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Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Hands are Beauty

Hands Are Beauty
Hands
Hands are beauty
The ten elegant oaks rising from the wrinkled plateau
The fingernails, chiseled or curved, lined with nervous imprints of teeth
Dirt hiding under the cave of keratin
Dirt collected beneath a sapling
Or creating a masterpiece
Hands stroking paint across an empty space, thrusting color upon a crisp canvas
Hands doodling new unspoken thoughts along shimmering crystals on the window of an antique car
Hands tossing a peach kiss through the air
A sister’s hands braiding hair, coiling the strands with gentle affection and admiration
Hands coalescing to make the noise
The clatter of pride, power, and acknowledgement
The sound every individual craves, the accolade that cannot be transcribed on paper
Born by beautiful palms
Merely crashing against each other like furious waves
The soft hands of a mother holding her child, her soul kindled with the baby’s fresh light
A surgeon’s hands protecting vigor, aware the recipient will wither without the eleventh finger 
The warmth of the icy metallic scalpel
The hands of a G-d reaching down to us, instructing us to be more than animals but the earth’s keepers
Hands holding hands
The sensation holding onto my scarred skin
Holding each other, holding strength and resilience
Colossal hands, fragile ones, some colorless, other tinted
Hands blooming with youth and caving inward with age
All equal
All a sea of the remarkable, the captivating, the incomprehensible yet still familiar
The hands of the agrarian sewing a tree into the soil
The hands modern industrialist enjoying the harvest of that tree
The hands of a young voice grasping a pencil 
Just beginning to write, but ready to speak
The hands of the hearing impaired ready to shout
The hands of someone somewhere twisting a steel key to open the doorway to a world of creativity
The hands of a clock mumbling that the time we have is leaving, better revel in while we can
Hands scrubbing the soul clean, restoring our innate purity and acceptance 
My hands 
My hands trying to make sense of it all
Of why I am here and when will the world finally see
That there is beauty blossoming from the arms of every soul
That we all can harness it
That we all are the masters of an unnaturally organic force
My hands pressing down letters and syllables and the passion that bursts through my every cell and vessel
My underage hands writing this poem.

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Ariel is available and interested in anything creative!
For spoken word performances & workshops, web & graphic design, or other writing/film projects please contact via email at arielsob@usc.edu.
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