Dirty Hands


Dirty hands pressed together

searching for a spring

to wash away these frosty days

and ease this suffering


Dirty hands push the plow

to sow tomorrow’s pain

a blistered blessing glist’ning sweat

held out in hope of rain


Dirty hands reach up

grasping for a plate

to feed a fickle fantasy

a hunger for to sate


Dirty hands dealt down

clenched and forming fists

a promise for preeminental

pummels upon wrists


Dirty hands pointing out

for bags of silver three

the way for bloody feet to tread

and darkened eyes to see


Dirty hands dig themselves

deeper everyday

a pity as their penitence

but buried there to stay


Dirty hands rub upon

dirty arms and legs

with dreams pristine they seek to clean

themselves down in the dregs


Dirty hands pressed together

nowhere left to go

despair set in through sordid sin

without forgiving flow


Dirty hands drift above

and flail to stay aloft

within the miry muck downpoured

from clouds above the waft


Dirty hands plunged beneath

the dark and stormy tides

for their at last once all has past

their cleanliness abides


Stressing the end



I know nothing too early and never too late

but blatant significance causing sincere

departures from sanitized reasoning fear


Yet frustrated facing the fast-pacing year

I find myself longing the steadier gait

of a past wrought in trial with triumph as bait


To move on through these half-numbered days as they leer

desponded, distracting, held down by the weight

of the numberless tasks which must be done by eight


So then turn me lest one side grow numb in the wait

and chase from the other cheek pains of the tear

or full stop the blind spots through which our souls peer