These Hands (201?)
I looked down at these hands
No longer those
Of some younger man
They made some big mistakes
On looking back
Painting bright hopes upon a man
To make a better world
Because he started out as black
I dared believe in love
But in my foolish bravery
I learned to want it too
To hold it in my palms
As fresh
As waters of my happiness
Innocent of rituals
Strangers to distress
These hands have seen some action nonetheless
They would write in long lines
For the daily bread of typists
Botswana is a semi-arid country
Just the size
Of France or of Texas...
I began to visualize
They could do more than this
Their fingers, they would play
Sevillian arpeggios and trace
The passion place whereof I sang
Until every song had passed crescendo
Was done in kisses
diminuendo
These soft middle-aged hands
Held my new-born one
A daughter, I gave thanks -
(Never wishing for a son)
These hands do not aspire
To mould someone
Yet still not at peace
Itching to contend and fight
Burning, rash and desperate
To seize a shred of poetry
Grasp a shard of light
These hands, whose thumbs
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poem by Frank Bana
Added by Poetry Lover
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