Hands

My hands seem so small
so much of the time.
They've never known
a true hard days work,
or held a dying hand.
They're too weak
to hold on to everything
that I wish to hold on to.
There are all sorts of hands
but the strongest ones
are the ones that are
holding me through.
My hands have cradled
a new born;
but the strongest
have cradled the most
broken of men.
The strongest hands
have held the tiniest of babes
too delicate for this world.
There are so many different
hands.
Small and tender ones,
large burly ones,
thin and worn ones
thick ones,
dirty ones,
clean ones,
each fits perfectly
in the strongest hands.

Attachment

once in a while
I wake up in a bed
that is not my own;
there's that split second
before I'm really awake
that I wonder if
I'll find myself
on your couch,
your gentle hand
on my shoulder
waking me up.
It's now one
of those places
that no longer exists
for me...
I can never go back,
things would never be
the same as they used to be
when I was foolish enough
to think that somehow
I belonged there.

Contented Dreams of a Fish

As the late afternoon light
reflects off the dazzling snow
and streams through my window
touching the different angles
of the world of my fish.
I wonder as he gaily swims about
captured in the splendor
of the afternoon light,
if he ever wants more.
Does my fish dream of rivers
with currents?
Of other creatures and rocks
and exotic plants.
Does he wish for ponds filled with
new and exciting things?
Does he ever wish he were a bird
and he could fly away.
My fish, swimming against the glass
does he feel trapped?
Does he dream of what could be?
Or does he take each day
for what is given.
Is he grateful for the flakes
that appear each day for him
to gladly gobble down;
or the days when he can
breathe easily in new water.
Does he delight in swimming round
his very own bowl in circles.

Something

So many branches
like arms reaching
towards something
the sky,
heaven,
birds,
something alive
to hold on to.
Roots sinking deep
into the earth
anchoring.
Looking for something
to hold on to;
so they're not blown away
We're a lot like trees.

Blood

I never see you
when I look in the mirror.
People always say we look alike,
I don't see it.
I thought I could deny you
pretend that your blood
doesn't course through my veins
pretend that we've never met.
It's not that I never tried
to love you;
believe me I did.
Sometimes I get tired
of pulling your yoke
all the time--
my back aches.
But as much as I try,
I can't even sit
and eat breakfast alone
without you interrupting
arguing with you in my head.
You'll never understand, will you?
Who could blame either of us.

Dusk

Dusk came quickly tonight.
You know that time
when light still lingers
somehow below the horizon
trying to give
that last bit of hope.
The sky painted
with mellow colour
ready to turn straight to black
like a dark sheet.
Perhaps dusk had better things to do
than to stay for evening tea.

Run

I used to have this plan
that one day I'd run away.
Not like how it usually is,
packing my bags and going
out into the cold night
stowing away on an empty
freight-train.
But one day I'd move
far away from here
and anything remotely familiar.
I'd re-invent myself
not be the boring me
I used to be
but a new a wild me, unafraid
of the unknown or dark alleys
I guess that plan died
when I learned how to love
how to grow attached.
Perhaps it simply sits dormant
waiting for when I need to
Run.

In the kitchen today

My father and I
sit together in silence
eating lunch at the same table
like strangers in a restaurant.
I watch my young white fingers
grasp the spoon gently
and bring it to my mouth.
While I see his,
out of the corner of my eye,
sausage fingers
permanently strained dark from earth
grip the spoon like a beast
made to live in a human's world.
People always say we're so alike
but we've never understood each other.