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Grandpa’s hands are scarred from all the gardens that he’s raised.
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They had deep grooves with woven paths of dirt and grime,
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Lined with sediments fossilized by the accumulated sands of time.
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Granite palms formed by the thorny bristle’s bite,
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Surrounded by mounds of calloused blisters
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Grounded down by the patient tides.
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Weathered fingers still gripped
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The shovel’s head
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Eager to dig into the vein
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Of reality’s mysterious thread.
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Sweat drops of duty still dripped from his determined brow,
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Watering the seeds before the plow.
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Despite the pain, he never griped of this strenuous deed,
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For he knew his purpose and lived his creed.
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A planter.
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A cropper.
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Scarred hands
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Of a man that feeds.
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A sower.
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A reaper.
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Scarred hands
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Of a man set free.
This poem was written on my notepad on a flight from Denver to Charlotte last Sunday. The first line was given to me by a man named Bob who sat across and behind me on our flight, thanks for the inspiration and the great stories.
The world is getting stranger and it helps to have a place to make sense of it.
Here you’ll find absurdity, satire, dystopian reflections, and whatever thoughts manage their way into my brain and want to get out.
Some of it will make you laugh.
Some of it might make you think twice.
All of it is part of the same thing really.
Trying to understand the world by stepping just outside of it and more inside of my head.
Come muse with me.
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