Chicanery
He took her into his hands
Pressed close to his chest
Caressed her little head
With his firm fingers
She looked at him fondly
Shrunk further into his hands
And rubbed them with its beak
Must be her way of kissing
She thought, “I’m lucky
His looks are so kind
His touch so loving
His is so caring
Isn’t it so fascinating?
A friendship between
A chicken and a human;
The superior being
Still holding her tight
The man walked straight
Into his kitchen
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Related quotes
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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The most beatiful hands
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that caressed you
and rocked you when you were little.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that guided you
when you took your first steps in life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that bathed you,
clothed you and fed you,
during childhood.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that hugged you
and wiped away all your tears
throughout your life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than your mother's hands...
poem by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by Viorel Vintila
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In a coffin
Hands folded over the chest
she lies forever stretched out
as if death out of the blue holds her calm
and nothing will wake her up,
from the last sleep folding coldly round her
and strangely changed from princess to rotting dirt.
Hands folded over the chest
she lies forever stretched out.
with no fingers clenching hot around mine
and drawing me nearer,
no arms embracing me to her body
and I am totally alone
and stare at hands folded over her chest.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My mother's hands
My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth
Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.
My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.
Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.
My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.
poem by Ruth Walters
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My Hands On My Head
my hands on my head
not to feel what hair is all about
remembering the
hairy feeling and the aftermath of desire
it is over
my hands on my head
for surrender
i do not kiss and tell
my hands on my chest
like holding some treasures
of gold and silver
that is what we are now
i have these seeds of silence
i sow them
and slowly and so patiently i am having this sole opportunity
watching them all grow
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lovers Hands
Old with age
Bent and buckled
Now an old sage
Carbuncle on knuckle.
Hands lift high
A Grandchild
Up to the summer sky
Manner calm and mild
Lovers hands
Took me to a high
Caressed my young body
Took me with a sigh
Lovers hands joined
Fingers entwined
Press tightly
Hearts flutter lightly
poem by Robert Green
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Cat Won't Sit On Your Lap
She warned me
That cat won't sit on your lap
She won't let you pick her up
And she won't let you sit on your lap
She likes to rub her head on you
But that's it
She won't let you pick her up
The cat looked at me
I looked at her
I let her rub her head on my leg
I look at her again and made a cat noise
She said, you'll see, she doesn't let anybody pick her up
I just looked at the cat
She looked at me
I reached to pick her up and she flinched
But she came back
I looked at her
And picked her up
She arched her back briefly
I rubbed her head, which she liked
The cat stayed on my lap
She said....how did you do that?
I said, I just did!
I looked a the cat
she looked at me
And we agreed not to tell
I put her down
As I did she knowingly looked back at me.
poem by James T. Adair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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for Linda
the photograph of
a woman could be you
and afraid of sanctions from
this rigid
moralistic society you hide
in the
shadow of a silhouette
you become a dark
black figure leaning on the
frame of a door
against the light of the day
your breasts are firm
your nipples are not afraid
anymore
caressed by the fingers of
the wind from
the window from the sea
your feet tiptoe on the
floor
but your arms and hands
are hiding
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Passing Of A Heart
O touch me with your hands--
For pity's sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!
Touch--touch me with your hands.--
Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day--
O touch me with your hands!
Just touch me with your hands,
And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,
That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The next to last pew
An old man was at church last Sunday
He sat in the next to last pew
I slid into the seat right next to him
And gave a him a friendly “hi-dee-do”
He gave me a nod with his time worn brow
Then swiveled his head all around
While his gaze sized up the parishioners
His ears seemed to soak up their sound
His sad gaze seemed to pick out each person
One by one, as he seemed to stare into their soul
To some he nodded, in an approving way
While to others his look was ice cold
I asked if he was a member of this church
I said I wasn’t familiar with him, was he new?
He smiled a soft smile and shook his head no
Said “I’m here most of the time…
here in this next to last pew”
I said “what do you think of our little church”
He rubbed his hands through his hair of silver grey
Looked deep in my eyes and gave a soft, sad sigh
And said “you may not like what I have to say”
He said “ Son, I can see into the soul of these people
And to you, what I say is on the level”
That Most are fools in the eyes of the Lord
The rest are pawns in the hands of the devil
I looked all around at my fellow church-goers
Of whom he spoke, I knew of more than a few
And when I turned back to allow “that could be so”
I was all alone in the next to last pew!
poem by David Whalen
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Beauty of the Woman
The Beauty of the Woman
For Thea and Alexi Katherine ~ 16 April 2011
The beauty of the woman is behind her touch
In the space between her fingers and the son’s
As he takes his first steppes
Between her hand and the daughter’s
As the father leads her down the isle
The beauty of the woman is behind her eyes.
In the circumference of each teardrop
Which shrunk: keeping pace with the contractions.
And disappeared when the daughter
Kicking and screaming was laid on her chest
Which became a stream of awe—wondrous
Even as the daughter found comfort on her breast
The beauty of the woman is behind her smile
Which she held through sleepless nights
Teething, feeding, monsters, and proms
Through the holding and the swaddling
Even the letting go…
The beauty of the woman is in the strength
To hold, to watch, in love-eternally
To spend eternity letting go
Of the hand that grasped her pinky
And each little piggy-toe
The hand she felt inside her
Which made her beauty glow
The beauty of the woman is
Something I’ve only seen
Something I know incompletely
But touch with my own hands
but the beauty fall between my fingers
and the beauty behind her hands.
poem by Aaron Graham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My World
this is my world
walks in the morning
making me think
steps on the rocks
and mud and under the rain
shiver and quiver
and sighs and then
sunshine on my face
soft hands
on my chest
noontime is harsh
inside this cell
of the musts and oughts
and this and that
piles of papers
more readings to make
confusions and even
delusions
breathe and death
on installments
in the office and
this world of work
then sunset
orange and fading colors
remembering my youth
and combing my white hair
and touching her hand
reminiscing some promises and vows
we sit on a background of darkness
on a chair just the two of us
on a table our old hands rest
recalling the poems
we once wrote
then you turn off
the light
your head rests on my chest
my hand carressing your hair
we are so close
that when i sleep
i hear you hum
a lovesong
as you too close your eyes
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Homeless
Dry and cold were the bitter winds
that crackled the ice on the panes.
Dry and cold were the old woman's hands,
red and raw from the pains.
Old were these winds that had no end.
They surfaced every winter.
Old were the hands that were this woman's
that felt as if they would splinter.
The winter winds were not welcome
for she had no place to go.
Looking for shelter from the cold,
she welcomed the sight of snow.
For the snow would blanket the box she was in
for a night or two.
She stayed inside it for many long hours
as if it were an igloo.
All through the hours she rubbed her hands.
Through a slit she looked to view,
looking for a slant of sunshine soon
but still the cold winds blew.
This is the plight of the homeless.
This is a curse on our lands.
They found her dead when the sun finally came
with stiff and frozen hands.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Paradise Lost
When i said i'd die tomorrow
My whole family was there
I said i'd go to heaven
And i asked them for their prayers.
I'll admit my hands were sweaty
But i'd practised many times
The dry runs were quite frequent
Behind those hostile lines.
The check point was quite easy
They really didn't look at me
I looked the part, spoke Hebrew
Seemed like i'd got friends with me.
The restaurant was crowded
Women, kids, just having fun
I'd been trained to find the best spot
To detonate the bomb.
So i got close to a table
And looked around - well just in case
Someone might recognise me
And put a name unto my face.
'Well hi there' said this lady
'Say you're looking rather tired
Come sit with us and eat some food
Hey - you two move aside'
She looked just like my mother
The one they killed in that attack
I almost pressed the button
But then something held me back.
I told this to the soldiers
While those lights they shone on me
They looked at me and asked my age
It was then i said 'thirteen'.
poem by David Keig
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Scavenging For Coal
At the back
of the coal wharf
you and Fay
picked up coal pieces
that fell through
the iron railings
and put them
in an old bag from home
Fay looked
at her blackened fingers
and said
if my daddy sees
these fingers
and finds out
what I've been doing
he'll spank me
for sure
you gazed at her
beside you
and said
you can wash your hands
at my place
she looked around
at the bombsite behind you
the evening sun
slowly going down
behind the railway bridge
and nearby buildings
what if someone sees you
she asked
picking up these pieces?
no one worries about this
all the kids do it
you replied
my daddy says
it is evil to steal
she said
you put a black piece
of coal in the bag
and lifted it
to feel the weight
that's enough
you said
too much
and I won't be able
to carry it
Fay stood up
and looked around
at the darkening sky
you held the bag
in one hand
and scanned
the area around you
let's go
you said
and so you both
walked away
from the coal wharf
into Meadow Row
by the public house
where piano music played
and down towards
the flats
where you lived
and after climbing
the concrete stairs
to your landing
you opened the door
and put the bag
by the indoor
coal bunker
and showed Fay
where to wash her hands
turning on
the cold water tap
you both washed
your hands
with the red
Life Buoy soap
her hands near yours
her wet flesh
touching yours
the black water
running away
and another adventure
and another day.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Come With Me
Ill try to make the sunshine
Brighter for you
Now were leaving beautiful
Theres a tear in your eyes
After all is said
After all is done
Ill do anything for you
Come with me
Close your eyes
Hold my hands and feel alright
Dont be scared
Dont be shy
Lift your head
Its gonna be alright
Ill try to make the star shine
Brighter for you
And Ill take you in the shoulder
Holding you way up high
I even chase the rainbow
Handed it in the sky
After all is said
After all is done
Ill do anything for you
Come with me
Close your eyes
Hold my hands
Itll be alright
Dont be scared
Dont be shy
Lift your head
Its gonna be alright
Through the eyes of innocence
You will find
You will see
Theyll come in time all make sense
And you wont know
That it will show inside
Deep inside
Come with me
Close your eyes
Hold my hands
Itll be alright
Dont be scared
Dont be shy
Lift your head
Its gonna be alright
Ill try to make the days last longer for you
From the daybreak to the sunset to the end of time
Ill keep you safe away from the hurting
Cause when all is said
When all is done
Ill do anything for you
Come with me
Close your eyes
Hold my hands
Itll be alright
Dont be scared
Dont be shy
Lift your head
Its gonna be alright
Come with me
Close your eyes
Hold my hands
Itll be alright
Dont be scared
Dont be shy
Lift your head
Its gonna be alright
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Please Be True To Our Mutual Lies
please be true
to these mutual lies
as we lie
and kiss
and roll
and make such a quick love
do not make any moans
or calls
do not not kiss and tell
do not
be too possessive of my
body
my soul
my mind
these hands are strong
and so warm
you know, when these hands hold you tight
you know
these are not just yours
you know
these hands love you too like how these hands love
the rest of you, my all true loves
and them
they may not believe us
true to our lies
protective of ten fingers loving many lovely women
all worthy of my strong loving hands
my hands are made of ten fingers
there is no way that
these hands can be monogamous
you love me so true
and you would not have the folly to tell me that i have not loved
and loved you well enough
we must both be polygamous, and we must tell the world
we are true and we exist.
we lie because the truth is they are nor prepared for what they are too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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