Lightning Thief
These intrepid hands caught
the descending forks of light
and subdued the harrying cloudburst
like how a child grasps things
out of instinct - from hunger, for safety
with a dire silence in lieu
of the inevitable cleaving
because jeopardizing eyes delve
in the lattices of injured acceptance
for the gnawing pain that scored pride
and the unpaid obeisance
These flimsy hands are burned out
as it steadfastly held unto
the arrowheads of lightning -
the soldering bell rope of alarm
And the treacherously valiant soul,
cautiously and vigilantly, weaves
the heaven's spilled fire of blue
to craft a pall of false pretense:
a gradient of varied palettes
that shall suppress the black hole
siphoning all the scintillating lights
In the limbo of these guzzled suffering
lies an immeasurable abyss
where darkness devours darkness
fecundating the filigree of mistakes
and lost perchance of corrections,
these hands fell suspended
from its larcenous struggle to knot
the ends of heaven's unwoven tassels -
these hailing lightning that
crackled with a shattered frame
and dangles blithely from a tattered tapestry -
for my desire to redeem the casted crown
is deemed futile every time
the blue electric wires slip away
from the pleading grip of my thieving hands
Wuthering for the weeping cicatrix,
these sorry hands vied against
the inertia of predetermined sequence
and still, the old ailing bones
and progressive states of senescence
defeated all the pure endeavors
The sky hurled a riling fist
and stabbed the glassine walls
of these somnambulistic eyes
and the bellicose mangling
was no different than the lightning
I stole in the most intimate privacy.
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
The Winter Of The Sun
Glacial sighs mantled the breaking light
in a soft dislmning abrasion
Like whispers lifted from the frost
that sheathed the slumbering sun
behind the solace of our sequence
and tedium of our shenanigans,
but the austere silence it brought
had drifted with a lack of euphony
and calm for macabre had conquered
the prying eyes and mangled with
the atrocious affliction brought
by the premature winter of the sun
The ice sheets that I meander started
to shatter and thaw, but the kingly fire ball
remained suspended on his veracious
gesture of absence, his superfluous fingers
pointed with a jeopardy through
the unlocked and opened barricades
where the black embers futilely honed
its red eyes like devils lurking inside
the curtains, and the veil was ripped
to divulge what weeps soundlessly
behind the tatterdemalion tapestry
There was nothing but a lifeless smoke
climbing the svelte ladders of time,
Smoke that seethes with anguish and
wrecks and lusts for the shallow heaven
that the cinders spat and denied;
Smoke from incinerated hands -
hands that wrought words feigning valor,
hands that rocked its own trembling cradle,
hands that grew iron from caliginosity,
hands that are empty and flimsy
where everything sifted like a formless wind
indifferently passing through the windmills,
hands that can only quell the warmth
of the sun when it tries to break from
the winter inside its eternal frame.
poem by Norman Santos
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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
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Empty
try looking at my hands
they are empty now
for i have released
what fullness was there
what fist
what clenched hands i had
once they were so
beautiful
in bravery
but
then
there is always a threshold
of courage
suddenly you find hands opening
to the sun
hands without a grip
hands that wave goodbye
to all your friends
hands that
grasp nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Written With Nails (For Terence)
metal jacketed truth bullets
spat from the empty tomb
on the third day, ...
grave clothes lying empty.
human stink garbage sweat grime,
hands reaching for hands...
candles made of flesh,
matches of dried bones.
truth lightning gentle weeping sorrow,
food bowls held by shaking hands.
eyes that see, hearts that feel,
simply living, by the fire!
spiritual writings written with nails,
compassion's hammers, caring's shovel...
lifetimes building shelters,
and planting gardens for the poor!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Flora of the Eden: Antwerp
Eyes that sought my eyes, an-hungered, as a fire;
Hands that sought and caught my hands in their desire;
Hands and eyes that clipt and lipt me as a hungering fire!
But I turned away from your ecstatic eyes,
But my heart was silent to your eager sighs,
But I turned to other eyes from your imploring eyes.
Hands that I rejected, you were fain to give;
Eyes that for their moment loved me, as I live;
Mouth that kissed me: Flora of the Eden, O forgive!
poem by Arthur Symons
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You're Everything to Me
In your eyes I see the fire.
In your eyes I see desire.
When they're closed I cannot see
the eyes that mean so much to me.
In your hands I feel the love.
In your hands I rise above
all the things I've known.
Your hands have always made me moan.
Closer to you on every day,
your eyes and hands show me the way
that you will always love me
no matter where I will be.
There is no look I haven't seen.
There is no space that's in between
what I've felt in every touch
and every smile that meant so much,
For you're everything to me.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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Rising Force
Out of the darkness the voices are calling
Riding the wings of a song
The Fury is screaming and Heaven is falling
I feel it coming on strong.
The lightning strikes cracking the night
It feels like never before
Thunder and sparks in the Heart of the Dark
I hear a Rising Force.
Searching my soul I find something else
I take my life in my hands
From the gates of Heaven to the altars of Hell
The Power is at my command.
The lightning strikes cracking the night
I'm not the same anymore
Thunder and spark in the Heart of the Dark
I feel a Rising Force.
Burned by the glory of a sacred fire
A Rising Force starts to shine
Alone in the inferno it soars ever higher
Leaving the demons behind.
Repeat first and second Chorus.
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lightning
I am lightning
A light here then gone
I am lightning
A flash quick and strong
I am lightning
My life to short to tell
I am lightning
The ground scorched where I fell
I am lightning
I never strike in twos
I am lightning
I shatter your light's fuse
I am lightning
Destroying what I touch
I am lightning
And I live as such
A storm has come upon me
The lightning I am strong
The rain falls around me
Makes my arc trails long
I fall from the heavens
Crashing to the earth
Though your call it beckons
I cannot stay by hearth
Though the fire warms me
I'm gone to fast to tell
Though the air, it fights me
I ring true the bell
This ground I've hit before
If not here then there
But it is the same ground
If not the same exchange
The moment I can stand
I'm tossed back to the sky
On the ground I'll never be
Not till the day I die
poem by John Dillenger II
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To A Baby.
I.
Two hands that hold the world in fee,
So tender, yet so bold:
Whatever life has now for me,
Two hands that hold.
What magic lies in them enroll'd —
What wondrous alchemy
Transmuting thus life's lead to gold!
Until that thought shall cease to be,
Until my heart is cold,
I'd only clasp (how tenderly!)
Two hands that hold.
II.
Two soft blue eyes whose light has lit
Two hearts, as stars that rise —
Love's lights within the infinite,
Two soft blue eyes.
No fancy may their charm surmise,
But those who have felt it
Breathe as it were in Paradise.
Life's meanings there like shadows flit,
As in a dream's disguise
Two spirits lurked in them — to wit,
Two soft blue eyes.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Helping Hands
these hands
these so sore helping hands
and these eyes
seeing through all the black and white,
a monovision more incommon than not,
these hands like talons ripping as fast they can
fish
trapped inside
the barrel
as he cocks his wrist,
that tiny gap of silent air
and in an instant these fish know they're goners,
full of holes
that what this life of mine has been like...
a great tapestry to the biggest moths
and the kindest spiders
as well as the coldest eyes
and the softest hands
however these hands,
rough and dry
witnessed it all first hand
and then the other.
poem by David Thomas
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Fog Holds Lights
FOG HOLDS LIGHTS
Fog holds lights in soft hands stroking
the bay, floating across waters alive
with flickering rays. The night air whispers
of ancient sand castles and the gleam
of small stars stirring the romance of darkness.
It clings faithfully to the rise and fall
of waves washing in, swinging to
the rhythm of a sea singing love songs.
Fog holds lights in soft hands, clasps love
in tender touches, grasps hope in strong
fingers as it rolls in. Reality
blurs, an impressionist painting
lying just under the murky paint of fog.
Fog holds light in soft hands, embraces
dreams carefully as they swoop
across our sleep like moonbeams prowling
the night sky. It smothers the future and remolds
the past, leaving us in a blurred limbo.
Fog holds light in soft hands wet with tears.
When it is time for it to be gone,
it lifts silently and disappears.
poem by Raynette Eitel
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A Baby's Death
A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.
Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.
Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.
The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?
A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.
Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.
The little hands that never sought
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands?
We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.
Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands.
The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes?
Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?
No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.
Was life so strange, so sad the sky,
So strait the wide world's range,
He would not stay to wonder why
Was life so strange?
Was earth's fair house a joyless grange
Beside that house on high
Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange?
That here at once his soul put by
All gifts of time and change,
And left us heavier hearts to sigh
'Was life so strange?'
Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair
The sweet small frame;
Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,
Angel by name.
Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,
And might not bear
The cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.
His little light of life was all too rare
And soft a flame:
Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him there
Angel by name.
The song that smiled upon his birthday here
Weeps on the grave that holds him undefiled
Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear
The song that smiled.
His name crowned once the mightiest ever styled
Sovereign of arts, and angel: fate and fear
Knew then their master, and were reconciled.
But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere
Michael, an angel and a little child,
Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier
The song that smiled.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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The hammer’s tale
There’s a tale of a hammer
that dropped from the sky
and fell at the feet
of a warrior chief
while he was hunting
and before he saw it
a flash of blue-white lightning
cracked down at his feet
from a cloudless cobalt blue sky.
Amazed at the thunder
his gaze went into the air,
but he could see nothing there
but he sensed something
and looked more carefully
and something still unseen
threw a shadow covering him
and at his feet lay something strange
while in the east he heard the sound
of something huge
hitting the ground as if dead.
A metallic hammer huge in size
fit for a giant
with a colour somewhere between
copper and gold lay gleaming
as if it was filled with some strange
sort of energy
and it was crafted beautifully
with intricate runic patterns
decorating its shaft
and while the shadow
became much larger
and more threatening
and he swore
that he could hear
something breathing
and he reached for the hammer
trying to pick it up
and it was light
as a feather in his hands
and the hammer changed in colour
to a bright white blue hue
and started humming
as if it was coming alive
and it changed in size and shape
becoming much smaller
but like a big war maul
and he wasn’t dreaming
but a giant of a godlike thing
was in fury looking at him
and a flaming sword
was in its huge fist
with a hound with red gleaming eyes
following it
and holding onto the hammer
with both hands he took a swing at it,
hitting it with a tremendous thundering blow
and it fell over into a valley
facing the wooded west
but with a still swiping sword
and the warrior ran
trying to avoid it
and in anger bashed
at the mountain
rising in front of him
and the mountain shattered
while tremendous lightning bolts blazed it
causing the mountain to fall
over the god’s breast
and the hound tried to kill him
but he knocked it
right over the mountain
with lightning bolts sizzling over it.
[Reference: Gluskap’s Hound by T.G. Roberts.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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One
We are the lost
The ones forgotten
And this time
The future is our's
It's in our hands
We're the tear in your eyes
We're the blood in your vains
We're the beat of your heart
We're the sweat on your face
We're the ones that you chase
We're the promise that you made
We're the voice in your head
We're the lies that you said
We're the kids that you pushed away
We are
We are the the lost
The ones forgotten
And this time
The future is our's
It's in our hands
We are one
We're the pride of your lives
We're the light shining deep in your eyes
We're the choice that you made
We're the smile on your face
When you sleep at night
We're the best thing you had
But you left us behind
We're the kids that you pushed away
We are
We are the the lost
The ones forgotten
And this time
The future is our's
It's in our hands
We are one
One
We're the pain that you feel
We're the scars that don't heal
We're the tear in your eyes
We're the reason you cry
We're the voice in your head
We're the lies that you said
We're the best thing you had
But you pushed us away
We are the lost
The ones forgotten
And this time
The future is our's
It's in our hands
We are
We are the lost
The ones forgotten
And we've got nothing to lose
Together we stand up tall
We are one
song performed by by Simple Plan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Shall Have These Hands That Shall Write About Hands....
must have i forgotten
from where all these come?
ah, i have read about your hands
and now i shall have to mind about mine
once i had these hands
whose name is
work and struggle and
sacrifice
they lifted rocks
outlined by Sisyphus
and roll them from
atop the hill
and put them again there
in senseless
labor
when i got reason
my hands began to think
as though they have brains
under their nails
these hands begin the
questions
grapple for answers
and got
no satisfaction
they dabble in poetry
trembling and tense and
looking for
a compromise for some
fetish
must have i forgotten from where
these hands come?
someone says these hands are from
the hands of God
whose hands hand what we do not have
in hand yet
these hands did what was wrong then
and covered the face of the
penitent and the remorseful
these hands that slap a face that
triggered a gunfire
that lay upon the hardened breasts
and held breaths
these hands that write now for you
face upside down not asking for anything in return
these hands that speak for you
as you turn your head for someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Far Within Us #7
Toothed eyes fly
Over still waters
Around us purple lips
Flutter from branches
Screams hit the blue
And fall onto pillows
Our homes hide
Behind narrow backs
Hands clutch at
Flimsy clouds
Our veins roll turbid
Bed and tables
Of shattered bones
Noon has fallen into our hands
And turned all gloomy
An open grave on the face of the earth
On your face on my face
Trans. by Anne Pennington
Anonymous submission.
poem by Vasko Popa
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In Good Hands..
In the hands of a gifted teacher
A classroom is a magical place! ! !
In the hands of a gifted teacher
There's a smile on each child's face.
In the hands of gifted teacher Creative energy is every where.
In the hands of gifted teacher
There's a catalyst who genuinely care.
In the hands of gifted teacher Desire and wonder is awakened.
In the hands of gifted teacherEducation agenda is shaken.
In the hands of gifted teacher Self managment skills are manupulated In the hands of gifted teacherThe best of reality is modeled.
In the hands of gifted teacher Gifts and talents are refined.
In the hands of gifted teacher The desired future is designed.
AND YOR THE TEACHER GIFTED TO MY HANDS! ! ! !
poem by Maanasa Bhaskar
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