Tips brushing closed eyelids
Arms tightly clasping
Rough sheets on one’s back
Fast breath slightly gasping

To a really, really close friend……
Fingers entwined,
palms ardently pressed
Palms kneading one’s back
Lips brushing soft breasts

To close..
Every being needs
The sensation of touch
And a surfeit of hugs
Could ne’er be too much

poem by David Whalen
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