Palms etched with a map of battles won and lost,
a network of veins like rivers navigating fear.
These hands, once small and curious, learned a language
beyond words, a dialect of pressure and warmth.
Fingertips ghosts, dancing on trembling skin,
a mother's brow creased with worry, soothed by a feather-light touch.
The tremor of a newborn's grasp, a promise held tight,
a fragile universe cradled within these calloused cups.
The weight of a scalpel, a brushstroke on mortality's canvas,
each incision a calculated poem, a story whispered in sutures.
Blood, a crimson tide navigated with the practiced calm
of a cartographer charting an unyielding terrain.
Hands become anchors, steadying storms of pain,
a steady press on a wound, a dam against the flood.
The silent language of comfort, a weight on a heaving chest,
a lighthouse beam cutting through the fog of panic.
These hands, instruments of science, vessels of empathy.
They've held the mirror to mortality, witnessed the body's resilience,
and in their touch, a wordless promise:
You are not alone on this fragile journey.
About the Creator
Buzu
Verses sculpted from the heart, I'm a poet navigating emotions with ink-stained fingertips. Crafting tales that dance between reality and dreams, my words paint a symphony of feelings in the canvas of life. 📜✨ #PoetLife #Wordsmith
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli5 days ago in Poets
Standing Still
There are very few moments in life where time truly stands still. When your breath is taken from your chest and your body hangs weightless in that moment. Just long enough for it to stay with you from that day onwards. Deep in the red sands of the Australian Outback, I found that moment and clung to it forever.
By Kevin McLaughlin5 days ago in Wander
Comments (1)
Holy cow! Are you a medical practitioner? This is so telling and perfect.