Hands; a photo prompt, a poem


They raise their hands, beautiful hands,
Hands that have known labor, have kneaded,
Have created, have loved and been loved.

Praying to the creator, a creator, Mother Nature,
"End the storms. Save our brethren."
And the clouds tower above them like city towers.

From plenty, they sense the devastation, the need.
Politicians storm the fortresses for a picture.
They shout, "We are here with your relief."

Paper towels tossed into a crowd who wish for
Water, food, medicine, jobs, homes.
The cleanup has begun, with a single roll of paper.

Beautiful minds are shocked at the blatant
Lack of care. The victims are brown, black, and white.
They are a colorful mosaic, whirled and swirled by wind.

Voices come through the air, the web, the functions of 
of which convey disbelief, horror, future action.
But for luck, there walk we in similar straits.

Caring is call to action. Share, share alike, give.
From coast to island to coast the storms remain.
You only have a short time to build. Build.

A legacy is formed by the footsteps you leave.
I step in my ancestors steps. "Here is a broom,
I will sweep. A mop, I will scrub. Soap to wash..

The bitter taste of anguish, in the mouths. Eyes that 
Pierce though miles away. Stories that will be told to 
Grandchildren, of the great storm, of a roll of paper tossed.

Thursday Photo Prompt: Protective Dark

Thursday Photo Prompt – Passage #writephoto

“What is it?”

The walls were silent. The steps were worn with a banister of varniducshed pine. Lights shone to light the corners and to keep the shadows of the past at bay. Humanity had lived here for a very long time. The garden at the top of the stairs had see lovers come and go, hidden from their chaperones by windows and a willingness to not see certain things that would make life uncomfortable under ground. Life here was cool, but not chilly. Life was quiet without being unbearable. Life was vented so that even in times of trial, the air with the fresh smell of flowers or snow would flow down to those held beneath.

Two sisters walked along the path, moving awkward students before them. Fall was a good time to move briskly through books of knowledge. It kept the students and faculty from being distracted by the uncertainty of winter. The stores from the summer’s harvest rewarded the community at dawn and dusk. Evenings flowed into music, drama and literature. Mornings were resplendent with the study of science and the explosions that sometimes resounded. History, mathematics and languages filled the afternoon, puffing student’s chests out and egos up.

“What is it?” An eight year old child peeked down the hallway at the courtyard. Her brother pulled his jacket close and then buttoned her coat.

“Shh, don’t make any noise. We’ll be heard.”

The sound of metallic doors slamming and booted feet marching filled the hallway. The children were lucky, no one had entered the hallway yet or looked in their direction. The boy pulled the girl backward, away from the light, away from the sound, away from the marching feet. They couldn’t avoid the speakers that blared.

“All persons are required to move promptly to the courtyard to begin deportation screening. Any person avoiding screening will be subject to arrest and prosecution for violation of the Homeland Security Act.”

“Children, come away. Come away now.”

Holding hands tightly, the children followed Sister Cecelia into the dark. As the Sister moved them into obscurity, the sound of gunfire filled the courtyard.