PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Two skilled but sterile hands
Palms facing heaven,
Facilitate a child’s violent entry into the world,
Followed by a quick slap. It cries.
Cold and blinded by the bright lights it can’t
Go back, or question why.

The mother, lacking strength and senses
Reaches out her hands,
Craving contact.
Warm, wrapped in blankets, and
Pacified
He begins his struggle from boyhood to man
With small innocent hands.

In the beginning all is hand
To mouth, always
Reaching for
What’s out of bounds.

A boy must suffer tears and burns before he learns
His mother’s world isn’t as safe as she told him.
And even her soft hands will sting
If she thinks she can’t control him,
She can’t forever.

In school he raises his hand to
Ask if there’s ever a reason to kill.
“For democracy and freedom”
The response thrills him.

Before long he is a young man
With hands that know too much.
His mother begs him to stay,
He thinks she’s out of touch.
When her hands go up in frustration,
He considers it her resignation.

His life is finally in his hands.

The man returned home in a cold black bag.
He was dressed and buried by two skilled
But sterile hands, palms facing the earth.
His mom still keeps hers together, to ask
God to keep her son
Safe –
In his hands.