Thoughts Have Hands

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

Heroes

You don’t have to be a hero,

Past accomplishments don’t have to hang like medals from your shirt,

Or sit like trophies on your mantle.

Heroes are rare creatures,

Often fragile

when questioned or criticized,

Needing praise to stay afloat.

Human is good enough.

The dragon may have ruled the day.

The journey may have gone all down hill.

The life lived may be less than thrill after thrill.

The world uninterested in your creativity.

But return home humble

With open heart

Scars showing the thorny paths taken,

Being human will have made of you

A unique piece of living art.

I

Am

So

Sad

And

So

Damn

Angry

Empty

A tea kettle

Sans

Water

Scorched with flame

Metal ready to fold in on itself,

Waiting spitefully for someone to take hold and scream.

Hollowed out by loss

And dangerous to the touch

To ready to fill up with bitterness and rage.

I need

time and

A

Place

To

Drink strong tea

And be comforted by a child’s play

And innocent ways

THH

12/2/17

The Day After Kristen
(April 1, 1971 – November 20, 2017)

Kristen missed her wake up call this morning. She would have been annoyed.

But then she didn’t have to go to work today.

I found her IPhone ringing persistently in her bag at 6 am; she couldn’t turn it off.

I stepped outside.
The sun seemed happy to be up.
Can’t say I agreed.
The air,
chilly and crisp,
said breathe.
I tried.
The sky had an air of invitation about it. I wasn’t sure I could accept.

But then this is a day Kristen would have enjoyed – No relished!
She loved Fall.

On this day, Kristen would have put on a big knit sweater and happily taken her dogs for a walk in the park.
She would have dreamed of fixing up her fireplace and sipping a glass of bourbon in front of it some day.

Today she might have planned lunch with any number of friends. And later she would have settled into her chair, pens and highlighter at the ready, computer warming her lap, and busily start checking on this and that for the next big project at her new home. She might have spent part of the day shopping for home accessories on the internet.

But today Kristen’s house sits unfinished; Elsie and Oliver are still waiting for her. I don’t know how to tell them Kristen won’t be back.

She seems to have found a new address where there are no rooms to paint and no walls to decorate.

She won’t be texting or answering our emails either. And we can forget about the Facebook posts with the orange and white themed photos.

We will have to settle for memories to remind us of her cheerful banter and no nonsense attitude, her plain sense of decency and justice, and fierce loyalty to family and friends alike.

But memories are poor substitutes for Kristen’s wit.

Today Kristen is on the other side, whatever that means; and none of us can reach her anymore. The world feels empty like her fireplace, where no fire burns; and there are not enough sweaters to keep off the chill.

Even with the sunshine, this day drips with loss, cold to the touch and easily broken, like melting icicles.

Or maybe this is just cover for the cold sobs I’m having trouble controlling right now. No surprise.

Then I can imagine Kristen bristling at the drama and thinking get over it.

The world promises us nothing,
I know. I get it.

But outside, right now, I can’t help but feel like I’m standing on thin ice, to fragile to dare to cross.

I won’t be hearing her laugh or eagerly say, oh good, time to plan the annual Christmas Eve party.

We know how to do a party mostly because she enjoyed decorating and setting the table. Peggy and Kristen worked together like old friends more than mother and daughter. It was a treat to watch as they tried out different Christmas arrangements around the house. Kristen was always playing with new ideas. I learned quickly all I had to do was lift, follow instructions, and stay out of the way.

And the laughter we shared playing Chinese Christmas. Twenty plus adults crammed into our living room around the tree, opening and stealing gifts from each other while making numerous wise cracks. Kristen could always be relied on to find the innovative gift for the letter of the year.

Kristen won’t be planning parties today or tomorrow. She won’t be taking Makenzie to Star Wars in December or babysitting for Claudia and Andy with Julia and Henry. She won’t be texting school friends or planning trips with the Friday night group.

Seems Kristen has adopted a new home somewhere else,
far from here.
We can wave at who we hope she will be,
and blow kisses across the pond to her,

But on this crisp November day all I want to do is cry out in disbelief.

And wonder why or how this day could be.

And then I remember the tough independent woman Kristen grew to be.

Kristen chose to handle her cancer in her own way. She knew what she was doing. She was determined to live free and happy and filled with hope sharing each day she had with her friends and family until the last.

I think she trusted that we could handle it from there.

So I will grieve proudly, and hug those she held close.

I will pray we will all be better some day,

And hope that somewhere just over the horizon,

On a crisp Fall day, Kristen is strolling along,

wrapped in a big fluffy sweater,

shouting out to her team:

Come on.

THH,
November 21, 2017

This poem was read today at St Ann’s Episcopal church. I wrote it this past week reflecting on her death and my deep sense of loss. A few people asked for a copy so I decided to post it here. The memorial service was well attended. Over a hundred friends and family were present. The people of St Ann’s and many of her friends filled the whole experience with grace and meaning. Kristen Deitrick would have been very happy. THH

Old people sit like everywhere is home, tired of pretense,Settled into clothes worn to comfort 

Enjoying habits practiced past all thinking. 
Anytime breakfast-time places,

Arrange memories on walls for them,

Along with quaint stone fireplaces, mantle clocks,

And the ubiquitous frontier rifle 

Assuring a perfect synchronicity of space and time.
A picture of sentiments serve the marketplace of the mind.

Reveries fixed with coffee, bacon, grits and gravy.
Each customer a connoisseur of the way things were suppose to be,

Nodding appreciation to the lost cornucopia of yesterday, 

Recognizing what they thought they knew so well, truths saluted,

The American way carefully on display,

Drawing the road weary traveler to home away from home. 
Memories baked in a savory mix of old time kitsch, 

Leave them staring fondly through windows of time,

Thirsting for more than water

Praying wilted dreams would flower again.
THH 

August 29, 2015