Thoughts Have Hands

Chill morning air

Thrills bare skin.

The echo of a train

           Rumbles old rails

                     Far in the distance. 

A long low moan

Lays down the bass

Rises in tone

whistles a warning

                  Trills a high note.

A background rhythm,

clatters through town on steel tracks.

My favorite companion sits beside me,

Quiet as dew, we watch and listen

            Slowness brews.

Want nothing. 

Enjoy the atmospheric transitions :

Thoughts curl under my nose,

Emotions take a nap.

With dawning awareness

Imagination peaks

plans for the best stretch thin.

 The sun melts shadows 

                     Time temps doing 

In this happy place

              Being commands

Holds space for healing. 

The first gray squirrel scurries down

The big oak tree

         Stands his ground

                    Tail up and unguarded,

Same as ever

         Signals constancy. 

The last hummingbird of fall

                             circles the feeder.

Two cardinals take wing and

          Silence sings.

THH

9/18/25

Revised 12-30-25

Palms of two hands press

                     down on Mourning eyes,

Plead with the dark to extend night’s rest,

         to hide from rising demands

of sun rays.

Arms stretch up above my head

to empty space as in surrender.

Skin flaps embarrassingly loose.               

Wrinkles etched like fine grain

on an old wooden floor

promises character.

A comic taunt in mortal light,

makes a passing wish for a new finish.

I roll to my side, wheeze and cough,

raise up pissed. Reluctant eyes

record the stark: the persistent battle

to render adjustment to my

aging constitution.

      

Feet meet the floor, 

               Surprised by a sturdy stance.

 Four steps to the bathroom sink; I

       catch a glimpse of sleep’s

bare renovation in the mirror. 

         Splash cold water on a numb face:

an intervention to awaken some sense of direction. 

Familiar eyes query mine,

       peers out — a mirror for me. 

a gentle appearance,

earnest and longing,

two blue iris orbs or is it four?

Embedded in folds of skin seem to

wink at me.

Is this comic relief? a check for the who

and the whom — an interrogation of the

insider looking out or the outsider

staring back.

In the shower an old washcloth 

hangs stiff as a bone,

mocks my worry

as if standing straight should make all

the difference :

How did I make it to eighty?

Wrinkles and all?

Happily breathing,

  Unprepared as I am

to deal with a fall.

THH

9/15/25

Revised 9/18/25

Revised 12-30-25

Stillness doesn’t take you one step forward or back,

      Has nothing to sell, nothing to earn; 

                  attracts attention 

                                           being still.

Stillness has no plan to control your mission,

No interest in recent history, 

                        or political position. 

But she insists anxiety be put on hold,

       forgo the fantasies of conquest, 

                           and drop vulgar passion,

       before granting you time.

Stillness holds space 

                 for your presence, 

                       keeps faith with your silence. 

Gives herself to those 

                         who seek solace, 

solicits no conversation, 

              never pries into secrets.

She lifts your spirit when your broken body

                   treads cold waters.

Stillness is the friend at your hospital bed,         patiently waiting for eyes to open.

She dresses casually on the off chance 

           you awaken with energy to dance. 

Stillness waits with indifference:

     Eyes the weather, 

             checks for lightning,

                    Opens no windows, 

                                    Closes no doors. 

Sips wine at the bar

                           where she lounges,

Saves a seat should you linger.

           Gives you the key to unlock her room, where she lights scented candles,

                                  draws the curtains,

Offers you time to engage vivid contemplation,

promises no revelation, 

                 or divine intervention.

 

A patient friend to all who seek her, 

      Stillness calms passions 

              revives the wounded spirit

avoids drowning.

THH

9/12/25

Soft downy wings

             feather the wind 

                          spread wide and strong 

             circle in silence.

Shrewd eyes peruse the ground 

                  Study fields of grass.

 Sails a breathless breeze,

            descends

                     with nimble purpose. 

                                            

Prays for prey to play peacefully on.

Talons out!

                

Snatch sharply,

                           Slays swiftly.

Big brown wings fan out, 

       regain lift, 

                 leap into the air, 

                                 leave not a trace.

The hungry victor clutches 

                                a hapless victim;

 Lands triumphant.

                        From a nearby limb,      

enjoys his supper,

                      Lord of his win, 

   

 Living by grace.

THH

8/4/25

Rev 8/6/25

Revised 8/15/25

I spy 

an acrobat sitting in wild roses,

         quietly hiding on a scraggly stem.

I see you playing sentinel 

                            in the gleam of sunlight, 

       as breezes buffet you about.

Resting from your spirted crusade for

                                           fragile survival.

     

Fierce sky diver, you are, 

          guarding fountains of life — I enjoy 

feeders put out by the porch 

                     for the viewing pleasure

 of your flying circus. 

Thoroughly enchanted, as I am, 

        by hummingbird daring 

                     and arial gymnastics, 

Never retreating

        gallantly fighting 

                    you’ve won a truce.

Much like a dashing swordsman

          brandishing his blade,

               you never fail to challenge rivals, demanding to sup within your borders,

         hungry for sustenance from your altar.

Invaders (like yourself) buzz 

     the sky blue nave, threaten plunder;

              rising from your daily devotions, 

you fly to defend your sacred air space.

 

One dives out of the sun

       grabs a quick sip from the feeder.

Perched on the sacred chalice, 

            head bowed in thanksgiving,

A ruby throated opponent 

        drinks life’s blood  — jumps 

             straight up,

                            sword extended, 

                   ready to duel.

Leaping into the air 

             you swoop in behind,

                         then down one side  — 

Two robust knights 

                  enjoin a feathered joust.

A swirl of wings flutter — a mile a minute —

                                Never tiring.

One sneaks a drink from the sacred cup.  

        You take umbrage; consider his trespass worst than heresy; dive bomb him away, 

     drive him far from your liturgical space.

You helicopter up and down 

                             hover holy ground,

Then for no reason, call a truce, 

                                zip off for sabbath.

In the break from chasing,

                     you find a quiet roost,

  sit proudly knowing,

                  boundaries were defended, 

                              rule enforced.

   

One flies to rest on a limb, 

                 the other perches nearby on a

          low live wire.

Both weigh renewing their campaign 

        for the Holy of Holies.

                         No sign of contrition, 

No grand procession touting victories, 

               No sign of shame or bitter weeping.

Tiny green wings remain sturdy and unruffled, 

                 no sign of worry for tomorrow.

Your alcove of rest provides

                 room for honest belonging.

    

The sentinel continues unmolested: 

                                 King for the moment !

Perfect awareness of a sacred calling,

                a silent presence before the altar, 

No distress or blame, 

             No thought of shame: 

Just playful acceptance of  

                           fleeting transcendence.

THH

8/25/25

A table filled with fresh baked goods

                   and abundant fruit

                               from head to foot,

Inviting the living:

              the poor, the wealthy, 

                         the eager, the mad, 

                             the frightened and lonely.

An open table:

           set for the willing

                            to discern eye to eye, 

          in the clearest of mirrors,

                                      our wooden idols 

and hidden knives —

               

daring instructions to be the Samaritan.

To abandon pretense 

                         of higher standing,

 risk washing dirt 

                   from guest’s feet,

      lay aside fear for personal survival, 

Cold hearts may brake open to 

          pursue human wholeness, 

                                and learn their truth, 

Relish the harmonies of the 

                                     uniquely complete. 

 

Celebrate recognition

      of our creator’s intent,

                       recline together,

                              and bask in the joy of

heaven’s earthly incarnation —

                            

                        Fed on the vine.

THH 

8/31/25