Hands

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Let me give you a hand, a hand up, hand-me-down, a hand out, handshake, hand me that, will you? Hands. So much about a person can be told by their hands. Soft, rough, working, calloused, dry, cracked, tender, red, scarred, slender, beautiful hands. Our occupation, hobbies, and even our very desires are written on our hands. What do yours do? Massage the grit out of a loved one’s tired shoulders? Sculpt clay into delicate figures, or sculpt young minds for a better tomorrow? Dance over an instrument, or scratch works onto paper?  So much passes between hands: cups, pencils, books, blankets, tickets, money. But how often is physical contact made? Often, we position ourselves so as to not touch others, even briefly. We fear connection. Hands have the great power to heal, or to harm. Violence may be done by that comforting hand on your shoulder. Hand in hand we may prance towards our destruction. But connection through touch is a potent and tangible expression of love. Our hands define who we are and sometimes who ache to be. A hand resting at the side may be yearning for connection with stifled cries.

Eye Love You

It has been said that eyes are the window to the soul. In fact, it has been said so many times that it has become cliché. However, the statement holds truth, and that may be one of the reasons that we do not look people in the eye now days. When you make eye contact, you are really looking at a person. Not at their body, but at their Mind and their Heart. There are six muscles that control eye movement, and even more in the face surrounding the eye cavity that play into our expression of emotion. We can smile and frown in our eyes alone, even if we force our lips to be still. When our hearts break, it is our eyes that leak tears. But perhaps the most frightening thing about making eye contact is that when you look into someone else’s soul, they can see into yours.

Lost At Sea

I have stared past these waves so long that my Heart set sail.

“Failure is imminent,” my Mind warned, but to no avail

He shoved off anyway

And I watched as my Heart turned the corner of the earth,

Slipping past the horizon like falling off a table, but I thank the High Heavens that the earth is not flat.

If we could travel by simply folding the map, my Mind and I would search the deep blue for that life giving, Blood pumping muscle, but it doesn’t work like that.

So I sat and I waited, but day turned to evening, and evening to night. The Great Light passed by six times, but still so sight of return.

Meanwhile, my Heart shipwrecked on your sandy shores, and yes this Ship is a Wreck, but feast your eyes on my Feelings and not my Faults. I may be dying, but I Love you.

I am tethered to my hopes, but whether they are an anchor, or a ball and chain (dragging down me into the chilly depths) remains to be seen. I am cold, so I shrug into my straight, white jacket and admit that: “I am insane.”

But even the crazies have their scraps of Truth, and even the daydreams and absurdities are based in reality.

Though my Mind is disinterested, I rock red-eyed on the shore searching for the sails of the ship of my Heart on his maiden voyage home – maiden because despite leaving many times, he never came back. I hold out, or up, or onto hope because it’s frightening to let go, to lack, and never look back. My Heart is out there somewhere, anywhere?

As the Sun dawns on the seventh day over blood a red flood, I realize that I cannot realize my dream. My Heart, though he knows not, is free. Free to run, roam, race, break, beat, burst, fall, fail, fade . . . Free.

Lost

                  At

                                    Sea.