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

                     on Mourning eyes,

Plead with the dark to extend rest,

         to hide from rising demands

of sun rays.

Outstretched arms above my head

Wave in empty space as in surrender.

Skin flaps embarrassingly loose.               

Wrinkles etched like the grain

In an old oak floor promises character.

A comic taunt in mortal light,

Makes a 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 sink; I catch a glimpse

of sleep’s bare renovation in the bathroom mirror. 

         Splash cold water on a numb face:

an intervention to awaken some sense. 

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 wink at me.

Is this comic relief? A check on the who

and the whom — an interrogation of the

insider looking out or the outsider

staring in.

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 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

Child of five 

          stands outside first grade class;

faces mother’s insistence, 

           to open the door and go on in.

His mother glares at him, 

              frustrated by the drama —

and stubborn resistance,

       she marches 

             to her car and drives away. 

Left outside on his own — he ignores 

      eyes inside 

                 locked on him.

Eyes stormy with tears 

                stare after his absent mother, 

heart skips a beat, 

        stomach hollows out in disbelief, 

he crumbles to the pavement,

              bangs his fists in desperate protest,

      sobs out loud.

Abandoned to grief and 

                     strange education

    from sharp scary faces,

                      dispensed without sign 

                             of human compassion.

He feels condemned 

              to serve an extra long sentence, 

     multiplied by his fear and confusion

                   to year twenty five, 

        knowing no explanation 

                                           for separation.

THH

6/10/25

Revised 8/15/25

Revised 8/18/25

Revised 8/20/25

The sense of being overwhelmed

dawns on me slowly,

An emotional iceberg submerged 

In the ocean, 

breeches the hull,

floods my thick skull.

A foreign power drowns all resistance,

points icy fingers at hidden weakness, 

Overwhelms what’s left of a fragile peace.

I run for a life boat, find only one, 

            taste salt on my tongue,

wonder how this mountain of ice

cracked 

      open my head.

With fears growing, I struggle on board, 

launch in the dark,

reeling in shame.

Identity drowns under obligations 

anchored by numerous expectations,

the fast, cold current, pulls me under,

washes away remnants of self.

Surprised by emotions I didn’t see coming.

Angered by threats of personal destruction,

Disappointed by empathy held in suspense,

Wrapped in a fantasy of the ultimate fixer, 

I work without tools.

Sadness overwhelms actions long put off.

Hurt petrifies self-defense. 

I dive into places unsafe to inhabit.

I live for comfort, seek easy answers. Now,

trapped in freezing waters I plea for help.

I sit with memories of sailing freely,

Veiled in doubt.

Words don’t answer, seem unreliable.

I dig at scabs covering my heart 

Obtain brief relief from what seeps out.

Bleeding – a temporary distraction,

healing illusory, I 

Sleep without dreaming.

Float in starless seas, 

as images surface prescribing new meaning,

I wake to check signs of continued breathing. 

Overdone

Overdosed on what may come,

Overwhelmed by too many tasks 

and sinking fast.

THH

7/15/25

Revised 7/16/25

Firing neurons 

                Drum up words

                           for my ears,

Blast colorful images

               before my eyes,

Send messages 

from unfathomed spaces,

posted for serious contemplation.

Plentiful potential.

Thoughts unthought 

                    emerge from untraceable sources,

Ignite spontaneous conflagrations and 

disguised recognition.

         Emotional fireworks shock then fade.  

Leave open questions. 

    Circle their wagons around my brain.

What do I want?  What am I doing?

Who am I really? 

‘Know yourself’, the philosopher demanded.

An easy question, difficult to answer.

My daemon speaks riddles,

Imagines narrating long absurd dramas

 for cheap entertainment, 

        as likely destructive as creative.

Indigestible data produce ulcers,

demand I take names, 

                 drown answers,

I’m not this, not that.

Competing desires juggle for position; spurs chameleon-like shopping at global malls 

full of glitz and heavy with suspicion; a dangerous place to seek clarifications or discover essentials.

Emotional wildfires melt icy order.

With so much chaos 

the heart trembles and cautiously deciphers

low risk prospects for continued living.

 The peace sought 

        strangled by rivalrous gangs 

                    hyping misinformation,

a spectacle for people milling the streets,

happy to celebrate another’s defeat.

Shake nervous heads at claims of authenticity, 

laugh at believing in self-understanding,

wave flags in support of stagnant 

traditions for easy consumption.

Refuse to settle for collective praises 

             from well paid judges,

                    lording over unfit decisions.

Identity must wrestle powerful forces 

               to secure a blessing, and

                                Compel a true name. 

Better the never-ending match 

                                   engaged until dawn,

than to carry an identity blurred by tears,

Despoiling the remains of once sacred spaces.

THH

7/19/25

Some wounds strike deep, 

tumble over event horizons

beyond all chance for healing. 

Beating hearts sullied by shame, 

hidden in black holes, void of true light.

Starved for love, 

Abandoned hearts settle for crumbs 

of personal attention,

beg for an instance of recognition. 

Desperate hearts dream mythic dragons

to gorge on feint praise, from disreputable demons.

Dying to matter,

hungry for touch, 

clinging to wishes,

the wounded crossover 

full of envy, 

absent gladness.

All humans travel in gravity’s grace, 

through galaxies of emotion, 

but abandoned hearts, full of protest, 

blinded by fears of continued rejection, 

abandon empathy.

Anxiety unquenched, 

living in a personal wilderness 

with shape shifting fantasies, 

and outlandish lies to believe, 

an unwholesome brew of disordered capacity.

Their suppressed emotions,

banned from expression by armies of reason, 

defend arrogant belief, and lost in grief 

fail to observe the looming horizon.

That whirlwind of confusion and

infernal silence, 

tearing weary bones asunder,

with icy indifference, 

sucked dry of lifeblood’s sweetest marrow.

THH

6/25/25 (revised 6/30)