Thursday, November 12, 2015


So soft, those hands, held
velvet through lack of use,
crippled, racked with pain,
wrinkled in sad sighing,

held loosely to stop the
hurting, incapable of taking
hold, or hanging on, helpless
as they have made you, or

perhaps as you needed to be,
with a disease to which you
could only surrender, against
which there was no resistance,

no attempt to take a grip, or
to handle it in constructive
ways, but then, 'taking a grip'
you were sure, was what led

to madness, to those places
where you had been for so
long, that they held you in
their grip, even once you had

been released; and so, you sat,
hands folded loosely in surrendered
lap, languishing always,
in sullen, rheumatic depths.


  1. Oh, my. So much of this reminds me of my mother. She does not have the arthritis, but her attitude towards failing old age is not constructive. I'm not sure why, but I like the small stanzas for this.

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