Thoughts Have Hands

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)

Darkness obscures sunlight,

as clouds shade doleful eyes, 

cast an impenetrable veil, 

between then and now.

Anguish slithers up my neck,

Wraps my brain’s fiery resistance

In a rawhide grip 

Destroys my peace.

Now sorrow dawns every morning,

as the sun crawls over thickening clouds,

Rains grief

outside my screen door.

Loss arrives uninvited. 

Unpacked its bags,

Grabbed my heart like a new slave owner

Declared itself master.

Says hello with a grizzly grin,

Walks right in,

playing the part of an old friend,

teaches hard lessons in the art of farewell.

Cracks the whip,

Leaves me begging for tenderness.

Finding none,

a lifetime of mourning loss may pass

before I shed my tears and find release.

THH

4/28/25

Revised 7/10/25

Revised 7/16/25

The enemy has no face

But plenty of time to invent many.

Full of techniques to manufacture dreams 

Ready to dazzle with newly branded identities, 

Then sell the difference.

Why buy the marketing?

The power to switch on

The person you are

Originates within.

Sit in stillness 

Look at yourself

Add no spice or seasoning. 

Be a mirror for your deepest feelings,

Mix your personal dust with fresh living water,

Shape for yourself an original face.

THH

7/14/24

Wounds can go deeper than any black hole, a bottomless pit where no light escapes.

The wounded cross event horizons full of envy, absent contentment.

Starved for love, feeling no one understands, 

then settle for crumbs of personal attention, bask in the glitter of faintest praise and 

shine like a cherub with every sign of recognition. 

Desperate empty hearts chase mythic dragons of hope through neurons of mental space. 

Fire breathing dragons of uncontrolled desires, gorge on nods of attention and smiles in their direction.

Unable to quench growing anxiety, they fail to notice the event horizon; their marrow sucked from now charred bones, shredded in time.

So many galaxies of pent up emotion 

whirl through interior space 

to die in entropy, 

unable to trust order in swirling chaos 

or the presence of empathy.

THH

6/25/25

Child of five stands outside

His first grade class.

His mother leaves him at the door,

full on frustration,

She marches to her car,

drives on her way. 

Eyes stormy with tears

stare after —

Stomach hollow,

Heart skips a beat in disbelief,

Suddenly a shriek

of monstrous exclamation.

Left on his own to face education,

by strange sharp faces;

Sentenced to the power of year twenty five,

dispensed with no sign of maternal compassion;

the harsh pain of separation multiplied

by a terrified child’s active imagination. 

THH

6/10/25