Poems About Hands

Confession time...I love to touch things.

If you were here, right now, I'd touch you.

Oh, I would be subtle, at least at first. A tap on the arm, perhaps a shoulder nudge, my palm against your back making small circles. I'd admire the texture of your shirt, and run my fingers gently over the material, feeling the coolness of the cloth and the heat from your body underneath.

'Cause that's what the Mona likes.

The Girl-child has OCD symptoms, the hand-washing, clenched fists, afraid of germs and needing control. We saw the 'Talking Doctor" Thursday who confirmed that, yes, this was 100 percent the result of stress starting kindergarten, leaving her safe world of preschool behind. Girl-child's new mantra, coming back from the doctor, was 'The more we touch, the healthier we'll be!' It took someone other than her parents talking to her to get her to listen. And that's okay.

I've spent all week prying open her little hands. Talking to her about germs, and when to wash hands, and stalling her second request in five minutes to squirt hand sanitizer in her palm. Urging her to do 'jazz hands' (that musical theatre thing, bring your open palms up out in front of you near your head and shake them back and forth ala Bob Fosse...jazzzzzzz!).

So, given that, today's Poetry Friday will be about hands. And since I've had a hectic week, and didn't start writing these until Midnight, I think they're a bit disturbing, or something, or just weird.

A few notes:
1) I've never eaten mutton. Don't care to. But I DO enjoy rubbing soft things all over my naked, quivering body. Yeah, I heard your dirty little perv thought from here.
2) Guys, I don't think big hands automatically mean you have a big penis. I think big hands mean big ALL body parts. So if you DO have big hands, please send me a picture and allow me to feature you in a shower masturbation fantasy.
3) I'm not making fun of OCD. I'm giving it a real-life description. And...I like Neil Diamond. If you don't, it's because you haven't heard him drunk, riding around a college town, screaming lyrics to 'Cherry Cherry' and hoping you don't get pulled over and end up in the hooskow.


And now, Poetry Friday Presents: Poems About Hands



With All Apologies to Sheep, Vegetarians, and Tactile Persons:

Mary had a little lamb,
It’s fleece was soft and white.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was on her right.

For Mary had a tactile sense,
And loved to rub her lamb.
She’d rub his back, his ass, his head,
Her soft, warm, little ram.

The lamb enjoyed attention.
The lamb loved her caress.
But what the lamb loved best of all
Was peeks under her dress.

For when Mary was alone with him
She got a certain itch
To sit on lambie’s curly coat
And back and forth she’d pitch.

The lamb did not think strangely
Of this movement oh so blue.
For when Mary squeezed his sides with thighs,
His stick grew...and grew...and grew!

One day her parents told her,
"Today leave your lamb at home.
We have a little job for him,
You’ll go to school alone".

Mary couldn’t wait that day
to run home after school.
Bursting through the kitchen door,
She saw her parents drool.

Her father chucked her dimpled chin,
“You’re cute as a button!”
“What’s for dinner?”, Mary asked.
Her father replied, “Mutton!”

Mary shrieked, she stomped, she wailed,
Her mother bid her stop.
Mary eyed her dinner plate...
Mutton, gravy, bread to sop.

Mary picked her fork up,
She took a tiny bite
The taste of her sweet lambie
Burned her with delight.

Now Mary’s bed is covered
With a blanket made of fleece.
Now Mary, she sleeps naked,
With the blanket in her crease.

Her hands still rub the curly coat
Caressing with her fingers
Sometimes on lonely winter nights
The sound of his ‘baa’ lingers.

And oh, the lamb? Don’t fret for him
‘Cause his dreams, you can’t beat ‘em.
His dying wish, his fond desire
Was to have sweet Mary eat ‘im.


With All Apologies to Carl Sandburg:

Bring on the Greekless sorority girls.
Bring on the plump ripe ruddy MILFs.
Bring on that cashier at the video store, Cathy with a ‘C’.
For I am a man with big hands.
Open your eyes and take in my amazement, my manhood extended as multiple jumbo-sausage digits.
Your eyes eye me, twinkling sequined lust, I see you,
and yes it’s all true, what they say.
Big hands...big...big...gloves.



With All Apologies to Neil Diamond and sweet girls named Caroline:

Where it began, I can’t begin to know it.
Must have had somethin’ to do with stress.
Was in the fall, the start of kindergarten,
Swear I saw germs up and down my dress.

Hands, washing hands,
tons of soap, sanitizer, pumice stone!
Sweet OCD, I gotta keep my two hands clenched.
I am inclined to keep my hands and arms just drenched,
But then I’m...

Scared I’ll get sick, scared I’ll give somethin’ to ya.
Dontcha know germs are everywhere?
Picked up a coin, oh help I gotta wash now,
I think there’s cooties in my hair.

Warm, water’s warm,
Reachin’ out, touch a towel, germs are there!
Sweet OCD, just get the fuckin’hell away.
I feel inclined to wave my “jazz hands” all dayyyy.


OH! My IT friend is a frickin' genius, and I can now blog at work! And comment! And read you! I'm clapping my little jazz hands with dee-lite! Have an absolutely gorgeous weekend, my friends!