Thoughts Have Hands

All things happen

For a reason you say.

Do you mean a cause,

Embedded deep in the span of space time, making this or that come to be?

Or a celestial being looking down from heaven, removing stones blocking your way and smoothing the path before your feet?

A paradise where milk and honey flow eternally and to have it all,

you have only to ask sincerely.

Would you tell Job in his pain and loss, he must have sinned for God is good?

Would you admonish young Issac that everything happens for a reason?

Are your prayers like carrier pigeons delivering requests to angels who wait patiently to make your desires a reality?

Cain and Abel offered prayer and sacrifice to God. Was there a reason for what happened next?

Cain’s sacrifice was not accepted,

And his face fell. Jealous he killed his brother in anger and for revenge. Was this the first time his prayers failed to bring desired results? Did God let this murder happen for a higher reason?

Disappointment marked Cain for the rest of his days. And the text fails to speak of prayers and sacrifices made the next week. Job and Issac survived but at what terrible cost to their humanity.

Are your prayers always accepted? Do your prayers get answered positively?

Amazing how blessed we are —

More amazing still — how we offer gratitude happily for the gifts we believe are justly deserved.

I mean you follow the rules. Make laws to secure your days and ensure your abundance day after day,

But awaken shaken when forgotten and judged for lacking humility.

All things happen for a reason you say

Maybe so then what do you wonder when disappointment comes your way.

And if prayers unlock the future is it the one you want.

THH

12/05/23

Some scientists say time is an illusion.
So how can I waste it?

But every passing moment feels like a mark against me, a failure to march resolutely toward accomplishing my goals,
however vaguely sketched in my head.

When I fail to spend my time well,
Guilt drains time into emptiness.
Time that doesn’t exist.

Oh why did I watch a game tonight?
Why did I spend time on meaningless play?
I could have read my book, or written a poem or called you.

Time is short at my age,
And time flies faster than truth can reveal.
Time that doesn’t exist anyway.

Why did I stay up so late doing nothing important?
Now tomorrow will get a late start,
And I will be behind my time again.

Even if time doesn’t exist,
I know soon I will be out of time;
And not half done with all I want to do,
And my time that doesn’t exist except in the mind’s eye, fleeting moments of narrative, unspoken history,
Will be lost to time that doesn’t exist.

So here I am
Sitting with a past,
half remembered and half imagined, looking to tomorrow,
as though it will always come,
Inventing next moves in time
that doesn’t exist.

Does anybody understand these seasons,
The perpetual cycle of sun and moon?
This well reasoned calendar,
dividing our days and years
as if we are going somewhere
in time that doesn’t exist?

THH
12/4/23

Everywhere

Signs link our brains to chains of being.

We like it,

A friend likes it too.

A crowd gathers and wants to wear, bear,

Or swear by it,

just like you do.

Now it’s a thing.

It’s got everyone’s attention.

Then it’s all the rage

With it

you are the toast of the town.

The sign can be anything

A car you like:

The Rogue, Santa Fe, Tacoma,

Mustang, Tesla, or Ram,

Bought for power, prestige, or a sexy name

To send a message

Receive acclaim.

The question is

what comes first the car or its brand name.

Each speaks to the buyer of the exotic, erotic,

or of powerful dreams.

Then there are the places you go, to hang out, or be seen,

not just a cafe or bar,

but Turtle Bay, Cracker Barrel, Sardis or some other prestigious hideaway

The food may be outstanding,

maybe not,

But it strokes your expectations

And stakes a claim to lasting fame

with a meaningful name.

And we love to wear the costumes,

not just pants, shirts, or shoes,

But eagerly show our colors,

Make a statement for our team:

The hat, the jersey, the makeup themes,

shout our allegiance to flag, party and team.

We identify with colors, mascots,

and fancy jewelry,

or even a too colorful,

permanent tattoo.

We show everybody

who we are

and are not.

And the place to be

Flag the signs of the times

make us who we are

Signs of our identity, our vocation, our ideology.

And this is me,

As we curry favor with our signs

and point to who we are,

or most want to be,

a fine example of the continuing catastrophe,

The same old thing repeated unendingly.

THH

12/21/23

After the shopping is done

And you’ve dusted and cleaned,

put up bright decorations of welcoming

A waiting begins.

No longer obscured by the busy rush of your readiness,

No longer mindful of gift lists,

Or of the wrapping

Finally prepared

there is waiting.

Waiting for music to play

Waiting for the choir to sing

Waiting for family to arrive

Waiting for the presents hungry for the opening.

Waiting in the middle, between prepared and what’s coming,

A quiet space opens in between past and present, between now and then.

Even if for only an hour before the party begins,

there is the moment of sitting and waiting,

The glad and sad wondering.

As you think of feelings, deep and brooding, halfway full

Then strangely turned half empty.

You mine this territory of in between

For words to name the moment

you hope you’ve entered in

You sit,

You wait,

As hopes sweet as maple syrup dribbles through your mind,

a dream-like state poured over

Comfortable hotcake memories,

A brief contentment seeps down your spine.

You always worry have you done enough

Your imagination conjures fears

and your mind is soaked with fantasies of worry and doubt.

Never satisfied —

Will what is coming make a joyful memory, be held up like a prism to enchant,

To encourage family and friends,

Will all resentments end,

Or

lost in old photographs albums

and Facebook lore,

Of those you can no longer hold

Will old wounds open again.

Indeed you will listen and familiar

stories retell, laugh, and then

Recognize you failed once again to make another Christmas Day

A haven for evermore.

Too much wanting

Too many things simmering

Too much remembering

And a weariness for doing more than relenting

So much left unsaid again.

Holiday lights are rarely beacons of illumination,

only nostalgic colors flashing warm visions of Christmas past.

The silent night sung by candlelight

Will bring contentment,

The Christmas Day gathering will be full of laughter and have its charm,

But when doors close on separate journeys taken to far away homes,

You sit with decorations flashing, light and dark,

On a cold winter’s night

Waiting for Boxing Day gift giving.

And more waiting will be coming,

A year’s worth of planning,

As the familiar chill from goodbye

and blue feelings haunt the inside of you and ghosts of Christmas future summon

Hope to come home again.

THH

12-22-23

Another round of months have circled

to seventy eight years for me.

Each day, every week and month abounds with sweet tastes to savor and bitterness enough for my age.

Sighs toast memories,

salted by time,

And the present offers a come hither smile

Then quickly kisses me goodbye.

As my mind seeks to divine,

By ritual and habit

a future full of friends, good wine,

And lands to explore,

I must bow in supplication to fate.

Autumn clocks

warm the days and chill the nights,

brown fractal leaves spread over the ground,

and taunt my expectations

with each tick and tock.

I have seen many fall seasons

though not yet enough,

Every year leaves cover the earth

like the fall before.

I know something of this coming and going.

Mounds of leaves wrap the ground for spring to protect unseen lives,

Some exposed to blowing wind,

shrink back to dust,

with no explanation.

Enough survive

but they are unknown to me now,

And not of my own choosing;

And whether I remain in line

is cloaked in similar mystery,

Though I will chant a prayerful hope.

But today I frolic with fate,

enjoy this moment of play,

seek to discover my part in the human race.

And celebrate this day of grace.

THH

11/17/23

I know you are hunting up there

I see you black as night,

Fly the overcast skies.

I see your artful pose,

Outstretched wings

Surf the currents,

Catch the wind.

A dark knight surveying all below.

I see you float on ghost air,

high above,

And wish I could join you there.

Even if the hunt fails

Your patience signals a perfect nobility,

As you sail in silent distain over

Unsuspecting prey.

Ignore the noisy metal tube,

Dropping mechanically to earth,

Passengers belted in,

Straight ahead stares – blank faced,

Not curious and in anxious hurry,

Rush to finish the latest Marvel episode;

Sport artificial calm,

A weightless wait,

An expected surge,

powered by human technique.

While you demonstrate nature’s circle,

Free of worry over certain ends,

Driven by natural compunction

Unconcerned for what comes.

Amidst human innovation

Driving us far from home,

I see you,

happy and present in the midday sky,

spiraling with grace in the air,

Way up there.

THH

11/17/23

A Tree House Retreat


Do you remember your childhood retreat?
We called it our fort, the three of us: my younger brother, a neighbor from across the street and me. The first incarnation was a cave like structure in my backyard made of found wood braced against a stone wall under a large bush. We would sit there shielded from prying eyes and plot adventures.

But we longed for a real treehouse. We prevailed on my reluctant father to help. I think we played on his desire to show us he could build something substantial.

So one spring around 1956 or 57 my brother and I assisted our father assemble a little getaway. A dream come true. We built it behind our garage which was sufficiently distant from the house to provide boyhood seclusion. Picture a two by four frame with flooring supported on two four by four posts soaring sixteen or so feet high. We cemented footers for the posts and nailed together the frame between the posts and the back of the garage for support. We put in a trap door above one post with a home made ladder. The siding went up five feet and gave us a tiny room just big enough for the three of us to sleep out in the summer. The back of the fort opened to the shingle roof of the garage. We often climbed the ladder and crawled out on the roof Friday and Saturday nights to talk about possibilities and speculate on prospects. Of course, we had our stash of tobacco to puff and when we couldn’t secure the real thing we’d ride bikes down to the woods and pick rabbit tobacco. We loved to read playboy magazines, maybe read is an over statement. But we had a stack of them. For girls were the unreachable object of our fantasies. No one was allowed to enter this boyhood sanctum but other boys we approved and ironically, absolutely no girls.

For three or four summers as we rolled toward more advanced teenage games, this place was a fond refuge. Our tree house was where daring things were planned like jumping off the corner of the garage into leaves; or sneaking quietly down the street under cover of darkness to see what might be going on. Once we walked to the Knoxville drive in with a stash of apples to sit and eat behind the theater fence while Robert Mitchum drove Thunder Road down Kingston Pike. We ended up in an altercation with some other neighborhood kids that night, so this adventure felt a bit like a battlefield defeat complete with scrapped knees, a bloody nose and lost apples.

On another summer night, long after we should have been asleep, we were laying on the garage roof staring at stars. We were not looking for anything in particular just enjoying the warm night air, counting stars and talking. I don’t remember if I was the first to notice the light but suddenly all of us became aware of a steady glowing object moving towards us across the sky. It had a saucer like appearance. It pulsed with a warm yellow glow. The three of us watched unsure what we were seeing. The object kept a steady pace across the night sky. It moved directly from one horizon over our heads to the other. We heard no sound. No clouds impeded our view. From the perspective of our perch on the roof, it was much larger than a star or an asteroid. It certainly was not airplane lights. When it got directly overhead I remember thinking I should call out for my Dad to see this mysterious fact passing before our eyes. But I was too immersed in the experience to miss watching it.

Ok, I know you wonder what we were smoking, but we were clear headed. This object looked exactly the way you would picture a flying saucer. We thought about Sputnik and/ or a weather balloon, but it moved too slowly and too close to the ground to be either object. It flew at the altitude of an aircraft coming in for a landing but silent.

By three am or so the object went over the horizon and was lost to view. We didn’t talk about it much probably too exhausted and we slept late.

The next morning I told my parents what we observed. Dad worked at the atomic energy commission in Oak Ridge. Excitedly, I asked him to check with his scientist friends to see if anyone had noticed this astronomical event. I was sure we were going to be famous teenage explorers, having seen a real UFO.

This event has stuck with me ever since,
my one stellar (sorry) brush with the unknown. An example to remind myself, we may not be alone in the universe. Dad was unable to find any reports to confirm our sighting, or maybe he laughed it off. UFOs were not the subject of breezy speculation in Cold War days.

Unfortunately, we were the only ones who noticed this amazing sight. No one was paying attention, or everyone was asleep. But still I don’t understand why radar or the air traffic controllers didn’t catch this blip passing over Knoxville, Tennessee, circa the summer of 1958 or 59. I remember my disappointment the evening news had no reporting of any UFOs.

Do I believe I was deceived by childhood fantasy or Sputnik buzz? No way. I know what I saw, confirmation or not. As do the guys who laid back laughing with me on that roof, and then, in wonder, stared with me for thirty minutes or more as this UFO made its lonely crossing over our heads so many years ago.

So what did your backyard retreat do for you? THH

11/9/23

I am

I see

I see darkly, dimly

I’ve been looking so long

through my telescope

from the wrong end

I’m still a child

Seeking a good friend

I’m a child sent to play in the backyard

Swinging on a limb

I’m still young

And full of life

But not carefree

I’m working backwards to the beginning

I’m seeing options

I want none to end.

I’m still a child

Running out of time

Looking through my telescope

Through the wrong end.

THH

5/20/23

Copyright (c) 2023 TH Hardin

Time passes slowly

As you watch water pour

Into the empty teapot,

Requiring full attention

To bring to completion.

 

The foot tapping

With exasperating observation,

The wait for the bubbling boil,

Pace the floor,

Ready to pour,

With impatient expectation,

To make dark black tea.

But notice when distracted by other chores

Or important information,

the light speed unmeasured duration

of this routine morning operation.

Is this a common place

quantum measurement?

The observation Einstein would not tolerate,

And refused to bother even to fathom?

The immediate information flash,

Transmission without observation,

Entanglement of eye and brain,

Defying location.

Now settled comfortably,

with hot tea and lemon bittersweet,

Carefully taste

the mystic chemistry;

Do you not sink, wistfully

past concern for duration

To dwell with timeless strings that matter

And feel energy flow.

Few think to count the days

and weeks slipping bye,

Aged hope of duration,

Composed of wish and will,

Praying time disappears

Or at least stands still,

As spring bends to summer heat,

Autumn fends off winter chill,

And forces unnamed changes of direction

On us all.

Then savoring another sip of tea,

You notice the lawn,

just mowed,

What yesterday?

The grass suddenly tall,

And wonder at this mysterious measurement,

demanding dutiful attention,

Preempting prolonged observation.

THH

Revised 5/20/23

Copyright (c) 2023 TH Hardin