Thoughts Have Hands

Ever think you would be so bold 

As to howl at the moon?

Step outside into winter’s chill, 

See the full moon glide through 

            wisps of cloud, 

Suck in night air, 

           and out of nowhere 

suddenly,

                let loose a loud ass howl.

It happens.

I’ve done it more than once —

I think it helped 

                     for a minute.

A shudder shoots up your spine,

Every nerve fires.

Fists shake. Arms stiffen.

Emotions quake, as a roar rushes out: 

Rage stoked by misfortune, 

      and stark anger at heavy losses,

hurt unlocked from grey matter cells —

A conspiracy brewed behind 

             a curtain of good intentions,

opens slowly to scary changes, 

        overpowers trained guards,

 forgets excuses.

The howl freed thoughts 

                    long unthought, 

released emotions hidden

                        deep in cages,

and painful moments 

                 long suppressed.

A werewolf unleashed

Under yellow moonlight

to prowl the night. 

Hungry and wary,

            he paws hard earth, 

                unable to speak, 

full of grief,

he stares at the mocking smile

                    of the man in the moon,

bares sharp teeth in bleak defiance,

 Lets out a blood curdling howl 

                               at his animal fate, 

 His howl a cry for relief 

Standing outside

           hell’s torn open gate.

THH

 12/21/25

An Aztec temple rises before me

steps steep as a ladder

Invites a climb to a faraway summit.

Steps so narrow no foot can rest on them.

A staircase without rails 

intimidates changes,

Inclines eyes to a high altar hidden in clouds.

Purpose hidden behind vaunted effort

No instructions given 

Mesmerized by distance you stare at the top 

Dare others take a first step,

Kid around at the bottom like children, 

jump with each other 

play a game of who will go first. 

You leap up a step refuse to look down,

struggle to walk standing up straight,

careful not to look at the ground 

fearing to fall 

Forgetting to wave

Aware your direction takes you one way.

You encourage yourself tempted with desire 

to learn the mystery resting out of sight.

In the back of your mind hope for honors abound

and a crowd’s humble attention pushes you forward.

The higher you climb reason goes blind,

but you keep moving your tired feet,

 afraid to seek rest,

convinced the quest will gain much wanted treasure 

or a discovery of something true and blessed.

Finally you reach the peak 

a stone table waits

bare of offerings,

a single knife awaits on the cold slab

And no one but you left to be victim.

No treasure 

No insight 

No prize

No praise for the feat of climbing

this dizzying height. 

A faint cheer catches your ear

Sounds like a victory chorus  

celebrating transcendence.

Difficult to interpret 

             harder to hear 

as you look back.

A festival of praise held at your expense, 

with revelries you recall of ancient wild dances

and all their passion long forgotten.

They sing of a hero who wrestled with God

A builder, a teacher,

A seer — found traitor of sacred tradition.

A celebrity who struck out on his own 

to gain a throne 

Ready to name every fear encountered 

and brave human fate

A sniff of air as the smoke ascends 

clears the mind for being here.

High on the cold slab of stone 

set up for worship 

You find no priest to wield the blade.

So you sit alone, enjoying for a moment 

the irony of your climb

  this hollow victory on a hallowed mountain

Not a crime but all your own doing.

Tears slide down your weary face

as you remember the climb

grin at your fate, wonder at exhaustion 

fall into a deep sleep at the altar’s feet

free of earth’s dust still incomplete.

THH

11/25/25.

On that day — deserve

               Earns no privilege;

Being in the know —

               Engenders no envy.

On that day,

walls built — to protect children 

from inclement weather,

display art for viewing pleasure, 

            reverence family memories,

or ancient prophets, while cannons

stay silent with nothing to defend.

Style attracts only gladdened nods

of appreciation for clever invention,

No special admiration.  

Titles that once bought respect —

go unnoticed.

On that day, embroidered robes of the

wealthy, worn to hallow entrance

at sacred temples gather dust.

Locks rust on unused hinges.  Doors stay

open on warm nights; porch lights scatter

the dark, offer heartfelt greetings to passersby.

Fresh baked bread cools on kitchen tables

    next to bowls of dates 

                    bursting with flavor;

Aroma of fine wine left to breath

              waft down neighborly streets.

Enchanted lovers gaze at stars,

pause to embrace, 

prefer a lingering kiss

to the taste of the vine.

Strange invites curiosity,

cultivates interest, dissolves fear.

New life sheds old skin —

           you wiggle out, 

                         stand up free,

walk naked under the sun.

Balmy air lures full hearts to spread

          butterfly wings and dance with

morning breezes.

Stripped of silky wrappings

                and sticky traditions,

 released from the weight

of old doubt and frenzied of questions,

you hold embodied gains lightly,

seek the wider wisdom,

                     wave good riddance 

to life in slavery,

give thanks for release.

On that fine day

      hunger for more recedes,

harvests yield abundance,

love incarnates every future

and gifts our green earth

with more than enough,

THH

11/10/25

Revised 12-30-25

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