Chapel of
the Hand
“Here’s the church, here’s the steeple,
open the doors and see all the people.”
~Childhood game
“A bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush.”
~Anonymous
In my youth
I was a
lazy selfish
fool.
My silence
noisy with
inanities.
Barely aware
of the life
of the world
to come,
my hands
were lucky
to feel
their way
home
in the dark.
Later, thrust
into pockets
of private
despair
or folded
in discomfort
in order
to feel
happiness
more fully,
relief arrived
only after
pain.
Now, in midlife
my hands
are enacting
ritual and routine
with the same
slavish commitment,
barely differentiating
between
tactile touch
and a
posture
for prayer.
They, having
long mastered
never losing
consciousness
while
repeating the
same things
over and over,
(two pigeons
at the mercy
of the pale
dove inside
my head),
have
agreed
to be used
only for
good.
Tying my
message
to their work
they have petitioned
for flight.
Only the
redemptive
need apply.
If cleanliness is
next to Godliness,
who am I
to ask why?
They’ve made
my work
their yoga.
Rife with rituals
and metaphor;
polishing a table,
they polish
themselves.
Swabbing the bowl
they flush away
the stain of
selfhood.
Every toilet
is their baptistry.
Each intention
their Nicene creed.
Their tools
are simple:
holy water that prickles
the nostrils
and a sponge
for bathing the dead.
See how easily
they insist
my work
be love
made visible.
They’ll not
have me
doing things
like the undead,
zombified,
when the present
is all I
have left.
Palms folded,
they practice
a simple yet
practical prayer:
Renew everything
we touch.
Immaculate
imperfection
is a sign
of soul,
so in silence
I now feel clean
and unused;
my hands
abolishing sins
by picking
up the pieces
of abandoned
puzzles
and finding
how & where
they fit.
10/18/21
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1 comment:
Peter! I love your new poem! There is a mystical spirituality about this poem which I find very intriguing, appealing, hopeful and soothing on a mental, spiritual and physical level. Interestingly, those same hands, which at one point were self centered, awkward, afraid of the unknown and blind in the dark, are now towers of strength and beams of comfort to others, which, inevitably happens when the heart and soul overshadow the mind, which, draws one closer to self actualization. When this change of paramount importance occurs within the individual, those same familiar hands immediately acquire a renewed and vibrant persona of their own, leading to a newfound mission of doing good and blessing others with their gifts of love, warmth, caring, sincerity, strength and guidance, culminating into powerful selfless growth. All hands will have their own unique stories as to how they arrived at this beautiful, unselfish and sacred shore. For some, the destination along the way was likely harsh, cruel, bitter and even frightening at times. It is comforting to know that by surviving the hardships, pain and discomforts encountered,
the spirit
will inevitably strengthen rather than deplete, providing one does not resist or dismiss the lessons presented. If the lessons are received as intended, one’s Aura immediately radiates, sending rushes of positive energy throughout the body, leading to more love and cohesion throughout the Universe, individually and collectively. This outcome is not magic, neither is it always easy to achieve, but, it can be accomplished. Change is inevitable and we choose our destiny.
When the individual’s destination leads
to the Helping Hands, the Universe undoubtedly applauds. Peter, you have written yet another beautiful, thought provoking and profound poem. Deep. Please keep sharing your wonderful gifts with the world. Bravo! 👏
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