*I've had the first line of this poem for at least a year. It took a timed writing exercise to get those other lines out of me; it still doesn't feel finished to me - far from it in fact. Thank God birthing human creations doesn't take as long as the artistic ones. Read. Enjoy. Feed back (if you please).
"Solider's Hands"
He doesn’t have a soldier’s hands--
soft
no calluses
clean fingernails.
These can’t be the same hands
toting M-16s
digging ditches
slinging Cammo net,
and yet
four plus years of his life spent
on this mission.
Now, his touch is his only ammunition.
And I’m the poet in this outfit,
But when he touches me, I listen.
A caress worth a thousand words,
and I’m an avid reader.
And I’m a firm believer
in communication being
ninety percent non-verbal.
So I study the language of his hands
and speak it fluently.
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3 comments:
Magnificent! You may feel as if it's unfinished, but true artists never feel as if their work is complete. I think I remember you telling me that first line a long time ago. Keep sharing your creations!
aw, shucks! thanks, homie.
i even felt these hands.
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