The Blue Man, as I have named him is a writer of stories,
poetry and prose. The Blue Man wants to come up with something
different for his readers. Never before has he not been able to
sit right down at his desk and start writing. He ponders and
ponders throughout the morning hours until he decides to take a
break. This Blue Man walks through the little town of
"Weather men's Grove". Born and raise here amongst people who go
about their daily lives. Oh they know how much of a celebrity he
had become as a writer, but being country folk; all is taken in
stride.
The Blue Man walked down the tiny street of shops, greeting people
and stopping to chat with a few of the store owners. He looked
across the street for a flash of light caught his eye from a
reflection in the window of the "Silverstein's Shoe Repair". He stood
in front of the large glass window an observed the actions inside the
oldest shop in town. What The Blue Man observed finally gave him his
idea that he struggled through the entire morning. Making notes while
standing there, he finally made his way back to his study and took his
place to think the story out...
Thy Hands...
Thine eyes watched a very old man at work. He sat alone in the corner
of the little old shoppe. It has very little light and what light there
be, comes from a small circular window atop his rustic station. Rays of
sunlight filter down and across the top of his desk through the window
pane that hasn't been washed since the day it was put there. The bright
light shines almost reverently down on his very old hands. The dust in
the air creates a smoky effect that's very picturesque, that bears a tear
to my eye. He wears a long dark duster-style coat, buttoned to the collar
over a dingy white shirt. His hair is a yellowish-gray color, but his very
long beard is silver to white. On his head wears a dark gray pill-box style
cap. My eyes are drawn back to his hands, for now he is rolling them in a
circle as if to make them warm or to loosen them because of stiffness, he
raises his hands up into the light from the window, then moves them side to
side and stares at them. You can almost imagine what he is thinking about
his hands; "Thy hands are old and wrinkled, and at last have given way to
pain." Over his many, many years of hard work at stitching leather and
embossing designs into the varied leather-ed items, thusly be it known that
Arthritis has crippled and deformed both of his talented hands over the years.
Where tools once swung in a perfect notch, his livelihood ceased and now
he writes out translations for transactions and invoices. Though I have
noticed that he has taped the pencil to his crippled fingers. How sad, how
heartbreaking...
I can't count the endless days that I would sit outside the old man's work
place and walk up to the plate glass window where the public can see the
shoes for sale and watch the cobblers make their fantastic wear-ables. Of
course my only interest was observing the old man for my studies in creative
writing at the "Highland University."
***************************
I introduce to you for your reading pleasure, One of My Creations;
***************************
Thy Hands...
"Mother, grandfather isn't feeling well, is he?"
"No, he is tried and needs his rest."
"Can nothing help his pain?"
"Come here, let me tell you a story."
"First look at the picture on the wall"
"The blue painting of grandfather when he was young."
"Yes, that's one. As you can see he was in heavy thought,
always concentrating on his work. His mind and body was put
to the test every single day. He was an amazing writer then.
It all changed so very fast"
"Yes, I know, the War came and grandfather, grandmother and
their family and friends were put into Concentration Camps
by the Nazis."
"That's right. They were tattooed, given numbers...
Your grandmother died after a short time in the camp,
She couldn't stand not being with grandfather and she wasted
away"
"I like that painting of grandfather, even though it's cold,
I mean the blue color gives it the feeling of dark times"
"Your so smart, come here give your mother a hug,
one day, the burning and stabbing pain will cease.
The curled and twisted branches on the tree of life,
Will slowly open to stretch forth in graceful abandonment.
Reaching through the clouds, onward racing between the stars
to reach Heaven; to touch the hands of God.
Grandfather's hands forged a living, weaving and embossing
leather. At the end of the day, he would go to his knees at
night, folding thy hands, He would gracefully folded his
hands into prayer asking,
*God to let these hands learn to write
Let my eyes read what my hands have created
The way a flower blooms, let thy hands grasp pen to paper
With the pain and sorrow, a few blissful memories,
Allow thy hands to touch".
"These old wrinkled and swollen
hands once caressed with such tenderness.
His new born sons and daughters,
These old ugly deformed hands cooked and cleaned;
scrubbed floors They taught his children to fold their
hands in prayer. Thy Hands trembled and shook when they
buried his parents He folded his hands in prayer when he
buried his beloved wife. Thy hands, wrinkled and crippled,
Still he folded them into prayer every night asking God,
"Send an Angel to this lonely soul of mine,
Thy hands old and clumsy have worn a symbol of love for
forty years. These hands have held the hands of fake and
true friendship".
"They caressed, one, two, three times his
grand children. His hands have worked the fingers to the
bones, Keeping me alive, they fed and dressed me,
Held me through my cuts and bruises
Thy hands are a blessing from God...*
"You have been taught about The Circle of Life.
Now my hands have shown you how to fold them into prayer.
Thy hands are old, filled with arthritis that makes them
wrinkled and weak But they are filled with precious memories
of the past, Present and future times in my life.
As yours have just begun my, sweet.
So grandfather will soon soar to the Heaven's up above
And Thy Hands will touch,
Thy Hands of God"...
