Editors Blog

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 255

For today’s prompt, write a handheld poem. Whether it’s video games, smart phones, or soft tacos, the world is filled to the brim with things that can be held in one hand (or both). Consider the handheld and write your poem.

Here’s my attempt at a handheld poem:

“Two Hands”

In one hand, I grip a rolling ball pen;
the other holds a spiral-bound notebook.

The world won’t notice the notice I took,
capturing every quick noun and verb–

as for the adjectives, I try to curb
my enthusiasm (and mostly, I fail).

I anchor images before they sail
into choppy metaphorical seas

of self-conscious lines, rhymes, and similes.
There is a spark and a fire that burns bright,

but when the words come, they never come right.
Still, these two hands will try and try again.


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Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and a poet who usually starts with pen and paper. Outside of his cell phone, his last handheld electronic device was one of those bulky Gameboy consoles (like the first iteration of it with the green screen). His addiction to Tetris forced him to make a decision–either he could sit around in his mom’s basement stacking pixels on a screen or sit around in his mom’s basement breaking lines. Either way, it’s not good money. By the way, check out his collection Solving the World’s Problems and follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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128 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 255

  1. avabutler


    There is a box in my hand
    That is small and square
    Tied up with a bright red band
    Could it be so unfair?

    A clip from my grandma?
    A strawberry pie from past me?
    A bullet from grandpa?
    What could it be?

    My hand has a heart
    My head has no thought
    “Just pull the pin you old fart
    Your country has fought!”

    But the pressure has built
    I don’t want it no more
    If I open it now,
    I won’t be here no more.

  2. Domino

    with the years
    hold the infant close
    recalling her baby’s first days
    remembering similar eyes peering, myopic
    the years melt away and tears flow
    an old woman weeps
    full of joy

  3. foodpoet

    I guess this is more touching than holding but it’s what I came up with

    the keyboards, an ensemble of shackles
    wait to suck our individualities
    leaving only blank eyes and
    obedient fingers clicking away our futures
    every day another report for the betterment
    Of electronica is filed away in bites and bytes
    And the teeth only grow longer

  4. Dishaa

    A special Hand

    There was a hand when i was born
    That protected me from pricks and thorns

    Then come a hand which shaped me through
    Though stubborn and tough,
    But its intentions were true.
    The twains are still important to me,
    But they no more listen to my voiceless plea.

    Then came a hand that made me wise,
    Taught me everything and raised my price.
    But there are still some hands
    Which pat me, beat me, tease me to hell
    But together when they come
    They form a precious band,
    In short we call them friends.

    There would be still more hands
    Which will use me, help me and will make me some space
    But that one hand is so special
    That none would fill its place.

  5. Neelam Dadhwal

    At The Wits’ End

    I ignored this all time
    how my fingers spread on these tiny chips
    I begin the life of putting words
    into memories.

    In my lap and sometimes
    could clutch back in my palm,
    few keystrokes I remember the moments
    that gather.

    One fine evening, I am left
    with my new Apple with screensavers
    of her, the ones I designed
    out of my fantasy.

    How strong the waves
    crash back out of scene
    I lament my muse gone
    in the wild, where I cannot find.

    Now I talk to winds
    and scare the people away
    with my thoughts but once
    I pride her rushing back to me.

  6. Neelam Dadhwal

    At Wits’ End

    I ignored this all time
    how my fingers spread on these tiny chips
    I begin the life of putting words
    into memories.

    In my lap and sometimes
    could clutch back in my palm,
    few keystrokes I remember the moments
    that gather.

    One fine evening, I am left
    with my new Apple with screensavers
    of her, the ones I designed
    out of my fantasy.

    How strong the waves
    crash back out of scene
    I lament my muse gone
    in the wild, where I cannot find.

    Now I talk to winds
    and scare the people away
    with my thoughts but once
    I pride her rushing back to me.

  7. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    Hand-Held Poem

    Robert held it first and thought that it was fly.
    He handed it to De who simply said: “Oh, my.”
    In Marie’s hands it found a temporary home.
    She held it like a prayer (this sacred hand-held poem),
    then passed it on to me, this poem that knows no rest.
    I look around the room… I believe that you are next.

  8. PSC in CT

    (Must have known this prompt was coming, as I wrote this poem 1 day prior….)

    For You Today:

    these fingers, this hand
    (which can’t be seen
    by the naked eye)
    clasp yours snugly.
    These invisible arms
    embrace, swaddle, envelop
    both of us together
    in a blanket of comfort
    and strength.
    Make no bones
    of their mystical truth:
    not corpo-
    (but none the less
    oh so very)

  9. lionetravail

    “I Read the News Today, Oh Boy”

    It was nine
    when I read the news,
    and I stopped


    It was nine
    the size of the handheld
    which is today’s
    first equalizer and
    last argument of kings.

    It was nine
    the age at which his whole future

    It was nine,
    it was nine,
    it was nine-
    Tailors, Circles, Wraiths, all-
    and I found myself holding my head in my hands,
    the text on the page transformed
    to a lump in my throat.

  10. priyajane

    Between My Hands

    I hold between my hands–
    Ashes blazing a gaze—

    What once, like a lotus
    lit my sun and moon
    Now, desiccated and charred
    Into a dust of memories
    gathered in an earthen pot—

    Coarse, untainted truth
    that I hold between my hands

  11. Susan Schoeffield


    A fragile thing I used to hold
    began as something fresh and bold
    then slipped away on shifting sand.

    Perhaps my fingers, holding tight,
    released their grip, so it took flight
    to places it believed more grand.

    An impasse I could never breach
    has moved forever from my reach
    the heart I once held in my hand.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  12. Connie Peters


    I hold in my right hand
    a Kindle named by brand to read
    so many things I need and want.
    And then to left and front, I hold
    my slightly beat up, old laptop.
    From Kindle I then hop to it;
    I hear prerequisite loud ding
    ‘cause Words With Friends the thing I play
    so often night and day.

  13. PressOn


    Years ago, the phone I bought
    could really fit my hand;
    today, a phone’s not what it ought:
    it’s cumbersome and grand

    and overflows the bounds of taste,
    a computer picking bones
    with apps that mainly are a waste
    on hand-held telephones.

  14. Nancy Posey

    Holding Hands

    The skating rink was little more than an excuse
    for holding hands, circling counter-clockwise
    to “Mony Mony” and “Dizzy,” the closest thing
    to loving for a girl of thirteen. Sweaty palms,

    rented shoes, hard wooden floors—nothing
    smelling faintly of romance.—but still we spun
    in circles, not so long past “Do you love me? Yes?
    No? Check One.” The fast girls, the regulars, knew

    how to two step, skated backwards with ease,
    but most of us, mere mortals, just kept circling,
    hoping somehow we’d end up with something
    more than we had when we began. Removing

    our skates, returning them to the window,
    retrieving our shoes, we looked around to see
    if holding hands meant anything like love.
    We only hoped he’d meet our eyes on Monday.

  15. Brian Slusher


    My spread hands, boards of a book
    I’m binding, the pages the days of
    a life I’m writing, and I’m afraid

    the hero’s in trouble, a counterfeit
    Quixote who knows the windmills
    yet tilts for the show, and the ladies

    are waiting for something authentic
    and yawn as he gallops, and no
    matter how splendid the lance’s

    contact, the reader infers the dragon
    still lives, curled in his cavern,
    a comfortable monster, who breathes

    brilliant bursts as he dreams of
    a death most worthy and epic,
    a battle where victory isn’t the

    theme, but struggling uncertainty,
    and doubt supreme.

    1. lionetravail

      Wow. That is about as tightly packed a set of images as I have ever seen. Beautiful, and a fantastic use of language and rhyme in such a small and perfect-sounding work!

  16. lionetravail

    “Paradox of Faith”

    When I was small,
    he most certainly held the whole wide world in his hands.
    During self-absorbed adolescense,
    he might have seemed a bit hands-off to me.
    Mildly more mature,
    he was either handily inconvenient
    or inconveniently handy.
    Now, perhaps yet a bit more mature,
    I can understand how where I am
    is all about my perspective, not his;
    I see how he can hold the whole wide world in his hands,
    but manage a hands-off approach at the same time.
    You gotta hand it to him.

  17. Walt Wojtanik


    Water, water everywhere,
    and therein lies the rub.
    Wash tubs reverting to
    squirting geysers. It would have
    been wiser to install a sump.
    But I am relegated as a delegate
    to dump what I can not pump.
    There once was a man with a bucket
    who today wished he were in Nantucket.
    That would surely float my boat!

  18. Walt Wojtanik


    You’re picking up a wavelength,
    the strength of which is as strong as cable.
    You are able to envision whatever you choose;
    your decision is at your fingertip. Infrared
    is not dead, if you know what I mean,
    remotely programmings your TV screen!

  19. Walt Wojtanik


    His breath grew more shallow,
    cheeks hollowed and gray.
    Today will be a good day to die.
    It’s not as if he had a choice.
    His voice, a faint memory and
    the tremors he had lay silent,
    still. Flanked by baby girl and
    namesake, taking his breaths
    one labored inhale at a time.
    Your hand grips his and your
    sister holds as well. We could
    tell he was fading, no longer
    evading death’s bony grip,
    as he slipped into the light,
    his fight was over. Hands
    feeling the same in death
    as moments before. No more
    to languish; anguish gone.

    1. lionetravail

      Love the internal rhymes, unpredictable but recurring as little gems throughout the poem. I also very much liked the line “It’s not as if he had a choice”… it made the “Good day to die” very personal and human to me.

  20. seingraham


    On the
    tiny screen,
    the vignette
    plays out;
    a slice
    of jerky history
    with a hand-held
    and stored
    on it too

    Now, it
    has come
    into my possession
    by this quirk
    of fate,
    found in a box
    of random items
    for a song
    at a flea-market

    At first I am
    then bored
    Then suddenly,
    suddenly I
    lean forward
    unsure of what
    it is I see…
    I watch
    a child torture
    and kill a cat
    — no, no
    That can’t
    be what’s
    I think

    But I know,
    as I look
    for a way
    to rewind
    That there
    are no
    special effects
    here –
    no splicing…

    This is an
    and what I
    just saw
    is what I
    am going
    to see,
    and see again.
    Oh my God.

  21. Jane Shlensky


    He will not speak into my face,
    a phone call often empty air,
    but texting seems to lend him grace
    so in his life, I have a place,
    small, hand-held, but I’m there.

  22. taylor graham


    You always hoped for a door
    opening to light – a path to travel,
    flaring torch to lead the way.
    That job. You arrive in morning-dim,
    grasp the doorknob as of
    it were the future in your hand;
    walk in the door, wonder if
    the boss might by chance show up
    today. Mr. Flame, with a shock
    of red hair to prove it. You’d seen him
    only once; his eyes somewhere
    else and, in a moment, so was he.
    You spend your day in silence
    addressing envelopes to who knows
    whom. You’ve often wondered
    what’s the purpose, but keep
    the wonder to yourself. Today,
    a single piece of note-paper lies
    on your desk, the kind that comes
    free in the mail from charities hoping
    for a hand-out, pink rosebuds
    in the corner of each sheet. Now
    you hold the scant scrap in your hand.
    In sweeping Flame-script it reads,
    “you needn’t come back.” It’s
    not twilight yet. Behind you,
    you shut the door opening on a new
    quality of light.

  23. Misky

    Once Upon A Time When There Were Pockets

    My mum made her own clothes,
    Dresses with deep pockets she chose,
    And because she never carried a handbag
    Her pockets carried all the cash she had,
    A bit of money, her red lippy and keys,
    And off we’d go shopping, my mum and me.
    Those were the days before handhelds,
    Unless it was my small hand she held.

  24. De Jackson

    Palming Psalms

    Perhaps if I press them
    into my hand, I’ll remember
    I’m a girl who’s
    fearfully, wonderfully
    made of something
    more than all this
    crazy whirl.

    Maybe if I mold them
    into my skin, I’ll remember
    to sink in and know,
    solid rock
    under my feet,
    breathing room
    for my soul.


  25. Sara McNulty

    Reluctant Wedding Guest

    Hold it! Do not bring
    that handheld microphone
    over to me, and expect
    witty remarks to pour forth
    about the bride and groom,
    to whom I have barely
    spoken two sentences since
    we met briefly at a cousin’s house.
    Hold it! Do not bring
    that handheld video camera
    anywhere near me. Focus
    on the bride, groom, or anyone else
    in this enormous room.

  26. bclay

    Its a Digital’s Life

    the red wine stains on my favorite suit
    texted to inform that they were deeply appalled
    with the drycleaning lady’s unimaginable poor masseuse talent,
    in claiming they felt desserving of a professional rub-down
    to accompany their multiple runs through the steamer/sauna,
    they even advised to look for a better drycleaning service,
    particularly one in the upscale part of downtown
    with a better view of the inlet marsh or the marina,
    since they have contacted the EPA over aparent chemical drainage violations,
    however, they do expect to be finished with their spa appointment
    within the hour, and to please have the driver pick them up in time
    for their daily afternoon board meetings, during which the driver
    should have ample time to run to Martin’s pick up their new golf clubs
    and be back for them to make their 4 p.m. tee off,
    after-which if I have any further questions to please leave a message with
    their secretary, as they will be turning their phone off so as to not be disturbed.

  27. cstewart


    As I held your emotions in my eyes,
    As I held the speakers podium,
    As I held the crisis of a conscience,
    As I held the coincidence in mind,
    As I held the police up with my body,
    As I held the marchers beside me,
    As I held you in my heart,
    As I held the music in memory,
    As I held the emblem of courage,
    As I held the painting forever,
    As I held the colors in my body,
    As I held the signal to move on,
    As I held the instigation of violence,
    As I held the purpose of my life,
    As I held the martyrdom of many,

  28. priyajane

    Grandpa s Fountain Pen

    The one that he kept
    real close to his heart
    The one that he left
    when death did them part

    This Fountain pen scribbled
    lapis drools on blank page
    And grew fervent ripples
    in palms, free of cage

    Its feathery convictions
    were weighted with feelings
    And with liquid injections
    It refilled some healings

    With fingers inspired
    they sent signals to his brain
    And then what transpired
    Was connecting some lanes

    Such comfort I find
    in its golden tip shine
    A grandfather’s sign
    handed down to my prime

    I keep it near me
    and stroke his hand
    In hope that just maybe
    it will speak to my sand—-

  29. PressOn


    For want of a hand, the step was missed;
    for want of a step, the stairs were missed;
    for want of the stairs, the door was missed;
    for want of a door, the room was missed;
    for want of a room, the bed was missed;
    for want of the bed, the bliss was missed,
    and all for the want of a stretch-out hand.

  30. lionetravail

    “What a Lady Saw at the Bazaar” (or “Once More Into the Breeches, Dear Friends”)

    [previously published Ad Libitum- 2007, but appropriate, I thought, for its many hand-held things: http://www.einstein.yu.edu/docs/publications/ad-libitum/ad-libitum-2007.pdf

    I took me a guy to a seller’s bazaar,
    And there I saw stuff which was truly bizarre!
    “I swear by Phobos…” my date, Chun, declared-
    “Oh swear not by inconstant moon!” I then shared.

    We went there to shop for a bargain or two,
    And for me to see if Chun were “a good man, and true”.
    “I like this place”, said I, so smartly of wit,
    “and willingly could waste my time long in it!”

    One of the traders had plenty of tables,
    And wares stacked on top with their own pricing labels.
    There were numerous slogans on buttons and buckles,
    So clever, in fact, that I read them and chuckled.

    “Now is the winter of our discount tents,
    So if you find yourself of the camping bent,
    Just come on down and here do the deed-
    If you do not pick us, well, do we not bleed?”

    And “This above all, to thine own self be true-
    Come browse my tables for something brand new!
    Neither a borrower nor lender, be,
    For I don’t take credit, just hard currency!”

    On display on one table were cloaks of exception,
    With a sign “The best part of VELOUR is discretion”!
    Chun pointed next at the work of great bowyers,
    Labelled (quite fairly): “To kill all the lawyers!”

    Oh, sure, there were stacked both fine arrows and slings,
    Which were certainly stylish and quite deadly things.
    Written near them was this opportune pun-
    “More slings and arrows from Outrageous Fortune!”

    On a stack of fine gowns I saw this on one hem:
    “Some achieve ‘great dress’ which is thrust upon them!”
    A sign about sales tax was prominent, too:
    “I’m sorry, but I must give the ‘devil’ his due!”

    Some clerical collars had slogans like others:
    “We few, we happy few, we band of Brothers.”
    On a tray of religious-y bells shining bright,
    “Ring me so you’ll hear the chimes at midnight!”
    A fiddle, a lyre, and a pretty bodhran,
    Sat under “Just what piece of work can play man?”
    Some needlework table cloths they sat upon,
    Read: “If music be the food of love, just play on!”

    A sign boasting “Pets” showed a bowl with a guppy,
    And a crate labelled “Havoc”, which was holding a puppy.
    “Train him to battle and he’ll serve you, sure!
    Cry “Havoc” and let slip the canine of war!”

    Some plate-mail for women had a note which read such:
    “Methinks that the lady doth PROTECT too much.”
    Nearby, some soap bars my attention got,
    Proclaimed on their labels was “Out, Out, Damn Spot!”

    Underthings next caught Chun’s and my attention,
    And a label which was nearly too funny to mention!
    “On nighties, allow me to give you some tips:
    You’re standing, like greyhounds, in one of THESE slips!”

    I found myself laughing much more so than buying,
    As a slogan for love potions had me near dying:
    “Pour this in a fruit drink if you are that choosy,
    Since the course of love potion did never run smoothie!”

    So after long browsing, I decided that
    There were too many things one could “Shake” a “Speare” at!
    But the issue was not whether I’d impressed Chun-
    “To buy or not to buy?”- that was the question!!!”

  31. Linda Hatton

    I Do. You Don’t.

    You took my hands, placed
    eternity on one with good
    intentions, but now declare
    promises are meant to be broken
    when spoken. But I’m naïve,
    the one who disagrees
    and believes in forever after.

  32. amsecre

    My sweaty palms
    Hold onto yours for the last time.
    Words that couldn’t fit
    In the last twenty-three years
    Now have to fit in a moment
    Longer than I’ve ever known
    Your eyes stare.
    My breath catches in my throat.
    Slowly, I start to speak.
    And your hands fall from mine
    A future no longer mine to hold.
    Now I wonder
    Why I was the one to let go.

  33. writinglife16

    Hand held

    I held her hand.
    She didn’t know I was there.
    I sat watching her.
    Her soft breathing mixed with the
    spring breeze coming through the window.
    Strident beeping interrupted our
    I shut my cell off then.

    It made me think back.
    She had held my hand.
    I had known she was there
    My crying had stopped.
    I held her hand.
    She didn’t know I was there.
    I started to cry and then,
    her hand moved.

  34. elishevasmom

    These Little Hands of Mine
    (a Shadorma)

    With these hands
    I have the power
    to change worlds,

    to change lives,
    to change whole universes.
    Let me begin with mine.

    Ellen Evans – Copyright (c) 2014
    a “hands” poem for PA 2.19.24

  35. Azma


    My thumbs worked in tandem, forming words of delight
    That instant, the texts on my phone were the only thing in sight.
    I was on the brink of being oblivious to else all
    But just then, I was startled by a summoning call.
    It was from the kitchen. Mum said she needed help.
    ‘Do I have to work now?’ I almost let out a yelp.
    It took trouble to leave the comfort.As if my feet swelled.
    But till the kitchen, in my hand, still the phone I held.
    I was told to do some stirring, a job so unvaried
    but that didn’t matter because in my hand, still the phone i carried.
    My right hand swirled the spoon and my left controlled the phone conversation
    my mind entirely on my left hand and the cooking got little dedication.
    I didn’t care what i stirred- soup, porridge or stew
    but i think the smell was quite luring, because pangs of hunger it grew.
    It must have been an exciting text or maybe too strong a tilt
    Because the next thing I knew, the entire dish, had on the floor spilt.

  36. beana


    Fat fingers, bells gone wild
    Siri is talking – so is my child
    updates and reminders, lots gone on
    nothing is quiet Can’t stop this storm

    If you can work this right
    You’ll have a friend for life
    A keeper of your ever noting ideas
    May just be the way to escape the fears!

    Never did I imagine a poem in Notes
    Siri could be next My pen n paper while in tote!
    Almost excited – Maybe by fear
    Could this really work? My Dear!

    Maybe not ever day, but in a pinch my new friend could prove worthwhile
    But my loyalty will always be to my Bible.

  37. jasonlmartin

    Glass Stained

    All I did was toss a rock into the air, and like
    The breeze caught it just right, mid-flight,
    And flung into a small panel of green
    Where the glass grass met his feet.
    But I ran, assuming no understanding
    From the priest, the caretaker of the home.

    A church – His home, so says the priest
    Who chased me down the street in his robe.
    It was a sight. I wanted to stop to behold him.
    But I was too busy running like a boy thief.
    (had no criminal record, and did not want one,
    nor did not want condemnation in a confessional )

    This poem is about a boy,
    Me, if you must know,
    And a rock. A small rock.
    Not like a fish that grows larger
    As the memory grows taller.
    And a window. Stained glass.

    This poem
    Is divine
    In and of itself
    And doesn’t need intervention
    To cast it in a light
    For all to believe, to hallelujah.

    He has a plan
    For all of us
    But this isn’t one of those
    Spiritual poems
    That tells you to believe
    In his plan.

  38. beana


    Fat fingers, bells gone wild
    Siri is talking – so is my child,
    updates and reminders, lots gone on
    Nothing is quiet Can’t stop this storm

    If you can work this right
    You’ll have a friend for life,
    A keeper of your ever noting ideas
    May just be the way to escape the fears!

    Never did I imagine a poem in Notes
    Siri could be next – My pen n paper while in tote!
    Almost excited – Maybe by fear
    Could this really work? My dear!

    Maybe not every day, but in a pinch
    My new friend could prove worthwhile
    But my loyalty will always be to my bible.

  39. ninaloard

    In My Own Hands

    I remember your hands after the dance recital.
    One heavy and warm, the other dainty and bejeweled.
    Each linking me between them, keeping me steady on the ice.
    A child can’t know how long they’ll get to hold on.
    It doesn’t even occur to them to wonder.
    The hands that brought all things surely last forever.

    There came a day when I realized my hands were empty.
    That I’ve taken everything offered and expelled the lot in return.
    I’ve become what links others to this world, through determination and sacrifice.
    They take my hands, not to keep me steady, but because without me they will fall.
    I am grasping for something to keep me from shattering like ice.
    I am left standing alone, clenched fists at my sides.

  40. Poeeop

    Unwilling, shy, aloof and cross
    Despite my attempts at showing off,

    He pretends not to hear me
    He pretends not to see,

    But My experience dwarfs his and soon he will
    Dance like a puppet and struggle still

    He is surely not the first to succumb to my charm
    He’ll soon relax post the initial alarm,

    For no mere mortal can withstand
    I’ll soon clasp his soul in the palm of my hand

  41. mrowlands23

    In the same old kitchen I fumble
    through dark tunnel drawer,
    fingers twisting around crumpled receipts
    and past due bills, funneled like lost whispers.
    Elbow jams
    to find hard candies kissing one another
    and new batteries, dead.
    A staple shears into my shelled thumb
    and reminds me that I’m still alive,
    although sometimes
    I forget to remember

      1. mrowlands23

        I forgot to post the title to this poem. It is called “Build Up”

        You’re so right, but all too often we do. This poem was written from the perspective of someone who does exactly that. Letting life’s pressures build up like the clutter in the crowded drawer. Touching these items without actually feeling them. Passing through life in in the same numb way.

  42. Poeeop

    Unwilling, shy, aloof and cross
    Despite my attempts at showing off,

    A prize I see, this lofty quest
    To transform his “no” into “yes”,

    Ha! Boredome, simple child’s play no doubt
    Bigger have succumbed, yes mightier than thou,

    I’ve got tools at my leisure, tried and true
    Let’s see there’s greed, lust and envy too,

    No mere mortal dare withstand
    I’ll soon clasp his soul in the palm of my hand!

  43. Michelle Hed

    A Bird In the Hand

    I found you –
    sitting on my deck.

    I held you –
    in my hand,
    keeping you warm.

    I murmured words –
    like soft breezes
    over your head.

    I blew you a kiss –
    as my hand opened
    and you flew away.

  44. taylor graham


    My search-dog partner and best friend,
    who on a fresh spring morning
    picked one egg from a wild-turkey nest,
    carried it gently in her jaws
    and placed it in my hand – those jaws
    that could shake a rope-tug toy
    like it was a rag-doll;
    my dog who led me through dark woods
    as if on tiptoe, as if walking
    on eggs, to show me
    the lost woman she’d just found
    shattered but alive.
    My dog, dead now. But still
    she ranges sometimes into dream-sight
    so I reach to take her leash,
    to hold her with both my hands
    and then release, to follow her lead
    into the midnight forest.

  45. Connie Peters

    Hand-Held Security

    My client has poor depth perception.
    Checked tiles terrify him.
    Patterned carpets confuse him.
    Flowered rugs make him hesitant.
    Steps, objects, curbs hinder his progress.
    As he holds my hand, he becomes confident,
    and I wonder what his world looks like.

    1. lionetravail

      I agree- it’s excellent. I find the progression you used effective; the checked tiles which terrify and seem so ominous give way to confusion, hesitation, hindrance, and then turns finally to confidence. The last line is a wonderful transition, very thought provoking.

  46. PKP

    Okay folks be back later … Good morning Walt, Mitch, Azma and of course RLB!
    Street is a little bit empty this morning… Hope paths y’all may be walking right now
    include a stop here.

  47. mich

    On the one hand
    I could hold the wheel and steer
    On the other hand
    I could text or hold the phone to my ear
    Holding the lives of the others in one’s hands
    I will make the choice that’s clear
    Self-control saves lives

  48. Walt Wojtanik


    You extend your hand and she takes it,
    it makes it easier for her to get out of the car.
    You open your palm and she takes hold
    for untold pleasures reside and hide there.
    You grasp hers softly, a tender caress
    that relieves stress and comforts; protects.
    It projects your civility; a gentility that was
    taught by the gentle man to whom
    you owe so much. But that singular touch
    says all it can when held in your hand.
    You take her face between your soft grasp,
    cheeks to be stroked and loved, a dip
    to sip her lips sweet nectar as you respect
    her and care. You do not dare to strike out.
    It is about the bond of love you share,
    all told in the holding of hands.

  49. PKP


    Machines whir
    butterflies lifting
    in a summer field
    surf gently slapping
    a sunshined shore
    whoosh of slalom
    anywhere but here
    with eyes closed