This week let’s write a callous poem. None of our lives are so soft that we don’t have callouses. I still have one on my right middle finger from holding a pen in the days before computers. Of course, there’s also the emotional sense of the word which might yield some good poetry. Let’s toughen up and post the results in the comments below.
Living Poetry 
Great Aunt’s Hands
I often wondered if she had pain
where her bones met inside her hands,
all gnarled and ridged on their backs,
hardened with rough skin from flour sacks,
and dishes a-plenty,
from visitors who sat at many
a table in the family homestead.
Often the women would help her,
sending her with the dessert,
so she’d spend the evenings
dishes done, sometimes by the many.
When she got very old,
the weather in Canada by Lake Huron was so cold,
she had to start staying elsewheres;
fretting she’d be a bother,
not wanting to get in anyone’s hair,
though we were all glad to give her some care.
She left this world at age 76,
and always wanted to make it stick,
“Annette, be careful, and take care of yourself;
listen to your parents, go to Mass, and be well.”
She told me once the definition of “pep”,
said it was good to have it,
and plenty of steps.
I still miss her
and remember her last words to me,
“Annette, wear your chapeau.”
(It was cold out, you see.)
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Posted by Annette Riddle | May 23, 2023, 11:07 PMLisa asked us to post for you our poetry for today. Thanks, Lisa!
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Posted by Annette Riddle | May 23, 2023, 11:09 PMAgreed. Thanks, Lisa!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 23, 2023, 11:27 PMLove the opening description of her hands. Great work. Thanks for sharing!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 23, 2023, 11:26 PMCalloused…
there is not a loss so grand as that of love lost
there is not a sadness so intense as that of one’s heart cracking open
and being ripped apart by vultures, til there is nothing left
nothing at all left to pain or create pain to self
like a calloused soul that wanders this life without any thought of a life lived with love or one without,
just a soul that moves in and out of sight
guarded tight, shielded right
by hurt and tears and the bones of the rib cage that once stored a vibrant, beating heart.
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Posted by DanielleM | May 23, 2023, 7:16 PMLove the visceral imagery in this one. Thanks for sharing!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 23, 2023, 8:19 PM😊 Thanks much. Lovely prompt. It was Lisa who suggested I share.
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Posted by DanielleM | May 23, 2023, 8:57 PMThank you, Lisa, for promoting the LP prompt!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 23, 2023, 9:02 PMExpressions are hard
when walls are stuccoed, hard fact
hearts shatter
plaster cracks
both may be mended
will they want to come back
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Posted by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld | May 23, 2023, 8:29 AMVery nice. Love the stucco/plaster metaphor. Welcome back!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 23, 2023, 6:29 PMLisa Tomey-Zonneveld suggested I share this here:
Cruel Heart
His heart was leather
and steel sprockets,
nothing soft about it.
He didn’t care for others,
for what they said or felt.
They were just cogs
to run his world,
barely worth a compliment.
The pews were empty
when he died, no one
to praise or honor him.
The only tears were
raindrops when he
went into his grave.
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Posted by nolchafox | May 23, 2023, 8:16 AMHow many do we know with these characteristics? It certainly matches the prompt! Thank you for sharing.
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Posted by Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld | May 23, 2023, 8:22 AMI’m glad you took Lisa’s suggestion. Lovely poem! Especially the first two lines. Thanks for sharing.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 23, 2023, 6:27 PMhttps://bartbarkerpoet.com/2023/05/22/ephemeral-me/
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | May 22, 2023, 7:08 PM