Hands

My hands have become a New Englander's.
They match my soul, my birthplace, my feet.
Cracked, hardened, and dry.
My hands are only 22 years old, but they are working hard:
One fissure on my index knuckle from a jacket which I
Zip up, zip down, zip up.
My hands look like they were wet and I dipped them in flour
Yet are brown from the sun, even in winter.

My hands hurt all the time:
To make a fist, to wash, to moisturize.
They are prideful and hardening
Like the oak tree's root under the snow.
They stand for my recent past.
My lack of sleep, my sore back, my saved money.

My hands are not as beautiful as the old woman's hands
That give me change for her coffee every morning:
Her hands feel like hard plastic
Swollen with blood,
Like 70 years in New England.
Her hands are my weeping willow, which,
Knotted and sagging,
Still grandly lives.

Welcome: An explanation

Welcome to this poetry blog. Most reading will know that I don't enjoy naming my poetry. However, in order to choose a good name for my blog and a good name for the blog's website, I chose two lines from two poems I've written--not necessarily my favorites, just two lines that caught my eye skimming through my poetry tonight. Here they are:

On days when it rains like this,
I see
The whole being of New England land
Muggy, cold rain
Rain that drops,
Drop,
Then pours and pours.
Then stops.
Then starts.

It colors that bright foliage wet,
The rain.
The sky is gray and nothing gleams
The worms wriggle on the sidewalk,
Squirming to find the earth,
Like us, wishing to be less exposed,
And safe inside the warm ground.
Yes, I see the New Englander in us today!
We trudge through with our heads down,
Walking brusquely
But resignedly, too.

On days like this—
When it rains—
We are one terrain:
New England.
And we accept this weather.
Sans complaints of the heat,
Over-reactive shivers to the cold.
Just a wade in the water,
A dismal, commiserative nod to your neighbor
A Northern, droopy face that tells your story
Of tiny hardships
The rain weighs down today

Worms grow pale,
Leaves grow dark,
Spirits droop in the
Rain that drops,
Drop,
Then pours and pours,
Then stops,
Then starts.

---

Do I send out a signal that speaks failure?
I must, to be regarded so.
Now, I won’t be taken lightly.
And I’ll take this how I felt it hit me.
Close my mouth and develop my ear.
I’m going to be sincere:

I’ll be a cocoon of energy.
Don’t assume I’ll lose.
I’ll test myself in every way.
Every day.
I don’t need your overseeing, authority,
Believe me; believe in me.

A signal that speaks failure?
Deep down,
I’m too hard on myself, I know.
Time to let that show:
This me will speak darker, clearer, unfrazzled, untied.
The inside, Oh, the inside!--

A signal of Passion
You won’t have known it until me.
[You didn’t know how passionate I was!]
Enough to speak without speaking.
To capture you without your
Undivided (recital-goer) attention!

--I’ll be beautiful in energy.
Yes, my dark eyes are alive and for once not winking.
I’ll sing each language perfectly.
It won’t be a phrase, but a burning plea.
You’ll see what you never saw in me.

But I always knew I was there.