Thoughts Have Hands

Saturday we protested

A wannabe King

Poked fun at the beast

Outraged by orders:

                 Illegal and cruel.

Voices challenged violence

And belittling people,

The ridiculous work of

Heavily armed bullies,

As we proclaimed as one, 

                 We want – No King.

Sunday we waved palms in the air

Asked a man to be king

Begged him save us …

From violence and want,

And plots we don’t see, 

Or is it from ourselves

                     We seek to be free?

We celebrated his coming, 

And played our part,

Hopeful as children

Right from the start,

                      The image of us.

Imagined the triumphant march

Down Jerusalem’s streets.

Sang songs of the season

                    And birth of a kingdom,

Led by a man riding a donkey,

Orchestrating a parade,

Mocking our ghosts

Offering new freedoms,

                     In the flesh of a human.

His revolution –

Rhymes in history

Ironic patterns lost on sheep

          Too busy grazing to even look up.

We entered our nave,

Spread wealth and religion

Before an altar carved

                   By hallowed tradition.

The story felt as real as it is old.

Alternate facts?

How downtrodden people

Might work together

Reign in mercy

Protect every neighbor

Even more the stranger

Living as kin.

A revelation beyond reason —

To defeat mighty Caesar, 

And his well trained army,

Courageous and happy to die for

The son of god –

                     An incredible feat.

Like the one we reviled on Saturday,

Making America great

Defeat after defeat, 

Establishing his power,

Shining white,

                Trimmed in gold leaf.

A broken record – Déjà vu,

All over again,

Wrapped in old glory, 

Denying faults,

Killing the innocent,

Detaining others:

Black and queer –

Demanding the end of 

                  American Independence.

The seeds of heaven’s hope

Planted long ago by prophets and sages.

Named living water to quench human thirst:   

                    Trust and cooperation.

Abel plowed dry dirt

Anxious for rain

                   Offered up grain.

Cain envied easy acceptance

Thought him too giving

Rose up and killed him

Marked us with death

                   Left us in darkness.

Full of envy and fear

Like his descendants 

              He wanted salvation quick.

Cain built walled cities,

To show off his power

Guarded the gate from those

He thought other,

                Though quite similar.

All signs of difference feel disturbing,

Lead us astray,

Finding scant progress

In the human race:

Pull up weeds,

                   Burn up wheat.

With a desire for Eden strong,

And not knowing the cost,

We believe it should be gifted,

Since we are the chosen;

But mana from heaven

Turns deadly poison

                       Kept over night.

So we eat the crumbs

Brushed from tables of tyrants,

Scattered around perfumed feet,

As the master and his minions lounge,

Drinking our wine,

                          Eating lamb.

We beg for a favor

Shake off losses

Call it living.

Get to the vineyard by seven

Harvest grapes, bring in the wheat.

           Spare no time to bury our dead.

Believe dreams come true,

Fantasies too,

Sold to high bidders.

Shout hosannas

To chosen Messiahs,

Rarely check sources.

Forget love means serving,

                  Not jockeying for position.

Yes, love feels scary

Risky and vulnerable,

When divided by others

We endanger disciples

Who live in the open.

Show love heals,

Offer forgiveness

                    Burned as torches.

Bold speech in hungry cities

Where judgement wears purple with honor

Requires sacrifice of victims.

Told to ignore signs of suffering -—

If one dream dies,

                     Dream up another.

We pass the peace,

Catch a glimpse of love’s longing

In eyes of church goers,

Hold them close for a moment

Find some relief,

Believe once anointed,

                   We gain heaven’s protection.

No thought of ends

Kind but obtuse.

Scared to death

Tired of losing,

Hard to believe a Messiah could love us –

Hold space for our blindness, 

                    And mistakes made Monday.

Once the liturgical mystery

Full of symbols and ritual,

Became our drama, 

It revealed to believers

A story of hope,

          Said plainly –

         The plan for a future kin-dom

          Fell apart Friday

          Expectations crushed

          In time for Passover,

          To answer three questions.

What made this night special?

Truth doubted in moments of crisis

A king crowned with thorns

Murdered with scorn

              Deserted by his own.

Facing love’s execution

In fear and trembling

We watched our dream

Die like a criminal

             Nailed on a cross.

Complicit with horrors,

Scared like Cain,

We built a high altar,

Edited our story

Weakened forgiveness 

Created a new dogma

Added rules for judgment

To earn redemption 

Obscured our failure

               Behind walls of submission.

Today we trudge unclean streets in sorrow

While merciless soldiers

Armed to the teeth

              Continued their beat;

Like followers of Rome

Herding sheep to slaughter

Then sacrifice children

                  Before idols of gold.

After thousands of years 

The evidence is harsh.

The sons and daughters of man

Bleed from an old wound

Deep in our side.

Lost on Good Friday

Mourned in darkness Saturday 

Saw an empty tomb Sunday 

         Greeted sunrise ringing bells.

Woke up Monday, still bleeding profusely,

Changed the bandage,

Wondered can life

Love itself back,

After we beat it to death

Buried the body

Covered the tomb 

                  Under a large stone :

Hiding the truth.

Alternative version revised

THH

4/3/26

Cup empty

Feet bare 

Hands free

Breathing air

Float in silence

Buoyant as water 

Soaked with attention. 

No resistance, 

No insistence, 

Only persistence, 

Fearing no end.

Swing on the porch 

Hear the wind sing 

As glimmers of light 

 

Dawn.

THH

4/2/26

Grateful for this storied well 

          Dug by tribal ancestors:

Plentiful and cool, the water slakes 

           Parched throats.

          Hidden underground:

Found by chance,

          Fed by rain, filtered in earth,

Protected from strangers, but

               Urgent for neighbors, 

Always tame,

                      Always the same.

How deep does it go ? 

                 How long can it last?

No one knows. No one asks.

With morning light, we fill

                 Our jars with water to

Quench village thirst; smile and nod to 

                 Well known faces,

Staid but safe 

                  Practice familiar traditions — Trumpet —

               ‘So what’ —

                               Soft then louder,

 Over and over.

Obsessed with survival, we

                Barter goodness for tomorrow;

Tense with hope,

               We bet on fortune, 

 Heavy with debt.  

             

Then one day, drawing fresh water,

               Brown eyes meet yours, 

Face to face.

             Questions asked and answered,

Person to person, 

              Unlike other greetings.

Suddenly feeling seen,

               Through a humble request

Shame and inner pain 

               Dissolve in circumstance.

 

The looking glass image used to 

            Deflect disgrace,

                  Wiped clean to unveil 

A fragile face

              Thirsting for life.

The person who loves you

           Dares be vulnerable with you 

Frees hearts of home made fears,

            Shows by giving 

The joy of living.

Inspires escape from abject slavery 

            To cross rambling rivers,

And rugged deserts —

            To win a promise.

Reimagine whole new worlds,

            Or pursue forgotten dreams,

Resurrect the challenge to stay

            Open and fully human.

In this demented world,

                     Old wells dry up, 

Outsiders get beaten,

                    Rarely forgiven.

Old habits die hard until 

                     Harvests ripen.

So pay close attention or

         Miss the divine interventions

To satisfy thirst 

          And christen you —

                      Beloved.

THH

3-8-26

To whom do you raise your voice

Stretch out humbled arms

                      Open empty hands

Divine or human image —

           Your fondest carved idol? 

Father, mother

           Lover, redeemer —

An infinite power: benign or indifferent,

And what hopes do you raise

After singing your hymns

And offering your praise? 

Do you ask for bread, 

               Forgiveness of debt,

Permission to proceed as you are,

Or clearer direction 

               To take you far —

At least for better days

       And blessings for your people ?

God beyond god:

Force of goodness and beauty, 

Full of awesome light, 

I wonder do you cry for your lovely

Creatures who die in bloody fights,

Enter life to be broken,

Soon to be eaten; while others 

               Feast with special guests

Wrapped in purple,

               Drunk on wine?

Do you care,

                Or must we assume

Our stardust —

          Cooked in galaxies 

On fire breathing stars

          Blown at the speed of light 

Unfathomed distances to earth 

          Forged of water and clay  —

Exhausted the power of your 

          Majestic evolution ? 

Omniscient ?

Omnipresent ?

Who drives this Omnibus 

                Where are you going?

I hear you bend the arc of justice,

                   Plan a peaceful kingdom 

Soon within reach 

                   Is it only for the chosen? 

Why is divine light persistently blinding ?

                Will we know your presence ? 

What actually is it —

                You are doing?

 So many questions 

                  Comes of human longing.

What does it matter?

                       What shall I do?

Pray for easy answers?

                     Seek a mystic vision? 

Find a front seat on your cosmic bus:

Tour the universe

             In air conditioned comfort, 

Take in the mysteries of night, 

             Or with an open mind 

 Think to take the wheel ?

God’s no Sargent at Arms,

No paid escort,

              No wizard of spells,

Or virgin mother —

               Hidden in nature. 

She is no nurse, teacher or

               Power broker.

The creator’s the doorman 

          For a brand new salon

He opens the door 

           Tips a cosmic hat, 

Waves us in.

When the music begins 

         And the lights turn low 

On the ballroom floor,

          He waltzes away.

You need no appointment. 

Entrance is free;

          The sign for the exit 

Flashes clearly.

The elevators stay busy 

              You must wait for a ride,

To the rooms up above

               If you tire of dance.

How high you go,

              That’s for you to decide

But don’t forget the key.

You can stay for the dance,

                   Order a drink at the bar,

Wait for the next car, or like

                  Others eager for sleep 

Grab your bags and

                 Climb the steps.

Either way 

                 You must choose a room.

Some want a view, others a wall

Some a hot bath 

               To prepare for rest,

And others call 

               Room service for ice

 And a bottle of bubbly. 

Pray in earnest,

              Listen to Life’s music

The rhythm’s are subtle 

              Even atonal 

The tunes played hard and loud 

             Can drive you crazy.

Wear out the dance floor

                 Thrive while able

There’s nothing to lose

                  But trust your feet. 

For you are dust 

                 From long dead stars 

Carried by solar winds

Make your own sound

Sing your song

For when the music ends

Silence begins.

THH

 

Overwhelmed claims more than feelings, 

It’s the mountain you refuse to climb. 

Stacks upon stacks of paper prescribing duties,

Piled on the desk begging for time.

Books grabbed in a moment of inspiration 

Unread at the foot of your bed,

Judging failures of attention.

The cards and calls 

Meant to be addressed,

Unwritten and unmade like laundry

Unfolded and left wrinkled in a dryer. 

Activities and events you knew you 

Should join, 

But failed to find your shoes,

Not from lack of interest or disrespect 

But out of fatigue and bitter frustration.

This is the state of a tired mind, 

Not broken, but bruised 

by exigencies of time and story.

The uncontrollable shape of being: 

Grateful for sleep

Happy to stroll down 

Neighborhood streets, 

Smiling at nothing special,

Blinded by the chill of winter wind,

Ignoring my brain.

Aimless for now. 

Resonant with stubborn emotions, 

Insistent to reclaim rhythm, and 

Heal from dissonance.

This is a day for rest

Until my body decides

It’s ready for yes,

Only then to begin again

At a pace of my choosing.

THH

02/18/26

Go deep 

No deeper 

Think 

Think what matters 

Better still 

Ask yourself 

What do I want?

Say I want ….

Fill in the blank.

Can you answer?

What about sleep?

You know what you need 

Survival and safety!

Do these cause you grief ?

No problem you have comforts,

Do you even worry for that ?

Ok, kind sir,

I know truth hides under 

Fantasy and predictions.

Plays hard to get 

Creates tons of confusion.

So what do you feel ?

When you hit bottom 

Can you touch that?

Or is it so far below ground,

You’ve lost sight of the stars? 

Can’t tell the time ? 

Know only darkness

And foreboding silence?

Digging down 

Throwing off possessions

Discounting the wins

Soothing old wounds

Drilling down night after night 

Frustrated to discover

There’s s always more

Will you keep digging?

What memories last?

Do they carry too much weight ?

Do they hold you fast ?

Make you run for dear life ?

Leave you curled in a corner 

Tied to your chains?

What matters now?

You know nothing lasts

And your time will come,

Just when —

You would rather not know.

When I hit bottom

Shiver in the cold

Lost in my cave

I roll into thoughts

Count errors and debts

Pull up my covers

Know nothing inside adds any worth.

No calvary will come — 

Mother will not remind

How strong you can be —

Few friends will remember 

To check on your health,

Only your dog lays down 

Beside you.

Travel seems pointless 

No reason to go out 

No place —

North, east, or west,

Satisfies your quest 

The world offers a society of strange 

People without names

Appointed for ill thought out purpose 

Faces that smile 

While making side glances

This way or that 

Ingratiating stances, and you must decide 

on your own.

The day flat

Empty and numb 

A direction’s no map

To chart a way home ?

Ok I see 

You have never really known.

I get it now.

Too much time spent 

Fawning and longing 

Earning attention 

Waiting for crumbs

From the master’s table.

In shame you may tip your hat,

Or tap your foot. 

Dying to be mentioned 

In testaments written 

By the long departed 

Pays no mind to your duty or dust.

Say what you like?

What would be fun ? 

Can you start there?

I want to laugh

I want to cry

I want to see Paris

I want my friends

I want to dare.

Mostly I sigh.

I want to come up for clean air

Not suffocate in my own dry dust

Eating stale bread 

Drinking sour wine

A note nailed to the door 

Enter freely.

Brush the uncertain away 

Breathing builds pressure 

Opens the lungs

Gives life to the broken 

And forsaken. 

Weary bones grow stronger 

Wrapped in loving arms

Hugs connect flesh 

Massage sore muscle

A soft kiss confesses bliss 

Holding hands

Comforts the lonely.

Salt stings

But heals wounds

Awakens attention 

Reach out from your tomb 

Walk in the sun

Learn to speak human

Practice art

Paint colors that delight 

Write honest words that spill 

with ease on your page 

Keep warm inside 

Burn candles at night 

Breathe the salt of sea air

Be nothing but light

Empty of pity

Filled with plenty 

Open to love

When it comes

Enjoy freely.

THH

02-16-26

Emotions shy away from new adventures

Uncertain of place, wary of time,

Even when doors fly wide open,

Expectations temper joyful invitations.

Tantalized by mysteries,

Spiced with human interest,

Drawn over thresholds of social networks

In smiling assurance.

My coat draped over the banister

Left for casual retreat.

Hugs exchanged.

Accrued distances overcome,

Feigned limits surrendered,

A journey commences,

Edged with fears of falling,

Through doors of curious perception

Indulged by graceful persistence.

Fingers touch.

Hands entwine,

Yours in mine.

Fumbled buttons undone,

Thin skin exposed to healing kisses.

Wrinkles soothed.

Surprised by resonance,

Worries put to rest.

Nothing tested only abidance.

Lips eager,

Press warmly together,

Tongues play catch,

Energy brims with passion,

Redolent with pleasure like no other.

Of arms, legs and hips

In each other’s way

Unconcerned with ends

Seeking only presence

With nothing to defend.

Connection uncensored.

Intimate again,

Filled with endorphins

No need for discussion

Just room for laughter.

Swimming ancient currents of heartbreak

And accidents spilt over time.

Now moored in the eddies of mind,

The flow of our river undisturbed,

Carefree swims make room

For time to lounge in exuberant acceptance

Of each other.

So may it continue in your happy presence.

THH

02/09/26

Tonight Minneapolis cries out 

               Under siege from deadly Ice

 Spreading an aggravating chill 

                      In an already harsh winter.

Unhinged Ice raiders

               Slip down freezing streets 

Batter Neighbors 

                Shout curses 

Bash in doors to

                Shatter city peace.

Put knees on necks

               Breaks some bones 

Handcuff good people

                Lock them in cages 

Murder a smiling mother 

               Supporting her friends 

Orphan her son

                No empathy to pretend.

Schools raided — teach new 

            Lessons on uncivil intrusions

Churches invaded —

           To worship ungodly delusions

Citizens mass with hardy resolution

          And the spirit of empathy to

Protest armed bullies and militant racists,

Mock the frantic performance

And cowboy antics of B actors,

As Ice paints Minneapolis in

A veneer of red rage and

Alternative facts —

Labeled for now lawful 

And laughably viable.

The White House staff doubles down

And well paid Fox insiders

Invent new crimes to

Intimidate the people.

A wannabe king

               Searches for his crown

Decrees all resistance 

                Ugly and stupid 

Keeps the lid tight on relevant information

                  No consideration of cost

Blocks release of secrets of child predation

  

Churns the melting pot

                           Stokes the chaos 

Brings it to a boil

Says bad things happen

 Heads crack open but

  He knows nothing

Never backs down.

 

As a great metropolis

Defends against military occupation  

         

No sign of mercy

                        Thinks it great fun

As opponents bleed red.

         

On these dark Minnesota nights 

                            Nothing feels right,

Save for Good neighbors

                       Spreading salt down 

 To melt the terrors of ice 

                       All over town.

THH

01/29/26 revised

Shrink into yourself

            infinitesimally small

Invisible to most

        Comfortable but lost.

Then with Good reason 

                  Flex for freedom

Like in days of old when 

    The weak were defended

Unconcerned for the few 

          Who took advantage.

Radiate energy

         Make human connections

Ready to overrule

         The deluge of misinformation.

Stretch flesh and bone

                      Incredibly thin

Risk skin-pricks 

                      And bones that crack.

Keep breathing 

               Expand inside out 

Until your chest muscles

                                   cry out

Calculate for pain ?

Refresh your head with 

                       good Viking air

Exhale at the brink —

                        Don’t burst.

As the country ices over

                    In once civil spaces 

Watch your back 

                    Since states of confusion 

Breed crazy

                    Perceptions.

Confidence gets shaky 

                                  at eye level

Shock with dim recognition 

                       Etch lines of doubt 

In good citizen faces.

Your bubble

                 On horizontal 

Shifts vertical 

                 Your best flips inside out 

Turns radical.

Habits alter 

          Spheres of influence falter

To glimpse higher visions

            Requires better glasses.

On whims of viral winds

                      Ice pirates flew in 

Slip sliding through town 

        To clamp argument down. 

Ice blankets urban scenes 

                       In bellicose gear

War weapons for arms 

            Aimed at creating fear.

With unfriendly frowns

                      Loaded for bear 

They guard dicey ground

                Praise an idol of gold

Black coal eyes 

                See nothing but trouble

Point angry fingers 

                 Curse friendly neighbors 

Invent new crimes.

Perpetrate dread

             Scare innocent people 

Shoot a mother dead 

              For asking questions 

No sign of contrition.

On frozen streets travelers greet 

Peaceful comrades 

                Chant historic phrases  

Endure long winter nights

                Dance on thin ice

Skin sunburned 

                Raw and red

Wind chaffed cheeks

                Refuse to submit.

Strange times

            Call for loud protests

Thoughts on fire

            Minds who love rest 

Turned inside out

            Make time to speak

In freedom.

It’s flight or fight!

Stirred by nightmare scenes 

           Never dreamed serious

Somnolent brains awaken 

            To ugly conditions.

You wish a friendly snow

            To provide deep cover

Douse flames ignited by

                         Violent raiders.

Snowballs effects 

           Roll down Minnesota hills

An avalanche of courage 

              Drives out intrusions

Drowns obscene collusion

              And binary illusions.

A warm sun will rise

Burrow under storm clouds

                      As public bodies 

Assemble

                   in countless numbers 

Brave abuse with nimble cheer

                     To treat this pollution 

We march as one

                    Face certain collision 

Plan waste disposal.

May Minneapolis snow 

                 Silence this thuggery

Until spring melts

         Away dirt from the ravage of ice 

Washes streets clean 

         Into warm Gulf Stream waters

So blue ocean currents can 

                      Restore the good life 

Bring us back to our

                       Common senses.

THH

01/21/26

Keep it up — attack after attack —

Matters little who gets slaughtered 

Or blown to bits season to season.

Certainly less than the words you

might use to frame a reason.

Arrange your own facts. 

Stage your best scene, 

Polish your image, 

Be the hero, 

first act to last.

Tear up the people’s house 

Decorate with gold

Be first with the most-est

Always aggressive, and

Painfully boisterous.

Never make excuses,

Keep fighting back. 

Speak words that sting: 

Be loud, be plain,

In media range of social exchange.

Talk down to the dumb, 

the passive, the overly reflective,

and save a sharp jab for the inoffensive. 

Fire the ugly and disagreeable,

Bully the disliked, 

the outcast and weak.

Never forget your fans 

Be the accomplished showman 

Give them Las Vegas moments:

second rate singers

in skimpy costumes with 

plenty of cleavage,

accompanied by laughter

at mean pointed zingers.

Be completely outlandish

wrapped in the flag —

Praise the red, the white, 

and maybe the blue, and

At all costs hold center stage

Or threaten to sue.

Fly our colors — the ones we like.

Give free red Maga hats to 

favorite clans.

Use plenty of glitz,

with swaggering swingers

have a blast.

 

Tell the uninvited:

 go take a hike.

Surprise friends with smiling grit.

Throw outrageous parties, 

Add up the grift,

Grant a few pardons,

Never show mercy, 

Pass tax reductions

for the wealthy –

make them richer.

And should your gold star performance

Land in a ditch, 

Yell conspiracy, 

Call out your crowd,

Or if the three ring circus

Runs into a glitch

Say it’s horrible —

You knew nothing about it.

Soon your troubles will be forgotten.

With all your bravado you win every squabble.

Might even pitch the King of Sweden 

To award a new Nobel Prize, 

Named best in show 

for being so bold.

Keep stoking hate

Tweet ignorance and fear,

You might even escape your

well deserved fate

in the fires of humiliation

By self immolation.

01/07/26 thh