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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 255

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    For today’s prompt, write a handheld poem. Whether it’s video games, smart phones, or soft tacos, the world is filled to the brim with things that can be held in one hand (or both). Consider the handheld and write your poem.

    Here’s my attempt at a handheld poem:

    “Two Hands”

    In one hand, I grip a rolling ball pen;
    the other holds a spiral-bound notebook.

    The world won’t notice the notice I took,
    capturing every quick noun and verb–

    as for the adjectives, I try to curb
    my enthusiasm (and mostly, I fail).

    I anchor images before they sail
    into choppy metaphorical seas

    of self-conscious lines, rhymes, and similes.
    There is a spark and a fire that burns bright,

    but when the words come, they never come right.
    Still, these two hands will try and try again.


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    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a poet who usually starts with pen and paper. Outside of his cell phone, his last handheld electronic device was one of those bulky Gameboy consoles (like the first iteration of it with the green screen). His addiction to Tetris forced him to make a decision–either he could sit around in his mom’s basement stacking pixels on a screen or sit around in his mom’s basement breaking lines. Either way, it’s not good money. By the way, check out his collection Solving the World’s Problems and follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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    About Robert Lee Brewer

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    128 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 255

    1. avabutler says:


      There is a box in my hand
      That is small and square
      Tied up with a bright red band
      Could it be so unfair?

      A clip from my grandma?
      A strawberry pie from past me?
      A bullet from grandpa?
      What could it be?

      My hand has a heart
      My head has no thought
      “Just pull the pin you old fart
      Your country has fought!”

      But the pressure has built
      I don’t want it no more
      If I open it now,
      I won’t be here no more.

    2. Domino says:

      with the years
      hold the infant close
      recalling her baby’s first days
      remembering similar eyes peering, myopic
      the years melt away and tears flow
      an old woman weeps
      full of joy

    3. foodpoet says:

      I guess this is more touching than holding but it’s what I came up with

      the keyboards, an ensemble of shackles
      wait to suck our individualities
      leaving only blank eyes and
      obedient fingers clicking away our futures
      every day another report for the betterment
      Of electronica is filed away in bites and bytes
      And the teeth only grow longer

    4. Dishaa says:

      A special Hand

      There was a hand when i was born
      That protected me from pricks and thorns

      Then come a hand which shaped me through
      Though stubborn and tough,
      But its intentions were true.
      The twains are still important to me,
      But they no more listen to my voiceless plea.

      Then came a hand that made me wise,
      Taught me everything and raised my price.
      But there are still some hands
      Which pat me, beat me, tease me to hell
      But together when they come
      They form a precious band,
      In short we call them friends.

      There would be still more hands
      Which will use me, help me and will make me some space
      But that one hand is so special
      That none would fill its place.

    5. At The Wits’ End

      I ignored this all time
      how my fingers spread on these tiny chips
      I begin the life of putting words
      into memories.

      In my lap and sometimes
      could clutch back in my palm,
      few keystrokes I remember the moments
      that gather.

      One fine evening, I am left
      with my new Apple with screensavers
      of her, the ones I designed
      out of my fantasy.

      How strong the waves
      crash back out of scene
      I lament my muse gone
      in the wild, where I cannot find.

      Now I talk to winds
      and scare the people away
      with my thoughts but once
      I pride her rushing back to me.

    6. At Wits’ End

      I ignored this all time
      how my fingers spread on these tiny chips
      I begin the life of putting words
      into memories.

      In my lap and sometimes
      could clutch back in my palm,
      few keystrokes I remember the moments
      that gather.

      One fine evening, I am left
      with my new Apple with screensavers
      of her, the ones I designed
      out of my fantasy.

      How strong the waves
      crash back out of scene
      I lament my muse gone
      in the wild, where I cannot find.

      Now I talk to winds
      and scare the people away
      with my thoughts but once
      I pride her rushing back to me.

    7. lionetravail says:

      It’s ironic to consider that
      when you take up, in your hand, a bat-
      if you hit a pinata
      it’s something that’s gotta
      be fun you can shake a stick at!

    8. julie e. says:


      Gripping my iPad—
      last life vest on my Titanic—
      I flee
      the only boat I’ve known
      for thirty-seven

    9. Hand-Held Poem

      Robert held it first and thought that it was fly.
      He handed it to De who simply said: “Oh, my.”
      In Marie’s hands it found a temporary home.
      She held it like a prayer (this sacred hand-held poem),
      then passed it on to me, this poem that knows no rest.
      I look around the room… I believe that you are next.

    10. PSC in CT says:

      (Must have known this prompt was coming, as I wrote this poem 1 day prior….)

      For You Today:

      these fingers, this hand
      (which can’t be seen
      by the naked eye)
      clasp yours snugly.
      These invisible arms
      embrace, swaddle, envelop
      both of us together
      in a blanket of comfort
      and strength.
      Make no bones
      of their mystical truth:
      not corpo-
      (but none the less
      oh so very)

    11. lionetravail says:

      “I Read the News Today, Oh Boy”

      It was nine
      when I read the news,
      and I stopped


      It was nine
      the size of the handheld
      which is today’s
      first equalizer and
      last argument of kings.

      It was nine
      the age at which his whole future

      It was nine,
      it was nine,
      it was nine-
      Tailors, Circles, Wraiths, all-
      and I found myself holding my head in my hands,
      the text on the page transformed
      to a lump in my throat.

    12. priyajane says:

      Between My Hands

      I hold between my hands–
      Ashes blazing a gaze—

      What once, like a lotus
      lit my sun and moon
      Now, desiccated and charred
      Into a dust of memories
      gathered in an earthen pot—

      Coarse, untainted truth
      that I hold between my hands

    13. Tweet

      A bird in the hand
      is worth two in the bush

      but is a word in the hand
      worth two on the page?

    14. LOST

      A fragile thing I used to hold
      began as something fresh and bold
      then slipped away on shifting sand.

      Perhaps my fingers, holding tight,
      released their grip, so it took flight
      to places it believed more grand.

      An impasse I could never breach
      has moved forever from my reach
      the heart I once held in my hand.

      © Susan Schoeffield

    15. Multit-loafing

      I hold in my right hand
      a Kindle named by brand to read
      so many things I need and want.
      And then to left and front, I hold
      my slightly beat up, old laptop.
      From Kindle I then hop to it;
      I hear prerequisite loud ding
      ‘cause Words With Friends the thing I play
      so often night and day.

    16. PressOn says:


      Years ago, the phone I bought
      could really fit my hand;
      today, a phone’s not what it ought:
      it’s cumbersome and grand

      and overflows the bounds of taste,
      a computer picking bones
      with apps that mainly are a waste
      on hand-held telephones.

    17. Holding Hands

      The skating rink was little more than an excuse
      for holding hands, circling counter-clockwise
      to “Mony Mony” and “Dizzy,” the closest thing
      to loving for a girl of thirteen. Sweaty palms,

      rented shoes, hard wooden floors—nothing
      smelling faintly of romance.—but still we spun
      in circles, not so long past “Do you love me? Yes?
      No? Check One.” The fast girls, the regulars, knew

      how to two step, skated backwards with ease,
      but most of us, mere mortals, just kept circling,
      hoping somehow we’d end up with something
      more than we had when we began. Removing

      our skates, returning them to the window,
      retrieving our shoes, we looked around to see
      if holding hands meant anything like love.
      We only hoped he’d meet our eyes on Monday.

    18. Brian Slusher says:


      My spread hands, boards of a book
      I’m binding, the pages the days of
      a life I’m writing, and I’m afraid

      the hero’s in trouble, a counterfeit
      Quixote who knows the windmills
      yet tilts for the show, and the ladies

      are waiting for something authentic
      and yawn as he gallops, and no
      matter how splendid the lance’s

      contact, the reader infers the dragon
      still lives, curled in his cavern,
      a comfortable monster, who breathes

      brilliant bursts as he dreams of
      a death most worthy and epic,
      a battle where victory isn’t the

      theme, but struggling uncertainty,
      and doubt supreme.

    19. Jane Shlensky says:

      Something small, a talisman,
      A pocket locket, contraband,
      A tiny icon, single psalm,
      Sweet meaning that fits in my palm.

    20. lionetravail says:

      “Paradox of Faith”

      When I was small,
      he most certainly held the whole wide world in his hands.
      During self-absorbed adolescense,
      he might have seemed a bit hands-off to me.
      Mildly more mature,
      he was either handily inconvenient
      or inconveniently handy.
      Now, perhaps yet a bit more mature,
      I can understand how where I am
      is all about my perspective, not his;
      I see how he can hold the whole wide world in his hands,
      but manage a hands-off approach at the same time.
      You gotta hand it to him.


      Water, water everywhere,
      and therein lies the rub.
      Wash tubs reverting to
      squirting geysers. It would have
      been wiser to install a sump.
      But I am relegated as a delegate
      to dump what I can not pump.
      There once was a man with a bucket
      who today wished he were in Nantucket.
      That would surely float my boat!


      You’re picking up a wavelength,
      the strength of which is as strong as cable.
      You are able to envision whatever you choose;
      your decision is at your fingertip. Infrared
      is not dead, if you know what I mean,
      remotely programmings your TV screen!


      His breath grew more shallow,
      cheeks hollowed and gray.
      Today will be a good day to die.
      It’s not as if he had a choice.
      His voice, a faint memory and
      the tremors he had lay silent,
      still. Flanked by baby girl and
      namesake, taking his breaths
      one labored inhale at a time.
      Your hand grips his and your
      sister holds as well. We could
      tell he was fading, no longer
      evading death’s bony grip,
      as he slipped into the light,
      his fight was over. Hands
      feeling the same in death
      as moments before. No more
      to languish; anguish gone.

    24. seingraham says:


      On the
      tiny screen,
      the vignette
      plays out;
      a slice
      of jerky history
      with a hand-held
      and stored
      on it too

      Now, it
      has come
      into my possession
      by this quirk
      of fate,
      found in a box
      of random items
      for a song
      at a flea-market

      At first I am
      then bored
      Then suddenly,
      suddenly I
      lean forward
      unsure of what
      it is I see…
      I watch
      a child torture
      and kill a cat
      – no, no
      That can’t
      be what’s
      I think

      But I know,
      as I look
      for a way
      to rewind
      That there
      are no
      special effects
      here –
      no splicing…

      This is an
      and what I
      just saw
      is what I
      am going
      to see,
      and see again.
      Oh my God.

    25. Jane Shlensky says:


      He will not speak into my face,
      a phone call often empty air,
      but texting seems to lend him grace
      so in his life, I have a place,
      small, hand-held, but I’m there.

    26. Here’s my attempt –> http://wp.me/p2Xft0-9F

      I was going for the technology is ruining conversation angle, but it became a bit more specific. :)

    27. priyajane says:

      Hands of Spring

      Orange hope
      caressed with green love
      Is awakening from
      bare and calloused fingers
      With deep undergrounds
      reaching for the sky——

    28. Lindy says:


      The handheld hand
      still cries when the world caves in,
      but never alone.

    29. JOB

      You always hoped for a door
      opening to light – a path to travel,
      flaring torch to lead the way.
      That job. You arrive in morning-dim,
      grasp the doorknob as of
      it were the future in your hand;
      walk in the door, wonder if
      the boss might by chance show up
      today. Mr. Flame, with a shock
      of red hair to prove it. You’d seen him
      only once; his eyes somewhere
      else and, in a moment, so was he.
      You spend your day in silence
      addressing envelopes to who knows
      whom. You’ve often wondered
      what’s the purpose, but keep
      the wonder to yourself. Today,
      a single piece of note-paper lies
      on your desk, the kind that comes
      free in the mail from charities hoping
      for a hand-out, pink rosebuds
      in the corner of each sheet. Now
      you hold the scant scrap in your hand.
      In sweeping Flame-script it reads,
      “you needn’t come back.” It’s
      not twilight yet. Behind you,
      you shut the door opening on a new
      quality of light.

    30. Misky says:

      Once Upon A Time When There Were Pockets

      My mum made her own clothes,
      Dresses with deep pockets she chose,
      And because she never carried a handbag
      Her pockets carried all the cash she had,
      A bit of money, her red lippy and keys,
      And off we’d go shopping, my mum and me.
      Those were the days before handhelds,
      Unless it was my small hand she held.

    31. De Jackson says:

      Palming Psalms

      Perhaps if I press them
      into my hand, I’ll remember
      I’m a girl who’s
      fearfully, wonderfully
      made of something
      more than all this
      crazy whirl.

      Maybe if I mold them
      into my skin, I’ll remember
      to sink in and know,
      solid rock
      under my feet,
      breathing room
      for my soul.


    32. Reluctant Wedding Guest

      Hold it! Do not bring
      that handheld microphone
      over to me, and expect
      witty remarks to pour forth
      about the bride and groom,
      to whom I have barely
      spoken two sentences since
      we met briefly at a cousin’s house.
      Hold it! Do not bring
      that handheld video camera
      anywhere near me. Focus
      on the bride, groom, or anyone else
      in this enormous room.

    33. bclay says:

      Its a Digital’s Life

      the red wine stains on my favorite suit
      texted to inform that they were deeply appalled
      with the drycleaning lady’s unimaginable poor masseuse talent,
      in claiming they felt desserving of a professional rub-down
      to accompany their multiple runs through the steamer/sauna,
      they even advised to look for a better drycleaning service,
      particularly one in the upscale part of downtown
      with a better view of the inlet marsh or the marina,
      since they have contacted the EPA over aparent chemical drainage violations,
      however, they do expect to be finished with their spa appointment
      within the hour, and to please have the driver pick them up in time
      for their daily afternoon board meetings, during which the driver
      should have ample time to run to Martin’s pick up their new golf clubs
      and be back for them to make their 4 p.m. tee off,
      after-which if I have any further questions to please leave a message with
      their secretary, as they will be turning their phone off so as to not be disturbed.

    34. cstewart says:


      As I held your emotions in my eyes,
      As I held the speakers podium,
      As I held the crisis of a conscience,
      As I held the coincidence in mind,
      As I held the police up with my body,
      As I held the marchers beside me,
      As I held you in my heart,
      As I held the music in memory,
      As I held the emblem of courage,
      As I held the painting forever,
      As I held the colors in my body,
      As I held the signal to move on,
      As I held the instigation of violence,
      As I held the purpose of my life,
      As I held the martyrdom of many,

    35. priyajane says:

      Grandpa s Fountain Pen

      The one that he kept
      real close to his heart
      The one that he left
      when death did them part

      This Fountain pen scribbled
      lapis drools on blank page
      And grew fervent ripples
      in palms, free of cage

      Its feathery convictions
      were weighted with feelings
      And with liquid injections
      It refilled some healings

      With fingers inspired
      they sent signals to his brain
      And then what transpired
      Was connecting some lanes

      Such comfort I find
      in its golden tip shine
      A grandfather’s sign
      handed down to my prime

      I keep it near me
      and stroke his hand
      In hope that just maybe
      it will speak to my sand—-

    36. PressOn says:


      For want of a hand, the step was missed;
      for want of a step, the stairs were missed;
      for want of the stairs, the door was missed;
      for want of a door, the room was missed;
      for want of a room, the bed was missed;
      for want of the bed, the bliss was missed,
      and all for the want of a stretch-out hand.

    37. lionetravail says:

      “What a Lady Saw at the Bazaar” (or “Once More Into the Breeches, Dear Friends”)

      [previously published Ad Libitum- 2007, but appropriate, I thought, for its many hand-held things: http://www.einstein.yu.edu/docs/publications/ad-libitum/ad-libitum-2007.pdf

      I took me a guy to a seller’s bazaar,
      And there I saw stuff which was truly bizarre!
      “I swear by Phobos…” my date, Chun, declared-
      “Oh swear not by inconstant moon!” I then shared.

      We went there to shop for a bargain or two,
      And for me to see if Chun were “a good man, and true”.
      “I like this place”, said I, so smartly of wit,
      “and willingly could waste my time long in it!”

      One of the traders had plenty of tables,
      And wares stacked on top with their own pricing labels.
      There were numerous slogans on buttons and buckles,
      So clever, in fact, that I read them and chuckled.

      “Now is the winter of our discount tents,
      So if you find yourself of the camping bent,
      Just come on down and here do the deed-
      If you do not pick us, well, do we not bleed?”

      And “This above all, to thine own self be true-
      Come browse my tables for something brand new!
      Neither a borrower nor lender, be,
      For I don’t take credit, just hard currency!”

      On display on one table were cloaks of exception,
      With a sign “The best part of VELOUR is discretion”!
      Chun pointed next at the work of great bowyers,
      Labelled (quite fairly): “To kill all the lawyers!”

      Oh, sure, there were stacked both fine arrows and slings,
      Which were certainly stylish and quite deadly things.
      Written near them was this opportune pun-
      “More slings and arrows from Outrageous Fortune!”

      On a stack of fine gowns I saw this on one hem:
      “Some achieve ‘great dress’ which is thrust upon them!”
      A sign about sales tax was prominent, too:
      “I’m sorry, but I must give the ‘devil’ his due!”

      Some clerical collars had slogans like others:
      “We few, we happy few, we band of Brothers.”
      On a tray of religious-y bells shining bright,
      “Ring me so you’ll hear the chimes at midnight!”
      A fiddle, a lyre, and a pretty bodhran,
      Sat under “Just what piece of work can play man?”
      Some needlework table cloths they sat upon,
      Read: “If music be the food of love, just play on!”

      A sign boasting “Pets” showed a bowl with a guppy,
      And a crate labelled “Havoc”, which was holding a puppy.
      “Train him to battle and he’ll serve you, sure!
      Cry “Havoc” and let slip the canine of war!”

      Some plate-mail for women had a note which read such:
      “Methinks that the lady doth PROTECT too much.”
      Nearby, some soap bars my attention got,
      Proclaimed on their labels was “Out, Out, Damn Spot!”

      Underthings next caught Chun’s and my attention,
      And a label which was nearly too funny to mention!
      “On nighties, allow me to give you some tips:
      You’re standing, like greyhounds, in one of THESE slips!”

      I found myself laughing much more so than buying,
      As a slogan for love potions had me near dying:
      “Pour this in a fruit drink if you are that choosy,
      Since the course of love potion did never run smoothie!”

      So after long browsing, I decided that
      There were too many things one could “Shake” a “Speare” at!
      But the issue was not whether I’d impressed Chun-
      “To buy or not to buy?”- that was the question!!!”

    38. I Do. You Don’t.

      You took my hands, placed
      eternity on one with good
      intentions, but now declare
      promises are meant to be broken
      when spoken. But I’m naïve,
      the one who disagrees
      and believes in forever after.

    39. elishevasmom says:

      (a Luna)

      These hands attached
      to this body, my ambassadors
      —who I am.

      Ellen Evans – Copyright (c) 2014
      a “hands” poem for PA 2.19.24

    40. elishevasmom says:

      (a Lune)

      Groped by his
      eyes, no touch could have
      felt more unclean.

      Ellen Evans – Copyright (c) 2014
      a “hands” poem for PA 2.19.14

    41. amsecre says:

      My sweaty palms
      Hold onto yours for the last time.
      Words that couldn’t fit
      In the last twenty-three years
      Now have to fit in a moment
      Longer than I’ve ever known
      Your eyes stare.
      My breath catches in my throat.
      Slowly, I start to speak.
      And your hands fall from mine
      A future no longer mine to hold.
      Now I wonder
      Why I was the one to let go.

    42. writinglife16 says:

      Hand held

      I held her hand.
      She didn’t know I was there.
      I sat watching her.
      Her soft breathing mixed with the
      spring breeze coming through the window.
      Strident beeping interrupted our
      I shut my cell off then.

      It made me think back.
      She had held my hand.
      I had known she was there
      My crying had stopped.
      I held her hand.
      She didn’t know I was there.
      I started to cry and then,
      her hand moved.

    43. elishevasmom says:

      These Little Hands of Mine
      (a Shadorma)

      With these hands
      I have the power
      to change worlds,

      to change lives,
      to change whole universes.
      Let me begin with mine.

      Ellen Evans – Copyright (c) 2014
      a “hands” poem for PA 2.19.24

    44. Azma says:


      My thumbs worked in tandem, forming words of delight
      That instant, the texts on my phone were the only thing in sight.
      I was on the brink of being oblivious to else all
      But just then, I was startled by a summoning call.
      It was from the kitchen. Mum said she needed help.
      ‘Do I have to work now?’ I almost let out a yelp.
      It took trouble to leave the comfort.As if my feet swelled.
      But till the kitchen, in my hand, still the phone I held.
      I was told to do some stirring, a job so unvaried
      but that didn’t matter because in my hand, still the phone i carried.
      My right hand swirled the spoon and my left controlled the phone conversation
      my mind entirely on my left hand and the cooking got little dedication.
      I didn’t care what i stirred- soup, porridge or stew
      but i think the smell was quite luring, because pangs of hunger it grew.
      It must have been an exciting text or maybe too strong a tilt
      Because the next thing I knew, the entire dish, had on the floor spilt.

    45. beana says:


      Fat fingers, bells gone wild
      Siri is talking – so is my child
      updates and reminders, lots gone on
      nothing is quiet Can’t stop this storm

      If you can work this right
      You’ll have a friend for life
      A keeper of your ever noting ideas
      May just be the way to escape the fears!

      Never did I imagine a poem in Notes
      Siri could be next My pen n paper while in tote!
      Almost excited – Maybe by fear
      Could this really work? My Dear!

      Maybe not ever day, but in a pinch my new friend could prove worthwhile
      But my loyalty will always be to my Bible.

    46. jasonlmartin says:

      Glass Stained

      All I did was toss a rock into the air, and like
      The breeze caught it just right, mid-flight,
      And flung into a small panel of green
      Where the glass grass met his feet.
      But I ran, assuming no understanding
      From the priest, the caretaker of the home.

      A church – His home, so says the priest
      Who chased me down the street in his robe.
      It was a sight. I wanted to stop to behold him.
      But I was too busy running like a boy thief.
      (had no criminal record, and did not want one,
      nor did not want condemnation in a confessional )

      This poem is about a boy,
      Me, if you must know,
      And a rock. A small rock.
      Not like a fish that grows larger
      As the memory grows taller.
      And a window. Stained glass.

      This poem
      Is divine
      In and of itself
      And doesn’t need intervention
      To cast it in a light
      For all to believe, to hallelujah.

      He has a plan
      For all of us
      But this isn’t one of those
      Spiritual poems
      That tells you to believe
      In his plan.

    47. beana says:


      Fat fingers, bells gone wild
      Siri is talking – so is my child,
      updates and reminders, lots gone on
      Nothing is quiet Can’t stop this storm

      If you can work this right
      You’ll have a friend for life,
      A keeper of your ever noting ideas
      May just be the way to escape the fears!

      Never did I imagine a poem in Notes
      Siri could be next – My pen n paper while in tote!
      Almost excited – Maybe by fear
      Could this really work? My dear!

      Maybe not every day, but in a pinch
      My new friend could prove worthwhile
      But my loyalty will always be to my bible.

    48. ninaloard says:

      In My Own Hands

      I remember your hands after the dance recital.
      One heavy and warm, the other dainty and bejeweled.
      Each linking me between them, keeping me steady on the ice.
      A child can’t know how long they’ll get to hold on.
      It doesn’t even occur to them to wonder.
      The hands that brought all things surely last forever.

      There came a day when I realized my hands were empty.
      That I’ve taken everything offered and expelled the lot in return.
      I’ve become what links others to this world, through determination and sacrifice.
      They take my hands, not to keep me steady, but because without me they will fall.
      I am grasping for something to keep me from shattering like ice.
      I am left standing alone, clenched fists at my sides.

    49. Poeeop says:

      Unwilling, shy, aloof and cross
      Despite my attempts at showing off,

      He pretends not to hear me
      He pretends not to see,

      But My experience dwarfs his and soon he will
      Dance like a puppet and struggle still

      He is surely not the first to succumb to my charm
      He’ll soon relax post the initial alarm,

      For no mere mortal can withstand
      I’ll soon clasp his soul in the palm of my hand

    50. mrowlands23 says:

      In the same old kitchen I fumble
      through dark tunnel drawer,
      fingers twisting around crumpled receipts
      and past due bills, funneled like lost whispers.
      Elbow jams
      to find hard candies kissing one another
      and new batteries, dead.
      A staple shears into my shelled thumb
      and reminds me that I’m still alive,
      although sometimes
      I forget to remember

      • elishevasmom says:

        Never forget to breathe. Not the automatic would die without it kind. Stop and breathe.

        • mrowlands23 says:

          I forgot to post the title to this poem. It is called “Build Up”

          You’re so right, but all too often we do. This poem was written from the perspective of someone who does exactly that. Letting life’s pressures build up like the clutter in the crowded drawer. Touching these items without actually feeling them. Passing through life in in the same numb way.

    51. Poeeop says:

      Unwilling, shy, aloof and cross
      Despite my attempts at showing off,

      A prize I see, this lofty quest
      To transform his “no” into “yes”,

      Ha! Boredome, simple child’s play no doubt
      Bigger have succumbed, yes mightier than thou,

      I’ve got tools at my leisure, tried and true
      Let’s see there’s greed, lust and envy too,

      No mere mortal dare withstand
      I’ll soon clasp his soul in the palm of my hand!

    52. A Bird In the Hand

      I found you –
      sitting on my deck.

      I held you -
      in my hand,
      keeping you warm.

      I murmured words -
      like soft breezes
      over your head.

      I blew you a kiss –
      as my hand opened
      and you flew away.

    53. SARDY

      My search-dog partner and best friend,
      who on a fresh spring morning
      picked one egg from a wild-turkey nest,
      carried it gently in her jaws
      and placed it in my hand – those jaws
      that could shake a rope-tug toy
      like it was a rag-doll;
      my dog who led me through dark woods
      as if on tiptoe, as if walking
      on eggs, to show me
      the lost woman she’d just found
      shattered but alive.
      My dog, dead now. But still
      she ranges sometimes into dream-sight
      so I reach to take her leash,
      to hold her with both my hands
      and then release, to follow her lead
      into the midnight forest.

    54. Cherished

      connected from conception
      a chord cut at birth, but never broken
      the bond between mother and child
      not always in accord, but held
      in the palm of their hands

    55. Hand-Held Security

      My client has poor depth perception.
      Checked tiles terrify him.
      Patterned carpets confuse him.
      Flowered rugs make him hesitant.
      Steps, objects, curbs hinder his progress.
      As he holds my hand, he becomes confident,
      and I wonder what his world looks like.

      • writinglife16 says:

        Very intriguing and smart. A question to ponder at the end.

      • lionetravail says:

        I agree- it’s excellent. I find the progression you used effective; the checked tiles which terrify and seem so ominous give way to confusion, hesitation, hindrance, and then turns finally to confidence. The last line is a wonderful transition, very thought provoking.

    56. pmwanken says:

      (a shadorma)

      My two hands
      have both held and lost.
      I know pain;
      paid the cost.
      Tentative fingers now wrap
      around love again.

    57. PKP says:

      I hold my own hand
      brush the fingertips
      of others as tumble
      weeds tumble down
      this quiet street of
      I shudder at the quiet
      and hold my own hand

    58. PKP says:

      Okay folks be back later … Good morning Walt, Mitch, Azma and of course RLB!
      Street is a little bit empty this morning… Hope paths y’all may be walking right now
      include a stop here.

    59. PKP says:

      Hand Held

      parchment spotted
      chubby dimpled
      hand held

    60. mich says:

      On the one hand
      I could hold the wheel and steer
      On the other hand
      I could text or hold the phone to my ear
      Holding the lives of the others in one’s hands
      I will make the choice that’s clear
      Self-control saves lives


      You extend your hand and she takes it,
      it makes it easier for her to get out of the car.
      You open your palm and she takes hold
      for untold pleasures reside and hide there.
      You grasp hers softly, a tender caress
      that relieves stress and comforts; protects.
      It projects your civility; a gentility that was
      taught by the gentle man to whom
      you owe so much. But that singular touch
      says all it can when held in your hand.
      You take her face between your soft grasp,
      cheeks to be stroked and loved, a dip
      to sip her lips sweet nectar as you respect
      her and care. You do not dare to strike out.
      It is about the bond of love you share,
      all told in the holding of hands.

    62. PKP says:

      the ole song sang on
      “..got the whole world in His hand”
      now but small child’s play

    63. PKP says:


      The world thrumming
      faces, fiction, fact
      fingertip access
      sometimes knowledge

    64. PKP says:


      Over the sheeted tent
      from the gaping slash
      past blood and gore
      and muscles tore
      tiny waving fingers
      reach to grasp
      a helping hand

    65. PKP says:


      Machines whir
      butterflies lifting
      in a summer field
      surf gently slapping
      a sunshined shore
      whoosh of slalom
      anywhere but here
      with eyes closed

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