"Work with your hands."
(I heard him say)
You'll have more than enough: bless away...
Give no thought for tomorrow: who knows?
Come what may.
So I followed the easy path: the life; the truth; the way.
Callused hands; still not feeble.
Scared left arm; survive the needle.
Now grey; nothing's wrong.
Now these hands, have a second job...
One that gives: pure delight.
(And keeps him tapping, deep into the night)
Hands pay the bills; Hands she'll be right...
Snookered? Not unaided.
I am up; for the fight.
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Author:
Valiantstar (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 30th, 2026 09:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
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Comments4
Well written. Your poem reflects on the experience of manual labor and the emotional and physical toll it can take, while also celebrating the joy and dignity that can come from that work.
Thank you
This poem speaks of a changing course and mind nicely done
Correct, again. The transition feels inevitable, but then again, no one knows what tomorrow brings?
No one knows indeed
Keeps us out of mischief, less idle hands for the devil's workshop! 🕊️🙏
Many folks in retirement 'complain' that they have less spare time than when they worked. Some ironical truth in that.
I'm in what they call "semi retirement". That's the age when you can't afford to retire. Thus my dilemma - writing doesn't pay my bills, but occupies my mind.
Certainly does - I wouldn't have survived that Covid lockdown ( when I started) without it.
I'm glad you did! Now, I did notice that you have twenty years on me, so I'll try not to complain, too much.
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