Poetry Friday: The Word is HAND

5 a.m. is an atrocious time to wake up.

I left the house this morning with everyone else sleeping, my mind already churning ideas for the Poetry Friday word. Handsome sexy Sergei picked HAND for this week's offer. I immediately thought of his hands on me...all over me, and then was diverted by articles I read, random conversations with co-workers, cable television.

Even though I wrote three pieces for today, I'm only giving you two. The one based on an article in Smithsonian magazine, is just tooo long to be included in today's post. It'll wait.

Please feel free to use the word HAND in your blog post today, in whatever creative form soothes your aching muscles...poem, photo of your hands, play-by-play of that time you were a swimsuit model, audio post of you yodling...you get the picture.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


Mike, the Bed, Amazement

Last night I dreamt of Mike Rowe.

It was a most amazing dream.

Mike Rowe is the host of a Discovery Channel show, “Dirty Jobs”, wherein he temps really gross jobs (sewer pipe inspector, coal manufacturer, exploding toilet clean-up crew). It’s a fun show.

Plus Mike sometimes takes his shirt off.
If you’re very lucky, you get to see him in only a towel.

I’ve always thought he was a handsome fella. Nice on-camera persona. A voice that goes straight to my cooter and does the rumba, the cha-cha, and the hustle. I’m sure he’ll be on my Fantasy Boyfriend list.

This dream.
This dream was Mike and me. Fully clothed. On a bed. Chatting and laughing, Mike’s hand on my hand. It made my belly feel all tingly and gooshy.

That wasn’t the best part.
The best part was the bed.
Which wasn’t a bed.

It was more like a square, above-ground pool. On top of the water were black fleece pads, thick with some sort of space-age-polymer, floating on the skin of the water, the sides of the pads barely touching. They held the weight of our bodies, the carafe of wine, the glasses, the tray of fruit and cheese, several large pillows, two bathrobes. At the seams, where the black pads met, you could see the water underneath, but touching it…it wasn’t water…and it was…the pads turned it temporarily into gel, that would turn back into water when the pads were removed.

Mike held my hand.
I laughed at something he said.
I stared down the crack of the pads, bobbling under my chin, into the gooey blackness, wondering if I’d ever seen this in Popular Science magazine, or were we the first, how much weight would this hold, and if we got busy later, would our thrashing bodies collapse the pads, would we sink, or would we float on a cloud without getting pregnant or herpes, how could I take this home.

Yeah, it was nice to have a fantasy dream with Mike.

But that bed. That. Bed. I’ll be fantasizing about that for a long time.



Hands

Hands shaking/my hands
Hands left too long on my arm
Hands clutching my arm, a smiling child’s face
Hands resting on my shoulders
Hands gentle as they stroke
Hands tracing invisible patterns
Hands sliding down, around hems,
.....Sliding underneath the thin fabric,
.....Up to lace and satin,
Hands cupping
Hands releasing fingers that encircle and massage
Hands warming flesh
Hands frantic and insistent
Hands exploring
Hands diving
Hands meeting other hands to
.....Hold down
.....Lift up
.....Balance rocking bodies
Hands hands clutching
.....Sweaty backs
.....Round curves
.....Locks of hair

Hands soft
Hands touching sleepy skin
Hands in moonlight looking for hands to hold