Because we all want to write more poems.
Discoordination
These hands of mine.
Well, they say they're mine;
they're attached, after all--
though I can shake them,
still I can't shake 'em.
They do my bidding,
more or less--
these days it seems less than more
or perhaps I've become jaded
expect too much,
and though they have in fact
become fantastically well-tuned
over the years,
I'm always greedy for more,
never satisfied.
They seem at times such clumsy things,
blunt unfeeling terminal stumps
on larger unfeeling limbs.
There, see? A word for trees!
I've often wished for fingers
on the ends of my fingers
to do the fine work
mind envisions.
O, for hands like a jeweler's!
Elegant and tapered,
capable of such finesse!
I'm told I must make do
with these.
We get along well enough
I suppose they'll do.
- Benjamin Gorman's Shared Poems
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Comments
Michele McFadden
December 29, 2012
Permalink
Discoordination
Very visual. Thank you. A potter's poem. I especially like these lines:
I've often wished for fingers
on the ends of my fingers
to do the fine work
mind envisions.
It's perfect.