Posts Tagged ‘hands’

eating this
here, describe this meal.  burning
bread and crying cheese.  just like poems
are not about rounding words, but rather
fingering spoons.  hand to mouth and it’s
the motion that counts.  your hand inside
mine at the eating tabletop.  tell me how
it is your little finger moves, pull that string
to the beginning end.  tell me where the
nurture is.  cooking, we begin.  hunger
don’t mean what goes in mouth.
please or no, another dawn.  whether
or no, you think your hands assemble
a prayer, you do.  one cat whose nose
made home in my scent, dirty shirts
waiting turns on the closet floor.  did
she recall that first open door not lost?
and fed me wanting for months and
days.  here, here’s a mouth.

neil reid © october 2013
written for We Write Poems prompt Food, Glorious Food by Pamela
with thanks and credit to Dylan and his mom Liz for that phrase, “crying cheese” (cheese crying). please do read her post about her autistic son and how his experience reveals something new about our regard for language.

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prompt # 018
Need to Know Basis
by staff@wwp
Read the full prompt and poem responses by other participants.

Write three attributes of yourself, important for someone else to know. Write three attributes of another person(s) or group you know about them. Having those, tie the two lists together in a poem.

This wasn’t so obvious or easy actually. I imagined myself and just one other person; that simplified it some. Culling just three, and three that had some meaning was still some challenge – and how personal to get? Magnify that some for the “other” person imagined here. Wrestling those in turn was actually the easier part of the prompt, although I used a some fanciful and abstracted restating of both positions attributes. They are here intermixed, sort of almost a third unison of persons I suppose. Think this is a prompt that might well be addressed again and again, getting to better illumination. But as it is, so be it.

Thimble and needle

Like sparks, like something is broken.
Dare to look, even more to say?

Words, hands, old worn tools in the box. Red rust.
Words are like paint; brushes spread them about.
Splashes will do like continental pioneers.

Edges of maps imply more than otherwise said.
Somewhere witches just might be real.
Confusing sometimes, holding all of that.

Meals on the counter know how to combine
but like me, they like our company all the same.
Wild roots, rambling limbs, all genuine.

Some maps will conspire. Others remain
tattered in another room. Odd moments
assemble themselves.

Stories only suggest bare ideas.

neil reid © september 2010

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