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Prompt #121, It’s Post Your Poems Day!

September 5, 2012


What do hands do?

We Write Poems:  

A busy place, our hands!  Did you notice that?  Of course, it’s only obvious, however giving them this attention yet reveals some greater depth for just how much our hands “do” for us.  You could write a major face of your biography if all you did was observe and record all that your hands do moment by moment on any given day.

Thus our prompt for you was simply, Describe your hands as verbs!  What do hands do in your life?  How much as a writer were you able to surrender to simple intimate observation?  Time now to open your hands and share your poems with us.


Don’t have a poem yet? Perhaps read a few done by others here, be inspired. There’s still plenty of time to discover a poem for yourself!

Leave the links to your poems in the comments of this post, then go visit your fellow writers’ sites and read their work. Remember to leave only positive comments in the spirit of sharing and not critiquing. We look forward to reading your poems!

Please remember to include a link with your blog poem post that links right back to here, this “Post Your Poems Day”, so that others reading your poem can also share in this community poem experience – maybe even someone new to We Write Poems!

If you are new to WWP, please be welcome to look around and read. The full prompt description you can find under “Recent Posts” on the top right of our page.

    • September 5, 2012 1:33 pm

      I couldn’t get past the catchpa hurdle. What I tried to say was my appreciation of your lovely rhythmic hands poem.

  1. September 5, 2012 12:25 am

    hi! here is my entry.

  2. September 5, 2012 2:10 am

    Some surprises, some doubts. About normal then.

    hand me downs

  3. September 5, 2012 3:30 am

    interesting prompt. I think I could do a series, and this might be part I: these hands

  4. September 5, 2012 3:44 am

    Blog is “on vavation” Sorry, but I need to post here

    Hand Tools

    Life was less complicated, if harder,
    back when we just
    plucked our vermin with our hairy-knuckled
    fingers, and ate them, along with apples and grubs.
    That speck or so of our own blood lending
    a little smack of copper-iron.

    Just now, I tried to crush a flea
    between my index fingernail and a line
    of notebook paper, but the hard thing hopped,
    and will have me for lunch or a midnight nosh.

    The answer, of course, would be to use
    my civilized fingers to pop
    a plastic vial of neurotoxin and drip drip drip
    to the base of my squirming cat’s skull;
    afterward, carefully
    washing my hands of the whole matter.

    • September 5, 2012 8:30 pm

      Oh, I love this Barbara. It is so clever.

    • September 7, 2012 12:10 am

      Your blog may be on vacation, but this poem isn’t. Sharp as rusty little tacks! There is a rawness of civilization exposed as we witness it evolve. That is clever indeed, yet does that more than just some better by allowing us to share that intimacy of experience – from the taste of copper blood right till we wash our hands as though in some far arrogance stepping outside ourselves. Incredible transitions for a mere count of three stanzas said. Also demonstrating how much “story” can be made with so few words. (applause goes here!)
      (I’m a fan)

      • September 7, 2012 6:02 am

        Really like this Barb, how you take us back to our beginnings and show us that we may not have come as far as we’d like to think. We seem to too easily forget that that small bit of intimate care bonded us to one another and made us aware of our need for relationship. Thank you for this well thought out piece of deep wisdom,


    • September 11, 2012 5:21 pm

      A unique take – I think that last paragraph sets an interesting tone. Take care of the cat, who brought in the flea. Are we really so civilized?
      A bit late to this party. But I enjoyed your verse. My link is above.

  5. September 5, 2012 4:55 am

    Not an easy one, that’s for sure. Here’s my attempt.

  6. September 5, 2012 5:48 am

    If you want humor you’ll have to go to my previous post at blogspot for my Sunday Whirl post…(Doughboy)
    This however is what evolved for this prompt:

    Partly because there is a somber anniversary approaching…thankfully also a happier one.

  7. Marian Veverka permalink
    September 5, 2012 5:54 am

    Dirty Hands

    My hands plunge eagerly into the newly turned earth.
    The earth is still damp, cold, it sticks to my fingers
    They look like they are wearing gloves.

    My hands love the earth, the crumbly, sticky feel of it;
    all the promise in those moist, brown particles.
    My fingers rub pieces of it, fistfuls are squeezed,
    pressed together, then released to return to crumbled
    grains which will be baked into dust by the sun.

    Today the sun is strong, the wind is gentle. I have
    A few small cabbage plants which can be set outside.
    Their leaves are pale wings, their stems weak and

    My strong fingers press the tender seedlings into the earth,
    their mother,who will nurse them and provide the nutrients
    which they will need to grow full and strong.

    I stand up and admire the straggly row of uncertain green
    Each plant is surrounded by its protector of earth with all its
    nutrients hidden deep inside. My hands and fingers are
    brown with it – I rub it off as best I can, then turn on the hose.

    A small trickle of water runs through the row of plants.
    As their unseen roots drink it, my earth coated hands
    reach out to let the water run over them, rub themselves
    together, try to stay clean for the rest of the day.

    • September 5, 2012 8:34 am

      Marian, your poem brought back a kalidoscope of memories of my days in the garden, feeling the earth on hands that reach to embrace it. Wonderful image you have created,


    • September 5, 2012 1:50 pm

      gardeners hands have to be among the most beautiful, scratches, torn nails and all.

    • September 8, 2012 7:31 pm

      Such a strong tactile poem, Marian, I really relished feeling of earth, pressing, plunging, crumbling, trickling.

  8. September 5, 2012 6:21 am

    Interesting prompt. Mine is here:


  9. September 5, 2012 6:53 am

    Ok mine’s a bit weird but here goes.

    you’ve got the hand it to us the small gods

  10. September 5, 2012 7:53 am

    Both Hands

    • September 5, 2012 1:58 pm

      This is scary and heartbreaking, because we know it is happening. Sorry, I couldn’t comment on your blog – the catchpa catches my old eyes out every time!

  11. September 5, 2012 8:45 am

    Here we are: Wai

  12. September 5, 2012 11:14 am

    Tried to post earlier. Must have messed something up

  13. September 5, 2012 1:28 pm

    My hands have been busy with other things this week – I have finished assembling the top and lining of a double bed quilt, and started hand quilting laurel wreaths in the plain squares. Last weekend I spent hours putting together instructions and photographs of my hands making a crochet bag for my blog. The garden has got away from me rather, and courgettes became marrows became sweet chutney with windfall apples. My head? Yes, a few haiku, but alas no poem for We Write Poems. I shall enjoy reading everyone else’s instead.

    • barbara_ permalink
      September 5, 2012 9:03 pm

      I think you just wrote one

    • September 7, 2012 2:18 am

      Funny yes, I think Barbara’s right. Right in front of us! 🙂

  14. September 5, 2012 3:15 pm

    Right now my hands are typing this note so that you’ll know my poem is up.

Comments are closed.