"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: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
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Comments2
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
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