The Rockbiter’s Riddle

“They look like big, good, strong hands,
Don’t they?”
I’m still looking for the answer
It seems my life could be defined
In quotations, movie lines
Passages, verses and choruses
Other’s words stitched into my skin
Made up entirely, defined by the parameters
Of other lives, the stories someone else was telling.

So I am The Rockbiter
Staring into open palms, flexing crumbling digits
Wanting to be stone, willing my gaze
To become Medusa’s, turning weak flesh
Into something hard, enduring
Able to hold up all of the everything
Because that was my purpose
The one thing I always felt I could be good for
Living to be the rock upon which those I loved
Could build themselves up.

Yet rock was the last thing I was
More sand, or badly fired pottery
Feet of clay indeed, broken off at the ankles
Wobbling on jagged stumps, becoming something
Sad and comic, a lost Marx Brother
Leaning drunken this way and that
Beneath teetering dishes and platters
Desperately staving off the inevitable crash
Followed by sad little tinkle as the last spoon
Hits the ground.

So now I can’t help but wonder again
If I can convince myself of that myth of purpose
Are they worthy, these poor hands
Ink stained and bloody
Are they enough
I always thought they could be but I have been so very wrong
I’m asking you now, holding them up
Because I think you could give me an answer I’d believe
Is that what they are, because I hope so.


One Response to “The Rockbiter’s Riddle”

  1. whsiper from your past Says:

    gently clear away what they are not
    being wrong allows for change, not denial
    take a look at what is left – always been a heartbeat away
    the good strong hands of a man, a father, a friend, a helper, a reminder of others’ blood that made yours and course through a pair of truly strong hands

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