Do these hands look like that of a poet?
Blistered brambled bloody knuckled
Shitnailed scum ensconced huckles
Calloused mollusc moulded sacraments
Makers manifest serendipitous accidents
Hands that help and hands that hurt
Hands that can cut the day short or hammer out the work
Hands that stammer, when words fail
Steering grammars gestured tales
Intense hands muddied of all they have spent
Hands of memory and of muscle
Fustling fingers busy in their bustle.
Unutterable stumbling chipolata claws
Pink pentagram digit paws.
Hands of holding and belonging
Healing, keening, caring hands that dare to love with all they have
All they hold
All they can carry.
Hands that build and mend and quest for the world they wake.
Hands that hear the universe hovering tween their gelded scope
Hands of hope, sweet nurtured hope
Embracing hands hugging kind cuddles
Smutty hands intwined and exploring
Hands that suckle and tickle
Teasing seeping slithered screams of ecstatic handed joy
Expert deliverers of orgasm, both received and deployed
Hands that create, all that I have, all that I own
Hands that weaved my wicker casket throne
Capitalist hands, yet socialist ones to
Criminal hands breaking laws in line with their own morality
Hands that grow, and show this plane how they think things should be
Ess, Hands of a poet, A poet for whom poems alone are not enough
.
Willo Kendal
Picture Rupert Loydell
.