(NPM #6 write a poem about Hands)

This old patient, his long fingers

artistic, he must have held them tip to tip

his two fingers forming a steeple.

I see scars and ingrained stains

on the wrinkled skin of his hands

Suggesting amateur carpentry

Perhaps from childhood.

Today these hands flutter

like a butterfly with clipped wings

unable to unbutton the shirt with ease

these hands look like empty shells

about to crumble at the slightest touch.

Ironic and almost humiliating

the strength he once had

he thinks he can still own,

his pretexts of resistance

to allow me to help him climb up

on to the examining table.©


About Zakiah

I write poetry and some fiction, have a book that was published in 2012. . . Stray Thoughts/Winged Words. I have four grandchildren, ages 16 and half to almost 16 months. I love the ocean, and grew up along the Indian Ocean in South India. I am a retired physician. Don't know much else to say. Thanks for reading. That has been my profile for so many years. My daughter Saadia a great poet and story teller, has two sons; the oldest grandson is now 21 years old, doing architectural engineering at Missouri S&T in Rolla MO. His younger brother is almost 16 and taking driving lessons seriously and is in High School. The other two grandsons, children of my son Sayeed, are 9 and 5. I have recently published another book titled Gulistan, A home of Flowers. It has stories and memories of my childhood and of a distant land which I still consider as my HOME., even though I have lived here in the US for more than fifty years. Hope to see you on my blog.
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10 Responses to ODE TO A CARPENTER.©

  1. How very sad. Wonderful writing though. And kind doctoring.

  2. slmret says:

    Beautifully written, Zakiah — but how sad!

  3. Rupali says:

    Great observation. Time is cruel.

  4. That’s all of us one day. Beautifully written, as always.

  5. The old age ! I feel myself in your poem, Zakiah , but I am not a carpenter !
    Love ❤

  6. murisopsis says:

    *sigh* I can see those hands. I look at my own hands and wonder how they came to look so old. I wonder if I too will retain the illusion of strength in hands weak with age. This is a beautiful poem steeped in reality with a question hovering before my mind’s eye…

  7. I see my parent’s hands and soon mine. This is beautifully crafted.

  8. michnavs says:

    Aw, this is so sad….but beautifully written Zak

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