Promises

He stood before me.

I watched his hands.  Insufferably

elegant

for one such as he.

 

Hands undo me, after all.

 

Nails so neatly clipped.

Soft, slender fingers

too delicate for a man

such as he.

 

And I thought the move much too graceful

as he reached inside his pocket,

   considering the slight tremor I watched flutter

vibrations surrounding us

         colours sacrificially bleaching  to

desert bones

 

Looking up.  into his eyes

I understood

      of course

And wondered

at the flight of fancy I’d allowed myself

 

Those beautiful fingers and

what I knew he disguised there.  A single one.

Just one.

“I can’t do this.”

 

~~

 

Paris is flawless in the Spring.  It held me

that year in delicate, elegant divulgence

shortening my breath

absolving broken glasses

         extenuating circumstances

 

And when I returned

his hands

were

calloused.  And surly.

 

I stepped back

in my colourful bioluminescence

watching the gracefulness of my

own fingers reaching ...

 

“I won't do this . . .”

Reviews

[Moflo]

I love the way this poem escalated. The weathering of "his" fingers really speaks a lot, rather Paris crippled his artistic charm or he has lost some form of innocence, either way, it was depicted brilliantly. I personally saw him as a soldier in war, but it can be interpreted different ways. Very nicely written! Great work!

[Butterfly]

this pleased me.

[Ed Hart]

sometimes there's a thing, a look, a way of standing, hands that conduct the music in our heart...and we fall, right there, completely...and then...and then...we are turned away into a sad retreat, wondering...and then...and then...with a little seasoning, we grow, our eyes wizened by just so much, and the interrupted circle of possibility returns us to the same monument...and we close our eyes to it...the parameters of magic have changed...but, i understand, i understand, sometimes hands make my clothes fall off--(historically speaking, of course)

[Marshal Gebbie]

Brilliant perception here J. I felt like an on site camera panning to his slender hands.

[Zeek4]

Lovely story telling in a poetic form. Your descriptions allowed pictures to dance in my mind.

[Ink Stained]

I am fascinated by hands, too. My mother, who passed recently, her hands at age 82 were pale, had liver spots, and gave her pains. Yet, she still could spend hours putting small pieces together in a jigsaw. In your poem the hands tell a far different story. His hands, her hands. Paris, springtime. Afraid to touch? What secrets? Good job!

[Chris]

I was struck by the sense of one of a "pair" being turned away in Paris and the other of the "pair" being turned away later on. Promises - even of a future - carry a price of admission, acceptance, and denial... even the ones we make to ourselves.

Chris

[emmajoy]

Firstly the picture made me wonder why rain, why not early morning, midnight lights, summer, winter .. but then, having read the poem I realise that drops of rain splattering the Arc de Triomphe gives the impression of surface being eaten into, being defaced or whatever, . just like your Paris ..

Then, dear Jill, your words, haunting raw and beautiful .. a 'sorry I can't', an admission, a confession, a moment between two notions. Places, faces alter and memories turn towards another journey

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

A daring piece to say the least, the structure almost leads the reader by the hand and relate the plotted story early, leaving no expectation, clouded judgment and emotional relevance speak to us all, well done, good read.

[Forest Green]

Changes brought by time are measured in absence, causing each modification to seem a mollification of what we once knew, or believed we knew; where possibilities march confidently into neverland and the longing that was quick and bright becomes submerged in a current of regret. Nothing replaces a moment of discovery......nothing.

Excellent poem of thought in working harmony.

[Tate Morgan]

I have to say i dint expect the end and I liked the way it played I truly think the pic divine