74 Poems about Hands to Touch Your Memories

Hands are an essential part of our lives, and we use them to interact with the world around us.

They are the tools that we use to create, explore, and connect with others. Hands are also a powerful symbol of memory, and the touch of a hand can evoke deep emotions and memories.

In poetry, hands are often used to convey themes of connection, intimacy, and memory. Poets have explored the power of hands through imagery, metaphor, and symbolism, capturing the essence of the human experience.

In this collection of poems about hands, we will explore the different ways that hands can touch our memories and evoke a range of emotions.

Let’s check out these hands poems!

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Beautiful Poems about Hands

Hands can convey so much, from love and tenderness to strength and resilience. These beautiful hands poems capture the power and beauty of this essential part of the human experience.

1. Hymn to My Hands

       by Steven Fortney

Again, the spider appears on the ceiling
above my head as he always does each time
he approves my thinking. The mudra
I make at my work and puja table floats thus:
both hands flat. Aum: The right hand rises
and touches my heart. Mani: The left hand
joins it there. Padme: The right hand
floats back to the table top. Hum: The left hand
then joins it there. in the heart is the flowering
of universes. My hands rest on the altar.
They, with their body, have both lived more
than eight decades. They are small for a man,
short fingered, yet strong enough. On one
finger of the left hand, a wedding ring;
a university ring on the finger of the right.
The hair on both is sparse: oak opening,
African savannah, sparse. On the sandy
loam plains are rivers, blue veins that course
through that tanned tundra that is the back
of both hands. in places the surface cracks
in the parallelograms and triangles of soil
surfaces starved of water. Whirlpools
and eddys at fingertips. Canyons and arroyos
in palms. Hands can caress or make a fist.
Living things, they. Even here, a mystery.
Consciousness can will some things,
holding a pencil, saluting; but when still,
life, vitality, beyond mere will. I tell my thumb
to move and it does. But then the hands
at rest are packed with energy. I do not
know how this has happened. I cherish
the mystery. And there are spots.
Death spots? Liver marks? Sunspots?
Speak of the mortal life. Speak of coming
terminus. Speak of the star inset in galaxies.
The spots are galaxies. They become groups
of galaxies. On my hands, universes. We are
made of star stuff. Those astronomies
before me on my two hands are the astronomies
of the ever living, pulsing, unlimited Cosmos.
That should make me afraid, as I was terrified
when seated on my meditation blanket and I saw,
long ago, paralyzed by the sight of my dissolution
among the pulsars and exploding novas. I did not
want to die. But now watching the galaxies
on the backs of my two hands, I am not afraid.
I take comfort. My meditation is cool. I am grateful.

2. Tiny Handprints

       By Anonymous

Tiny handprints grow so fast
Their awkward groping soon will clasp
A ball, a book a sweetheart’s hand
A diploma, briefcase, a wedding band

Tiny handprints grow so strong
It doesn’t take them very long
To snap a shirt, to paint, to draw
To work hard, to drive a car

Tiny handprints grow to be
A person that is quite unique
A wonderful mix of so many things
With his own feelings, thought and dreams

Tiny handprints grow to rely
On his parents to bring him up just right
His parents pray that when he’s grown
He’ll say their job has been well done

Tiny handprints are ours to love
The sweetest gift from God above
A miracle that never is surpassed
How sad they grow up way to fast.

3. Ode to The Thumb

       by Robert Curtis

Oh! mighty digit that thou art.
From other fingers kept apart.
Included only when called “hand”.
You do so point to some other land.
You really do stand quite alone.
Pointing off to some twilight zone.

You are so often much abused.
With such terms as “clumsy” so accused.
There is much amusement at your expense.
When the term “All Thumbs” is brought hence.
The Thumb turned down by Romans meant.
The quick demise for some vanquished gent.

The Thumb turned upwards brings forth a grin.
It’s the international sign for good fortune.
The victor is also oftimes praised.
With this distant and silent digit raised.

Even when unseen it’s still in use.
Holding back fingers to produce.
That Boy Scout salute or Churchill’s V.
It truly is used universally.

To thumb your nose is the insult gross.
It is often used when at a loss.
For words four letters so oft abused.
That only silent signs are used.
You stubby digit by Jack Horner famed.
And almost omnipoetic named.

But on those days when you are sore.
You really hurt oh! so much more.
Than all the others on the hand.
Your prehensile acts are in much demand.
So hurry back oh! mighty thumb.
You see how important you’ve become!

4. A Woman’s Hand

       by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

All day long there has haunted me
A spectre out of my lost youth-land.
Because I happened last night to see
A woman’s beautiful snow-white hand.

Like part of a statue broken away,
And carefully kept in a velvet case,
On the crimson rim of her box it lay;
The folds of the curtain hid her face.

Years had drifted between us two,
In another clime, in another land,
We had lived and parted, and yet I knew
That cruelly beautiful perfect hand.

The ringless beauty of fingers fine,
The sea-shell tint of their taper tips,
The sight of them stirred my blood like wine,
Oh, to hold them again to my lips!

To feel their tender touch on my hair,
Their mute caress, and their clinging hold;
Oh for the past that was green and fair,
With a cloudless sky, and a sun of gold!

But the sun has set, and a dead delight
Shadows my life with a dull despair,
Oh why did I see that hand of white,
Like a marble ornament lying there?

5. Beautiful Hands

       by James Whitcomb Riley

O your hands – they are strangely fair!
Fair – for the jewels that sparkle there, –
Fair – for the witchery of the spell
That ivory keys alone can tell;
But when their delicate touches rest
Here in my own do I love them best,
As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!

Marvelous – wonderful – beautiful hands!
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands
Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine,
Under mysterious touches of thine,
Into such knots as entangle the soul,
And fetter the heart under such a control
As only the strength of my love understands –
My passionate love for your beautiful hands.

As I remember the first fair touch
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled –
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow,
As you said to me, laughingly, “Keep it now!”
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.

When first I loved, in the long ago,
And held your hand as I told you so –
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss,
And said “I could die fora hand like this!”
Little I dreamed love’s fulness yet
Had to ripen when eyes were wet,
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands!
Could you reach out of the alien lands
Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night,
Only a touch – were it ever so light –
My heart were soothed, and my weary brain
Would lull itself into rest again;
For there is no solace the world commands
Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

6. Dear Hands

       by Susan Marr Spaulding

Roughened and worn with ceaseless toil and care,
No perfumed grace, no dainty skill, had these;
They earned for whiter hands a jeweled ease,
And kept the scars unlovely for their share.
Patient and slow, they had the will to bear

The whole world’s burdens, but no power to seize
The flying joys of life, the gifts that please,
The gold and gems that others find so fair.
Dear hands, where bridal jewel never shone,
Whereon no lover’s kiss was ever pressed,

Crossed in unwonted quiet on the breast,
I see, through tears, your glory newly won,
The golden circlet of life’s work well done,
Set with the shining pearl of perfect rest.

7. Hands

       by John Frederick Freeman

Your hands, your hands,
Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands.
O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,
That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose,
Your hands, your hands,
Fall upon mine, and my hands open as
That evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.

Your hands, your hands,
They are like towers that in far southern lands
Look at pale dawn over gloom-valley’d miles,
White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles.
Your hands, your hands,
With the south wind fall kissing on my brow,
And all past joy and future is summed in this great “Now!”

Close-up baby hand on mother’s hands

8. A Clasp of Hands

       by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.

A babe’s hands open as to greet
The tender touch of ours
And mock with motion faint and fleet

The minutes of the new strange hours
That earth, not heaven, must mete;
Buds fragrant still from heaven’s own bowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.

A velvet vice with springs of steel
That fasten in a trice
And clench the fingers fast that feel
A velvet vice

What man would risk the danger twice,
Nor quake from head to heel?
Whom would not one such test suffice?

Well may we tremble as we kneel
In sight of Paradise,
If both a babe’s closed fists conceal
A velvet vice.

Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,
Two creased and dimpled wrists,
That match, if mottled overmuch,
Two flower-soft fists –

What heart of man dare hold the lists
Against such odds and such
Sweet vantage as no strength resists?

Our strength is all a broken crutch,
Our eyes are dim with mists,
Our hearts are prisoners as we touch
Two flower-soft fists.

9. The Hand of Lincoln

       by Edmund Clarence Stedman

Look on this cast, and know the hand
That bore a nation in its hold:
From this mute witness understand
What Lincoln was,—how large of mould

The man who sped the woodman’s team,
And deepest sunk the ploughman’s share,
And pushed the laden raft astream,
Of fate before him unaware.

This was the hand that knew to swing
The axe—since thus would Freedom train
Her son—and made the forest ring,
And drove the wedge, and toiled amain.

Firm hand, that loftier office took,
A conscious leader’s will obeyed,
And, when men sought his word and look,
With steadfast might the gathering swayed.

No courtier’s toying with a sword,
Nor minstrel’s, laid across a lute;
A chief’s, uplifted to the Lord
When all the kings of earth were mute!

The hand of Anak, sinewed strong,
The fingers that on greatness clutch;
Yet, lo! the marks their lines along
Of one who strove and suffered much.

For here in knotted cord and vein
I trace the varying chart of years;
I know the troubled heart, the strain,
The weight of Atlas—and the tears.

Again I see the patient brow
That palm erewhile was wont to press;
And now ’t is furrowed deep, and now
Made smooth with hope and tenderness.

For something of a formless grace
This moulded outline plays about;
A pitying flame, beyond our trace,
Breathes like a spirit, in and out,—

The love that cast an aureole
Round one who, longer to endure,
Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole,
Yet kept his nobler purpose sure.

Lo, as I gaze, the statured man,
Built up from yon large hand, appears:
A type that Nature wills to plan
But once in all a people’s years.

What better than this voiceless cast
To tell of such a one as he,
Since through its living semblance passed
The thought that bade a race be free!

10. Those Willing Hands

       by Kate Slaughter McKinney

Those willing hands—they’re still to-night—
The life has from them fled;
They’re folded from the longing sight,
So cold and pale and dead.
The busy veins have idle grown,
Like a long famished rill,
That once in such an eager tone
Called soft from hill to hill.

Dear hands, I’ve felt their pressure oft,
In a sad time gone by;
They moved about the years as soft
As clouds move through the sky.
They screened the rainstorm from my heart,
And let the moonlight in,
And showed, while shadows fell athwart,
Tracks where the sun had been.

They were such willing, willing hands,
They stilled the mournful tear,
Unwound the pattern of God’s plans,
And made his problems clear.
They did not reach to high-grown bowers,
Where rarest blossoms bloom;
But culled the blessed, purer flowers,
And bore them to the tomb.

Poor hands—they are so still and white,
The rose that shared their rest
Is shrinking from the long, dark night,
And falling on her breast.
The wreath is wilted on the mound
Where long the sunshine stands,
But angels have the sleeper found,
And clasped those willing hands.

Hands of parent and child in nature

11. Reach Your Hand to Me

       by James Whitcomb Riley

Reach your hand to me, my friend,
With its heartiest caress –
Sometime there will come an end
To its present faithfulness –
Sometime I may ask in vain
For the touch of it again,
When between us land or sea
Holds it ever back from me.

Sometime I may need it so,
Groping somewhere in the night,
It will seem to me as though
Just a touch, however light,
Would make all the darkness day,
And along some sunny way
Lead me through an April-shower
Of my tears to this fair hour.

O the present is too sweet
To go on forever thus!
Round the corner of the street
Who can say what waits for us? –
Meeting – greeting, night and day,
Faring each the self-same way –
Still somewhere the path must end. –
Reach your hand to me, my friend!

Famous Poems about Hands

Hands can communicate so much. Our gestures speak volumes and hand movements can be beautiful and meaningful at the same time. Here are some famous hands poems.

1. Your Hands

       by Pablo Neruda

When your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why did they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?

Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.

All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there like two wings
they ended their journey.

2. Grandpa’s Hands

       by Melinda Clements

Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn’t move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands.

When I sat down beside him he didn’t acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if he was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK. He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he said in a clear strong voice.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,” I explained to him.
“Have you ever looked at your hands,” he asked. “I mean really looked at your hands?
I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down.
No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point he was making.

Grandpa smiled and related this story:

“Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have how they have served you well throughout your years.
These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life.

They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor.
They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back.
As a child my Mother taught me to fold them in prayer.
They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.
They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.
Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special.
They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I buried my Parents and Spouse and walked my Daughter down the aisle.
Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friend’s foot.
They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn’t understand.
They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body.
They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw.
And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well, these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer.
These hands are the mark of where I’ve been and the ruggedness of my life.
But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home.
And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ.”

I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my Grandpa’s hands and led him home.
When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife, I think of Grandpa. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.

3. Each New Little Day Slips Out of My Hand

       by Annette Wynne

Each new little day slips out of my hand,
And then with another new day I stand;
But soon that is gone and folded away—
I wish I might keep forever one day!
I wish that one good day might always stay,
For the good days hurry on so fast,
Only the bad days seem to last;
But soon the worst of days is past;
And now within my room I stand
With a new little day within my hand.

4. Hands

       by Robinson Jeffers

Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara
The vault of rock is painted with hands,
A multitude of hands in the twilight, a cloud of men’s palms, no more,
No other picture. There’s no one to say
Whether the brown shy quiet people who are dead intended
Religion or magic, or made their tracings
In the idleness of art; but over the division of years these careful
Signs-manual are now like a sealed message   
Saying: “Look: we also were human; we had hands, not paws. All hail
You people with the cleverer hands, our supplanters
In the beautiful country; enjoy her a season, her beauty, and come down
And be supplanted; for you also are human.”

5. Hands

       by Siv Cedering


When I fall asleep
my hands leave me.

They pick up pens
and draw creatures
with five feathers
on each wing.

The creatures multiply.
They say: “We are large
like your father’s

They say: “We have
your mother’s

I speak to them:
“If you are hands,
why don’t you

And the wings beat
the air, clapping.
They fly

high above elbows
and wrists.
They open windows
and leave

They perch in treetops
and hide under bushes

their nails. “Hands,”
I call them.
But it is fall

and all creatures
with wings
prepare to fly


When I sleep
the shadows of my hands
come to me.

They are softer than feathers
and warm as creatures
who have been close
to the sun.

They say: “We are the giver,”
and tell of oranges
growing on trees.

They say: “We are the vessel,”
and tell of journeys
through water.

They say: “We are the cup.”

And I stir in my sleep.
Hands pull triggers
and cut
trees. But

the shadows of my hands
tuck their heads
under wings
for morning,

when I will wake

three strands of hair
into one.

6. A Hand

       by Jane Hirshfield

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat’s yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.

A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,
not on the page,
not on the ecstatic body.

Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping—
not sponge of rising yeast-bread,
not rotor pin’s smoothness,
not ink.

The maple’s green hands do not cup
the proliferant rain.
What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

7. Ten True Friends

       by Anonymous

Ten true friends you have,
Who, five in a row,
Upon each side of you
Go where you go.
Suppose you are sleepy,
They help you to bed;
Suppose you are hungry,
They see that you are fed.
They wake up your dolly
And put on your clothes,
And trundle her carriage
Wherever she goes.
And these ten tiny fellows,
They serve you with ease;
And they ask nothing from you,
But work hard to please.
Now, with ten willing servants
So trusty and true,
Pray who would be lazy
Or idle—would you?

8. A Woman’s Hand

       by Amos Russel Wells

Soft and tender, smooth and white,
Formed for winning and delight,
Nature has no lovelier sight,—
A woman’s hand.
Wrinkled, worn with much to do,
Many a task for me and you,
In all trials good and true,—
A woman’s hand.
Clasping ours through life and death,
Lovingly to latest breath,
Sweetest thing that comforteth,—
A woman’s hand.

9. My Lady’s Hands

       by R. H. House

My lady hath of charms her lion’s share;
Grace, beauty, wit and a sweet thoughtfulness,
Which rests serenely on her gentle face,
Sweet as the flowers are, and pure as air.
Yet, of all forms of beauty which she wears,
One is reserved for me alone—the best;
Her loving hand-clasps are for me; the rest
Not mine alone may be, the whole world shares.
Eye speaking unto eye must fail oftimes
To utter all the feelings love demands,
And loving letters leave to clasping hands
To speak the heart-throbs hid “between the lines.”
Old age must one day touch my darling’s brow,
Her dear face wrinkle, and her large eyes dim;
But then her hands will touch the hands of him
Who lives for her, with thrill as sweet as now.
Ah, when my spirit freed from earth stains lands
On those blest shores beyond Death’s narrow sea.
May the dear boon be granted unto me
To feel, close clasped in mine, my lady’s hands.

10. The Thumb

       by Amos Russel Wells

Hail to the thumb, the useful thumb,
The grasper, the holder, the doer of deeds,
Where fingers are futile and tools succumb,
Stolid, ungainly, the thumb succeeds.

Hail to the thumb the homely thumb;
Rings and jewels are not for it,
Compliments, dainty and frolicsome,
For fingers are suited, for thumbs unfit

Hail to the thumb, the modest thumb;
Gently und calmly it hides away,
Never for it a banner and drum,
Or praise at the end of a strenuous day.

And hail to the men who are like the thumb;
Men who are never sung by a bard,
Men who are laboring, modestly dumb,
Faithfully doing the work that is hard

Some day, men of the toiling thumb,
Men of the modest, invincible worth,
Some day your high reward will come
From the Hand of the Lord of heaven and earth!

11. Little Fingers

       by Anonymous

Busy little fingers,
Everywhere they go,
Rosy little fingers,
The sweetest that I know!
Now into my work-box,
All the buttons finding,
Tangling up the knitting,
Every spool unwinding!
Now into the basket
Where the keys are hidden,
Full of mischief looking,
Knowing it forbidden.
Then in mother’s tresses,
Now her neck enfolding,
With such sweet caresses
Keeping off a scolding.
Daring little fingers,
Never, never still!
Make them, Heavenly Father,
Always do Thy will.

Funny Poems about Hands

Hands can also be a source of humor, and these interesting poems about hands capture the silly, awkward, and unexpected moments that we all experience with our hands.

1. Hands On – Hands Off


Dear Connie advised hands on healing
My husband thought this so appealing
I said hands off my chest
I can heal my own breast
With a flea in his ear he’s reeling!

2. Not in Your Hands

       By Anonymous

Those candy-coated chocolate pieces of world-wide fame
since many years ago have made a silly half-true claim.
In your mouth the advertisers say they melt.
I should think that part is obviously true.
But hold them in your hand a while; your palm will turn
yellow, brown, green, red, orange, and/or blue!

3. Small Hands Are Elegant

       By Anonymous

Small hands seem so elegant
Regardless of where they went
Go around in circles protruding
And answers to questions eluding
Was auctioneer where money is spent.

That is what Trump reminds me of

4. Trump Small Hands And Gloves

       By Anonymous

Trump has small hands that he loves
If were mine I would wear gloves
While calling spade another spade
Global warming won’t see much shade
Did die off all the ducks and doves.

5. Dirty Hands

       By Anonymous

I scrub and scrub but my hands aren’t clean,
they’re still dirty from the filth I’ve seen.
The things I’ve heard words I’ve spoke,
and every dirty filthy joke.
Although to you the filths not seen,
I feel the grit in cracks between.
Why the strange look on your face,
you are in my very place.
You could use a little scrub a little soap,
a lot of rub.
Im not speaking to demean,
you know yourself your hands aren’t clean.

6. A Manchappy Hands

       By Anonymous

There once was a curly haired lad
Whenever he started to feel mad
He’d shout out loud “GOSH”
And then he would quash
With nunchucks what made deb feel sad

7. Take Your Hands Off My Gizzedlygork

       By Anonymous

That’s MY Gizzedlygork,
Take your hands off it now!
I paid dearly in silvery bork,
Sniffed many a dandy wine cork!
So that’s my barrel of pork!!

You say your schnitzelgamer
Is more valuable than mine?
How dare you say that!
You piece of hoogleberry slime!

I went to school for years,
Have a Doctorate in Juxazable Sincronigork
You ain’t got a prayer,
That’s my barrel of pork!!

So, take your imitation kerclaptizoidian swiddle,
And go play a fiddle,
I’m not the man in the middle
That’s MY Gizzedlygork!!

8. I Wash My Hands

       By Tom

I wash my hands, then touch my face,
My Texas friend, I can’t embrace.

I wash my hands, then brush my clothes,
I wash my hands then blow my nose.

I wash my hands then scratch my seat,
I wash my hands then sit to eat.

I wash my hands then rub my ear,
I just do this cause I can’t hear.

I wash my hands after each thing’s touch,
this hand washing thing is too much.

I wash my hands and then I sigh,
I remember to wash but don’t know why.

Short Poems about Hands

Short poetries about hands distill the essence of this powerful symbol of memory, connection, and creativity into just a few lines, offering a glimpse into the beauty and complexity of the human experience.

1. Clasp His Hand

       By Helen Eldridge

Dear child, dost feel too sad to pray?
Then clasp God’s hand.
You’ve but to reach a wee, wee way,
Since He’s been waiting for you aye;
He’s always known you’d need, this day,
To clasp His hand.

2. Do God’s Will

       By Anonymous

No service in itself is small;
None great, though earth it fill;
But that is small that seeks its own,
And great that seeks God’s will.

Then hold my hand, most gracious God,
Guide all my goings still;
And let it be my life’s one aim,
To know and do thy will.

3. Dear Hands

       by James Whitcomb Riley

The touches of her hands are like the fall
Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes ‘gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight –
The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e’er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs,
Or – in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone –
Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.

4. The Duel

       by Emily Dickinson

I took my power in my hand.
And went against the world;
‘T was not so much as David had,
But I was twice as bold.

I aimed my pebble, but myself
Was all the one that fell.
Was it Goliath was too large,
Or only I too small?

5. Another to The Maids

       by Robert Herrick

Wash your hands, or else the fire
Will not tend to your desire;
Unwashed hands, ye maidens, know,
Dead the fire, though ye blow.

6. Those That Do

       by Ellen Palmer Allerton

Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest, brave, and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.

7. Unbare That Ivory Hand! Hide It No More!

       by Robert Tofte

Unbare that ivory Hand! Hide it no more!
For though it death brings to my tender heart
To see it naked, where is Beauty’s store;
And where moist pearl with azure doth impart:
Yet fear I not to die, in this sweet wise!
My fancy, so to see ’t, is set on fire.
Then leave that glove! (most hateful to mine eyes!)
And let me surfeit with this kind desire!
So that my looks may have of them their fill;
Though heart decay, I’ll take it for none ill.

8. God’s Hands

       by Robert Herrick

God’s hands are round and smooth, that gifts may fall
Freely from them and hold none back at all.

9. Helping Hands

       by Anonymous

There’s never a trouble that comes to stay;
There’s never a grievance but fades away;
Forget the heart-ache and bravely lend
A helping hand to some sadder friend.

Long Poems about Hands

Long poetries about hands offer a deeper exploration of the many ways that hands shape our lives, from the intimacy of touch to the power of creation and the resilience of the human spirit.

1. Helping Hands

       By Anonymous

I think if we reach out a helping hand
To those who faint and falter by the way –
If by our sympathy and kindly aid
Some sorrowing heart finds happiness each day.

And if we ever carry in our hands
The mantle of sweet charity and grace
To shield the weak and erring ones of earth
And lift them up to a securer place,

Then I believe if our incautious feet
Should wander out where thorns and thistles grow,
God still would follow us with boundless love
And lead us where the living waters flow.

2. The Hands of The Betrothed

       by D. H. Lawrence

Her tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,
Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;
Yea, and her mouth’s prudent and crude caress
Means even less than her many words to me.

Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only
Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax clips
Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely
Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.

I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is
Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast
She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is
Endangered by the pilferer on his quest.

But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong hands
Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in steel
When I hold them; my still soul understands
Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel.

For never her hands come nigh me but they lift
Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to settle
Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift
Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.

How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,
How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks
In my flesh and bone and forages into me,
How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she thinks!

And often I see her clench her fingers tight
And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirt;
And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her bright
Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.

And I have seen her stand all unaware
Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she
Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in there
The pain that is her simple ache for me.

Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man
To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep
Where I should lie, and with her own strong span
Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep.

Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,
Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,
Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall
About her from her maiden-folded bands.

And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair
Dreaming – God knows of what, for to me she’s the same
Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care
Of her womanly virtue and of my good name.

3. Her Hand

       by Anna Hempstead Branch

My mother’s hands are cool and fair,
They can do anything.
Delicate mercies hide them there
Like flowers in the spring.

When I was small and could not sleep,
She used to come to me,
And with my cheek upon her hand
How sure my rest would be.

For everything she ever touched
Of beautiful or fine,
Their memories living in her hands
Would warm that sleep of mine.

Her hands remember how they played
One time in meadow streams,—
And all the flickering song and shade
Of water took my dreams.

Swift through her haunted fingers pass
Memories of garden things;—
I dipped my face in flowers and grass
And sounds of hidden wings.

One time she touched the cloud that kissed
Brown pastures bleak and far;—
I leaned my cheek into a mist
And thought I was a star.

All this was very long ago
And I am grown; but yet
The hand that lured my slumber so
I never can forget.

For still when drowsiness comes on
It seems so soft and cool,
Shaped happily beneath my cheek,
Hollow and beautiful.

4. My Lady’s Hand

       by Sir Thomas Wyatt

O goodly hand!
Wherein doth stand
My heart distraught in pain;
Dear hand, alas!
In little space
My life thou dost restrain.

O fingers slight!
Departed right,
So long, so small, so round;
Goodly begone,
And yet a bone,
Most cruel in my wound.

With lilies white
And roses bright
Doth strain thy colour fair;
Nature did lend
Each finger’s end
A pearl for to repair.

Consent at last,
Since that thou hast
My heart in thy demesne
For service true
On me to rue,
And reach me love again.

And if not so,
There with more woe
Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart,
That suffer’d smart,
And rid it out of pain.

5. Lieder

       by George Macdonald

Thy little hand lay on my bosom, dear:
What a knocking in that little chamber!–dost hear?
There dwelleth a carpenter evil, and he
Is hard at work on a coffin for me.

He hammers and knocks by night and by day;
‘Tis long since he drove all my sleep away:
Ah, haste thee, carpenter, busy keep,
That I the sooner may go to sleep!

6. Opening Doors

       by Ben Jonson

He smashed his hand
in opening a door for her,
and less pain than
embarrassment shrieked through him.
Concealing both,
grimacing as if theatrically,
he asked himself
who he thought he was to go
around opening
doors for anyone, much less for her.

7. Upon Paul

       by Robert Herrick

Paul’s hands do give; what give they, bread or meat,
Or money? no, but only dew and sweat.
As stones and salt gloves use to give, even so
Paul’s hands do give, nought else for ought we know.

8. The Passing of A Heart

       by James Whitcomb Riley

O touch me with your hands –
For pity’s sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!

Touch – touch me with your hands. –
Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day –
O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands,
And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep.
Then go your way,
That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.

Poems about Hands for Kids

Hands are fascinating and essential tools for kids, and these poems about hands for children offer a fun and engaging way to explore the power and beauty of this important part of the human body.

1. My Handprints

       By Anonymous

Sometimes you get discouraged
Because I am very small
And always leave my fingerprints
On furniture and walls.

But everyday I’m growing . . .
I’ll be all grown-up someday,
And all the tiny fingerprints
Will surely fade away.

So here’s a real hand print
Just so you can recall,
Exactly how my fingers looked
When I was very small.

2. Clean Hands

       by Florence A. Jones

He that has kept clean hands and stainless heart.
He that, in climbing, bore no brother down;
Whose vision sees not God and man apart –
He has not failed! to him the victor’s crown.

3. The Light That Is Felt

       By John G. Whittier

A tender child of summers three,
Seeking her little bed at night,
Paused on the dark stair timidly.
“Oh, mother! take my hand,” said she,
“And then the dark will all be light.”

We older children grope our way
From dark behind to dark before;
And only when our hands we lay,
Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day,
And there is darkness nevermore.

Reach downward to the sunless days
Wherein our guides are blind as we,
And faith is small, and hope delays;
Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise,
And let us feel the light of Thee!

4. The Hand of God

       By Paul Fleming

To see the hand of God in the present,
and to trust the future in the hand of God,
is the secret of peace.

Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow
About to-morrow,
My heart?
One watches all with care most true,
Doubt not that He will give thee, too
Thy part.

Only be steadfast; never waver
Nor seek earth’s favor
But rest:
Thou know’st that what God wills must be
For all His creatures, so for thee,
The best.

5. Hold Thou My Hands

       By William Canton

Hold Thou my hands!
In grief and joy, in hope and fear,
Lord, let me feel that Thou art near:
Hold Thou my hands!

If e’er, by doubts
Of Thy good Fatherhood depressed,
I cannot find in Thee my rest,
Hold Thou my hands!

Hold Thou my hands, –
These passionate hands too quick to smite,
These hands so eager for delight,
Hold Thou my hands.

And when, at length,
With darkened eyes and fingers cold,
I seek some last loved hand to hold,
Hold Thou my hands!

6. Oh, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear

       By Gerald Massey

Oh, lay thy hand in mine, dear!
We’re growing old,
But Time hath brought no sign, dear,
That hearts grow cold.
‘Tis long, long since our new love
Made life divine;
But age enricheth true love,
Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,
And take thy rest;
Mine arms around thee twine, dear,
And make thy nest.
A many cares are pressing
On this dear head,
But Sorrow’s hands in blessing
Are surely laid.

Oh, lean thy life on mine, dear!
‘Twill shelter thee.
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,
On my young tree;
And so, till boughs are leafless,
And song-birds flown,
We’ll twine, then lay us, griefless,
Together down.

7. Things That Never Die

       by Charles Dickens

The timid hand stretched forth to aid
A brother in his need,
A kindly word in grief’s dark hour
That proves a friend indeed;
The plea for mercy, softly breathed,
When justice threatens high
The sorrow of a contrite heart
These things shall never die.

The memory of a clasping hand,
The pressure of a kiss,
And all the trifles, sweet and frail,
That make up love’s first bliss;
If with a firm, unchanging faith,
And holy trust and high,
Those hands have clasped, those lips have met
These things shall never die.

Let nothing pass, for every hand
Must find some work to do;
Lose not a chance to waken love
Be firm and just and true;
So shall a light that cannot fade
Beam on thee from on high,
And angel voices say to thee
These things shall never die.

8. Clasp His Hand

       By Helen Eldridge

Dear child, dost feel too sad to pray?
Then clasp God’s hand.
You’ve but to reach a wee, wee way,
Since He’s been waiting for you aye;
He’s always known you’d need, this day,
To clasp His hand.

Poems about Hands of Workers

The hands of workers are powerful symbols of creativity, strength, and resilience. These poems about working hands offer a lyrical exploration of the essential role that hands play in shaping our world.

1. Hands of A Worker

       by Jessica

His hands were chapped
From the hard work he did
In the fields
Nobody accepted him
He was unloved and sad
His anger boiled from deep within
He held everything inside
His sorrow went unnoticed
Each day waking into the same nightmare
The weather was always cold
Another day for him to go on
Invisible to the world
This is all he has left
To old to chase his dreams
His body tired from the work
His bones fragile from age
His life withering away in the fields
Day after day
Digging his own grave
The day will come
And his misfortune will
Be bestowed upon some
New helpless worker
A worker who will finish
What he left
A worker who will follow in his footsteps
Live the life he did
A worker who will
Go unnoticed for the rest
Of his day

Poems about Hands of Fathers

The hands of fathers are a powerful symbol of love, guidance, and protection. These poems about father’s hands offer a touching tribute to the essential role that fathers play in shaping our lives.

1. My Father’s Hand

       By Anonymous

My father’s hands, were strong and firm,
But also rough as well.
He used them for the work he did,
And you could always tell.

You could see the calluses,
And all the scars and pain.
On his shirt you could also see,
Where blood had left a stain.

His work was hard and took its toll,
He knew it was just the way,
He provided for his family’s needs,
Just living day by day.

I don’t think he would change a thing,
Although his life was hard,
He played the deck that he was dealt,
Every single card.

I remember back when I was young,
And remember him with pride.
A measure of a man is not his gold,
But what he has inside.

Poems about Hands of Mothers

The hands of mothers are a source of comfort, care, and nourishment. These poems about mother’s hands celebrate the power of a mother’s touch and the essential role that mothers play in our lives.

1. Her Hands

       By Maggie Pittman

Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall.
Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all.

Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward bow.
Her hands were often there to comfort the hurts that didn’t always show.
Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encouraged me to reach.
Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length.

Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harm’s way.
Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say.
Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree.
Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be.

Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work,
Her hand now needs my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me.

2. My Mother’s Hands

       by Anonymous

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They’re neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think
That they are fair at all.
I’ve looked on hands whose form and hue
A sculptor’s dream might be;
Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands
More beautiful to me.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
Though heart were weary and sad,
Those patient hands kept toiling on,
That the children might be glad.
I always weep, as, looking back
To childhood’s distant day,
I think how those hands rested not
When mine were at their play.
Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They’re growing feeble now,
For time and pain have left their mark
On hands and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time,
And the sad, sad day to me,
When ‘neath the daisies, out of sight,
These hands will folded be.
But oh! beyond this shadow land,
Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands
Will palms of victory bear;
Where crystal streams through endless years
Flow over golden sands,
And where the old grow young again,
I’ll clasp my mother’s hands.

3. Our Mama’s Hands

       by Marcella L. True

I saw you looking at your hands with disgust
You hate them now and hide them you must
But mama, there’s no shame in hands so worn
Because all they’ve touched since you were born

You say you hate them ‘cause they’re so frail,
So veined and aged and red, not pale
You don’t remember how much they’ve done
To bring the 5 of us to who we’ve become

You don’t remember the love they’ve shown
The tireless tending to us we’ve known
To tying the shoes and showing us how
To guiding us through all we know now

You don’t remember they’ve nurtured us well
That they soothed us so tenderly when we fell
That they hugged and held us when we were hurt
That they scrubbed and cleaned us of the dirt

You don’t remember that they wiped our tears
That they gave us a refuge from our fears
That they washed and doctored our injured knees
And they offered a tissue when we sneezed

You have no reason to hate them now
Without those hands we would not know how
To use our own hands as you once did
To soothe and nurture and worries to rid

We can hopefully teach our young ones now
That our hands are special and that somehow
It all began with your loving hands
They are so special and that’s how it stands
Mama, don’t hate them, ‘cause they’re etched with love
And Daddy’s patiently waiting to hold them, up above

Poems about Hands And Love

Hands and love are intimately connected, and these poems explore the power of touch to convey affection, tenderness, and intimacy. These poems offer a lyrical celebration of love through the language of hands.

1. Heart in My Hands

       By Katiynd Jenkins

If you said you were cold,
I would wrap my arms around you.
If you said you were thirsty,
I would give you the ocean blue.
I would give you anything: the moon, the stars, the sunset too.
This heart in my hands I hold out to you.

2. Hands of Love Poem

       by Claude H Oliver II

There they are
Bringing, giving, sharing
Soothing, healing, warming
The hands that cradle my face
Morning, noon, night
The hands that prepare the coffee
That cook eggs, bacon, cornbread
That embrace her children, grandchildren and their children
Healing body and spirit
Bringing joy to their hearts
Hands that wash, massage, cleanse
Hands connected to heart connect to other hearts
The hands that hold my hands
The hands that hold my heart
Her hands, the hands of love.

3. This Living Hand

       by John Keats

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.

Poems about Hands Holding Together

Holding hands is a powerful symbol of connection, trust, and love. These holding hands poems celebrate the beauty of holding hands, offering a lyrical exploration of the intimacy and power of touch.

1. Holding Hands

       By Anonymous

I want to spend everyday holding your hand,
not constantly per say but most of the time
everywhere that we are and go I want
to be holding hands to feel safe and announce
to the world this is the woman I love and
I’m so very proud of her.
I want to hold your hand to show you
I love you and care through that sign of affection.
Something to give us both warmth and comfort.

Even when we’re just sitting on the couch,
sitting up in bed or lying down reading
or watching TV perhaps resting awhile
I want to be holding your hand
and feel contented peace in my soul and heart.
I want to hold your soft hand and
hold you so very close and tight because
you are amazing and my northern light.
I want to hold the hands of my Angel
each day and night feeling true loves
electric current run through our bodies and souls.

I want to hold your sweet hand and kiss it so soft
and then just hold it as we sit and talk,
I want to hold your hand as we go about
doing whatever the task is ahead.
I want to be holding your hand so the world
knows I am yours and yours alone forevermore
and so all will know you’re the woman I love.
I want to be holding your hand throughout
our many days stretching ahead because
it’s another way I can tell you I love you
and also feel so very safe and connected
to my precious Angel to whom I am eternally dedicated.

2. Holding Hands

       By Michael P. Mcparland

It was on an April evening, when as blind-dates we first met,
He gently took my hand in his, that moment I’ll never forget,
In December, as husband and wife, down the aisle we walked, hand in hand,
Lovingly looking at each other, proudly showing that gold wedding band,
Yes, we’ve had our share of joy and sorrow, as we have walked along life’s way,
Our love we shared together, by holding hands, each day,
Fifty-four years later, God has tenderly removed my love’s hand from mine,
With out-stretched arms, he’ll wait for me, when it becomes my time,
Together, holding hands, we will stroll down that golden road, Because you see…
We will be walking once more together, hand in hand, into Eternity!!!

3. Holding You And Your Hand Poem

       by Michael P. Mcparland

How I would love right now
to be holding you and your hand
so tight and near to me
as we spent the night having having fun.
I just want to be holding you and your hand
as we talk and read stopping at times to
give you sweet kisses all over throughout.
I want to be holding you so close and tight
and holding your hand while I look in your eyes
and feel all of the weight of the world lift
from my heart and soul knowing everything is okay
because I am with you.

Tonight is a most perfect night to just
snuggle and nuzzle up so tight together,
to just hold hands as our hearts and souls heal
from and in all the love we give to each other,
it is always a perfect night to hold you
and have your hand in mine where ever we are my sweetie,
I want to hold you and your hand while
we share and do all of those wonderful little things
that I so cherish and miss,
holding the woman that is my true Angel while
doing those things would be heave on earth
my sweet Angel Queen.

So as I sit back to do some reading among other things
I will be dreaming of holding your soft hand
and holding beautiful you near as I send sweet kisses,
big hugs, and millions upon millions of smiles so grand.
Feel all of my warmth and love surround and fill you
and know I am right here waiting for you,
you can reach out to me should you want or need
and I will as ever do all that I can and give my best
and my all for you my sweet girl.
God bless you my dear I wish I could be holding you
and your hand right here and now because
you are my best friend and Queen, my true love,
my Angel, my everything and I love you so much
my heart overflows with pure tenderness.

4. Wishful Dreaming

       By Anonymous

what a way to meet
& in one way it highlights
& yet i’ve never felt so close
to someone
i really ****in mean it

a creation of magic?
or of mere fate?
or is this the chemicals in my brain?
the answer fell hard
from the cosmos afar
the rain then stopped
so the clouds could part
i was meant to catch
the falling star

this star
is alike me in significance
because the star that is me
is alike her in the same ways

& this world is magic sometimes
because all of this just proves it
it really proves that someone like i
can see wishful dreaming
finally come to life

5. Holding Hands

       By Anonymous

My arm around you,
a smile on your face
What better place
in this human race

To walk hand in hand
wherever life takes us
is a wonderful plan
for this earthly span

At day’s end, the pleasure
of standing close together
viewing the reds and golds
of a glorious evening sky

6. …Piano Fingers…

       By Anonymous

She was born with
piano fingers, though,
she never played a note,
long lean  and dainty
lengths of tenderness…

I often felt their suppleness
as she drew them down my back,
her carefully manicured nails
softly caressed my many itches…

My hands in contrast
are callused and gnarled,
with silly twisted joints
leading to finger nails
I’ve finally stopped chewing
and actually have to cut now…

That’s good for returning
the many back scratches
I’ve received over the years,
together though, holding hands,
I can feel her rubbing my calluses,
almost like trying to rub away
the years of hurt that brought
them to be…I tell her that
they’re to remind me of the
best years of my life,
all the years we’ve shared,
the very reason I’ve done it all…

Nowadays, the contrast
in skin is thinning, age
has softened my calluses,
or maybe, it was from her
loving care and constant rubbing
that made them soften,
like the way she softened
this old heart, who wants nothing
more than to reach and hold
tight to her piano fingers
that played a symphony
of love, without striking a note…
My wife Sandra is the one
with the Piano Fingers ,
just sayin …

7. I’ve Got A Date With?

       By Anonymous

Holding hands and walking
Arm and arm
Down the main street of town
I can’t stand it

8. Enjoying Valentine’s Day

       By Anonymous

Except for me
I’m the Lone Ranger
Walking with no one
Lonely as hell
Resenting that everyone around me
Is a couple
While the only couple here
Are the couple of bad thoughts
That keep running around my head

So I leave Main Street
Arm and arm with no one
Chatting intermittently to myself
Doing my very best
To get a date with… myself!
Wondering if I can get that lucky?

I just hope
That when the time comes
To pick myself up
I’m not late

9. Promises

       By Anonymous

I often misappropriate my character to the things that I do.
But that’s not character, that’s identity.

My character is based around my fulfillment of the things that I say – the promises that I make.
And how can I be in a relationship when I can’t even relate.
Its all about word. Spoken word. The words that you don’t keep to yourself and that bind you to another person.
Those things called promises.
And I can’t keep all my promises to myself, let alone to someone else.
Like the promise to be more honest.
The promise to be more transparent.
The promise to keep in better contact with people I genuinely care about.
The promise to stop messing around when I’m in a relationship.
The promise to stop hurting people who I say I love.
So many promises.

10. Holding Hands

       By Anonymous

When small I delighted in annoying Betty whenever I could.
She’d sit in a shady spot beneath my tree with a book,
An easy target for me up above; Betty never understood
Me then; and she often gave me that ‘elder sister look,’
But she never went far away and that felt good.
I laughed; she jumped when things on her I shook!
If ever I showed I was scared, and quite unplanned,
Betty would come to me and hold my hand.

11. When Our Lips Touch

       By Anonymous

Once our lips touch, lust emits from the floor to the ceiling fan,
Images of you holding on for dear life the deeper I penetrate.
The flow of every stroke is rhythmic like a line dance.
Give me a chance to advance, this is my dance so give that spine a rest and untense that back.
Picking up the slack I’ll do everything to make you forget everyone who gave you that wack 15 mins.
Thinking of them will leave a putrid stain in your heart, so you hold on and make me swear that we will never depart.
Where do I start about our nights together, and how we simply stared into each others eyes during the bad weather.
We always kept rocking bed with the war wounds, we go at it until the sun blooms, then again until about noon.
We don’t even get dressed, we spend hour after hour hugging and joking around cuddling until our eyes close.
Charging up the batteries we babble on like children,
Building this bond, temptation and all, I’ll probably will have you waiting for me to call.
From summer to fall will be together through it all

Final Thoughts

Hands are a powerful symbol of the human experience, conveying love, connection, and creativity.

In this collection of poems, we have explored the different ways that hands can touch our memories and evoke a range of emotions.

From the funny to the serious, the short to the long, and the rhyming to the free verse, each of these hands poems offers a unique perspective on the beauty and complexity of hands.

Whether exploring the essential role of hands in shaping our world or celebrating the intimacy of holding hands with someone we love, these poems for hands remind us of the power and importance of touch in our lives.

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