We the Starcatchers

i. oh, look around, look not at the

people but at the hands

the hands tell the stories that the emotionless veils

hung over eyes never do

watch now, the hands in jumbled lines,

see the rainbows they form as they all link---

ii. oh, look around, the hands

are a chain and

each vein builds the strength of the link, each

crease keeps the hands together

iii. oh, look around, these hands could catch the stars---

"the fault is not in the stars, but within ourselves"---

we find each and every star and we count the

faults, the lacunae---

perhaps john green is a wiser man than shakespeare

iv. oh, look around, together we are

an icarus that will never burn 

Paint splatters and smears,

strewn across innocent canvas;

Small tell-tale fingerprints

Lingering on glimmering glass

Grasping desperately,

Outstreched, pleading; 

squeezing onto the

Last bit of luminous hope;

Holding another,

Signaling a cascade 

Of warmth and tenderness,

A most memorable scene;

Or raised for permission to speak,

Used to negotiate effectively;

To hold up a sparking torch,

And to write or fight when necessary.

Each hand tells a story, 

Whether right or left,

Dominant or not 

About the person who wields it. 

i've heard it said that hands are impossible to draw

what with the 27 different bones,

the extreme flexibility.

but physical's just the start, really

physic leads to psychic

some say they can read my future from my palm

tracing heart lines and venus mounts 

(they say i fall in love easily,

express my emotions freely,

but i care too much about pleasure and instant gratification).

but in order to fully capture the beauty of this human limb,

one needs to read not just the palm, but the whole hand;

are the veins prominent? are they purple, or blue?

how big are the hands?

what do the fingernails look like? are they tiny, bitten-off stubs? painted and an inch beyond the fingertips? real? fake?

how wrinkled are they?

are they marked? if so, by birthmark, tattoo or scar?

do they shake?

do they wave about when speaking?

do they speak sign language? why?

what do they often hold?

what race are they?

are they folded in prayer?

are they curled into fists? 

one must trace each line,

trace as many stories as possible.

it is impossible to tell them all--

our hands carry so much history:

our lives, the lives of our parents and their parents,

our whole evolutionary branch.

for we aren't to judge books by their covers,

yet it is possible we judge a person by their hands. 

Hey everyone! These are the results--you all did a great job, I wish I could put you all in first place.

Honorable Mention: Jaybells! You had some good imagery in your poem; however, it didn't flow the best, though, and the end was a little bit abrupt. But I love the line "Lingering on glimmering glass".

Third place: Sunshine Wings! I like the story that you told. I did feel like it was a little bit vague, and I didn't get a good idea of the why things were happening in this, but it was still touching nevertheless. Maybe try adding more description/images to your poems.

Second place: Stardust! This poem encompassed hands so well--you captured so much about hands. I think the lines could have been smoother, if you split them up in a different way. 

First place: Congratulations to Luna-Starr! I loveloveloved this. It flowed pretty well, and the way you wrote about hands and people was great. I love the repetition of "oh, look around," and also the last two lines--"oh, look around, together we are/an icarus that will never burn" 

Thank you everyone for participating in this round--I loved reading your poems! 

Finally, something that I love to write about!

Seaglass

~~~~~

A hard gleam against

The sharp, screaming orange

Of a finally setting sun;

An emerald sheen amidst

A sea of sparkling gold--

Grains, waxing and waning-- placidly; 

The soulful depths, 

Like the floods who birthed it,

Soothing painful, rough corners;

Sharp, jagged edges given by the ones

Who created, difference between her and fellow

Sands, melted and molded in fire's unrelenting hands;

Only to be cast away, unable

To return --fully-- only amongst, not part of, 

Her origins, the golden sea surrounding her.

Glass~

They said she had a heart of sand,

It shifted with just a gust of wind,

Hard to handle,

Hard to touch,

Hard to know because it

was always changing.

Like a ripple of a pebble dropped in

a vast ocean, 

it never stayed the same. 

And they said that’s what made it

Beautiful.

But life has a funny way of

changing things, 

Pressuring and

Molding with a constant

Anxiety telling girls to be

Perfect like...

Like everyone else; or what they claim to be.

The pressure and heat constantly crushing the

Heart of sand slowly

Molded it into a heart of glass,

Nice to look at,

So easy to break.

Now they say she has a heart of glass,

That reflects the light,

Shines so bright,

But hurts to touch,

pricks of blood,

A broken prism.