Thoughts Have Hands

Roar with anger

Scream at the absurd 

Yell at the ridiculous

Damn the disease.

Turn your head into a basketball 

Bang it against the living room wall 

Bruise balled fists on the dining table 

Slam the door

Cry for the unfairness of her loss.

Fuck the pain

Hate justifications

And proverbial bullshit.

She lived by her heart

And gave herself to teach her art.

When cancer attacked

She fought back with vigor, 

did everything right.

Her death a judgement on the eternal 

When love gives her heart. 

To be hospitable, loving and careful, then

Nothing tried helps her get any better.

She bowed to forces of Mother Nature. 

For those who will miss her,

Knew her, and loved her,

She lived the adventure with loyal intention.

Her nature a gift to all creation.

THH

5/5/25

Pictures on the wall covered in dust.

Faces framed to impress rare guests,

Dressed to invite conversation.

My grandmother young, poised and demure,

wears her best off shoulder gown.

Her husband composed in a stiff collar projects

a dignified vision and solemn manner. 

Enshrined by the late owner as a sign of respect, hang precariously from yellowed plaster.

Her house a tattered dress

worn by more than a few generations,

full of good will and solid intentions.

Rooms furnished in early seventies chic,

adorned with the occasional antique,

threadbare and in need of much attention.

Shades of unmet expectations

mock her fate from nooks and crannies.

Nicknacks of imagined value, saved for posterity.

Degrees from higher educational institutions displayed with pride,

useless now.

Wall posters advertise her artful designs.

Work done and awards won

rest idle on shelves and end tables.

An uncurated museum

of ancient generations carefully researched,

no longer holds a living interest.

Stores of unrealized ambitions and incomplete projects stacked around for an eventual archaeological excavation.

Photos on a flash drive

flip past my eyes;

one old family photo after another. 

Memories recorded and no longer relevant.

Attempts by the late owner to catch and hold

that fleeting instant, long ago,

The fair haired child

smiled on by family,

as she played the guitar,

and performed her ice skating routines, 

The leap, the fall, but now the dance is over,

Frozen in death past giving 

As mountain snow dissolves in spring rain.

Walking the hall

Checking her bedroom,

Looking for necessities for those still living 

No thing speaks. 

Silence crowns tomb-like space and

Every item carries dead weight. 

Nostalgia noses its way into my mind,

Creates distraction,

Raises questions of different ends:

What should be saved,

what would it mean, 

What value remains after her loss

in mementos of the lost

And a beautiful life left in dust,

never mine.

THH

5/23/25

Image

And her holding onto old parts of her life

Storage bend

My bedside manner on display,

Quiet and unassuming, 

I wait for an unprescribed end.

Play hide and seek. No hope to win.

Forbidden deviations by the soon to be departed, 

I review instructions meant to keep faith with dying wishes.

Hospital utility flashes technology,

sounds warning bells,

blinks lights of recognition,

signals hope, offers rafts of data to the living.  But

Silence hangs over her bed,

Save the intake of an occasional deep breath,

our world turned simple and pointedly small.

Hospice curtains swing in air conditioning,

A chaplain drops in.

A welcome respite, 

heavy with realization, and

Restrained importance,

Tired of explaining, 

Tired of dealing with this  ‘oh so’ common human drama, unable to explain founding facts by analysis or reason. 

Reduced by her disease to iron resignation,

She dies a bit angry and disappointed.  Wistful of the stingy nature of time, she drifts into night, resolute in spirit and full of courage.

While her worldly friends sit and fret,

Watch for signs,

A miracle, 

A rewind, 

A reboot, 

Willing to beg for indications of new directions.

The clock ticks unfathomed depths of emptiness, slowly closes once open doors.

Time’s middle finger stiffens the back. 

A raw meat moment stirred by her irregular exhale, born of morphine,

Regret pasted on, we look with curious attention into her pale, placid face once animated by an eager smile.

Remember a rendezvous and fun times of engagement,

Memories of Scotland, sundry debates, hours of skating and hundreds of students, leaping and twirling, soaring high on Zephyr smooth ice.

With each indignant exhale from her late healthy body,

gray with betrayal;

the human predicament looms opaque as dust.

I sit with the drip of drug induced snores,

Peer into her mouth, gaping wide at still living,

No longer interested in conversation,

Open to release from competition,

Unimpressed by argument,

Overwhelmed by days of unrest,

She lives inside a self induced trance.

I practice smiles for her public; I watch the mystery of human performance and consider what matters: People come touch her skin, shed a tear, sad for their loss; People come timid and brave, say goodbye, sense her absence.

Weighed down by distress, I contemplate her willing leap into silence. Observe her sleep from a distance.

I begin to wonder, has death taken a vacation?

Imagine him entering the rink, take off across the ice, circle her to perform a routine, skating black ice,

Needing a great performance to entice her interest,

To tempt her with a swizzle, a lunge and a double axel,

Offer his hand to spin her around, invite her to perform a long death spiral with graceful posture,

Practiced at judging a skater routine wisely, she is weary and a bit wary, always the teacher.

His leaps and spins, catches her attention,

Beckons her to regale him with tales of teaching numerous ice skaters,

She describes well done pirouettes, gliding movement, and special routines,

He reels her into his eternal spin, out of life’s spiral.

And finally letting go, she lands her dream of a triple axle, takes a bow,

kisses the ice,

And waves goodbye to the love of her life.

THH

5/1/25

I am the resurrection, 

I am the life,

Sing Gods praises.

I am the truth 

Live your real story.

I am the way

Live the joy.

Forget the tomb,

It comes on its own 

and way too soon. 

Celebrate light. 

Practice hospitality,

Fight injustice,

The Kin-dom is near.

Forget your fear,

Say yes to love when it knocks,

Carry your cross 

Don’t pick up stones.

Untie the knots inside your soul for

the kingdom you seek grows within. 

Cast a wide net 

Play your part

Walk in light 

Make of life beautiful works of art. 

No one is perfect 

No one wholly good,

Stay brave and grateful.

Jesus, fully human, our great I am — the true man’s flesh we share by grace — the mystery of life.

He never confused life with absence of pain,

Lived like us, always giving, celebrated living, became our servant, always authentic.

I am will be who he will be.

Embrace suffering, it will pass,

Laugh with zest, savor the wine,

Learn from tests, greet the living

Without misgivings,

Forgive the living and all the dead.

Such a challenge!

Stay awake for the one who is 

and always will be, 

The great I am who lives in us eternally.

Let go fear,

Seek the good,

Practice hospitality, 

Fight with hope and deep compassion, 

From birth to death.

The gift of Gd’s kin-dom is found in

practice of resurrection,

Lived by faith,

Refined by us. 

Your best I am,

It is enough. 

Happy Easter!

THH

4/21/25

Blind to unveiled fact,

Deaf to trumpet warnings, 

Hands stretched out in prayer,

To grasp for crusts of day old bread:

Advertised — the best food ever.

Drones buzz the night sky in a frenzy of killing, splatter blood of helpless children; no time left to pity mothers still barely living.

Time fights with darkness, 

As we sit by the glow of fancy tech:

Wishing and wanting, 

Waiting and hoping, 

Pushing the keys over and over,

Scroll with no sign of an inner vision.

Eat crumbs left over for stray cats and dogs; think the food exotic and tasty.

Believe stories told by well paid scribes, on the special instruction of absentee donors; hear daily reports of a fabulous future, 

Coming round to our very corner.

Blame the blacks and the browns, 

their women and children, who

you don’t know or care about,

Slaving away on menial wages. 

No excuse! How dare they cause good people worry.  I’m not the problem; no, not me, it’s that other SOB.

Damn our historic fantasies, 

Lies taught to protect a favored few; Make believe tales of hallowed glory

Pitched with vigor and full of hot gas.

Blinded by dust kicked in our eyes,

Founder’s ideals sold to the rich.

Written words promised to all,

Bartered away for the price of raw hate.

 Certain white was not done right,

We dig in our heals,

Knowing the benevolent owners 

guarantee three square meals.

Decline, in dawns early light, 

To see any reason why unwashed faces and hungry mouths deserve a taste of this touted glory.

Manifest their destiny with good trouble, 

after our storied pioneer struggle.

 Inalienable rights dissolve in fury,

When dreams no longer fit

Our color scheme.

A nation preens while running a dirty rat race, unwilling to stare itself in the face.

We imagine bloody neighborhood streets; scratch the scabs of old, dry wounds, bruised of late, nursing our thin skinned fate.

The homeland mocked,

Made a global laughing stock.

We announce a big fire sale in spite 

Of God’s shining grace.

Hold an auction for cowboy heroes of vaunted skill, include a fine leather saddle and loaded pistol in hope to entice a kindly buyer to ride this lame horse.

First you must accept the mobster’s offer,

A business deal you can’t refuse.

Next attend his sacrifice of equality and inclusion to his self proclaimed prejudice.

As justice gets stomped by executive decision.

And the peace is passed with our submission.

And democracy dies with ironic denials.

THH

04/5/25

Ask me what love is? I may not answer coherently.

Love comes on big and strong, 

overwhelms reason gleefully,

Then takes a dramatic pause.

Demonstrative, shockingly bold, 

Exciting, titillating,

Leaving you to simmer 

and scary eager, 

And yes, this is occasionally so.

But no, the truth is more intimate and compact.

Love does come like spring wind,

Out of winter wilderness,

Uproots trees carefully planted for privacy; Stirs the ground of your garden

May even take your roof.

And leave you entirely unsettled, 

Then without any pretense give up control.

Love first jumps for joy,

Then sits beside you, 

Hopes you take notice.

Whispers I’m here,

Hopes you hear.

Noses in under your chin,

Seeks kind acknowledgment,

Licks your fingers as if sticky with honey.

True love is nard spread over tired feet.

A sudden aroma suffuses the room.

An intoxication surrounds your head.

An erotic smell relaxes the nose 

makes you sniff.

The sublime scent calls you to attention.

Opens eyes to the one giving,

Learning her art of gentle sacrifice,

Accepting her tender touch,

Allowing tomorrow to worry for tomorrow.

The moment you let go the fear of being left,

drop expectations of coming success, 

Humbly receive in gratitude 

the grace of simple gifts, 

Love takes your hand and leads you home.

THH

04/03/25

Sometime 

Some way

I must produce some figs.

I’ve been standing here so long

Patiently waiting 

Rooted in this gardener’s garden.

Some day soon,

Surely, please tell me, I will produce ripe fruit.

My relatives whisper in the wind, it takes time to grow figs. Three years for branches to build strength, only then will I grow plentiful fruit.

Now my neighbors do it effortlessly season after season.

It must be a joy when our gardener admires their succulent produce,

And plucks a few for his own lunch. 

It must be wonderful to become the tree you are meant to be,

instead of this waiting 

instead of this worry 

instead of this interminable anxiety.

Recently, the owner eyed me, he seemed unhappy with my barren nature, annoyed, by the room I’m taking up.

I fear he will cut me down.

I know he is upset.

I hope he knows,

I am doing my best.

I am frustrated too, taking so long.

I want him to know how eager I am to bear good fruit.

I thought my first would come this year.

I pushed my roots deeper into the soil, 

I inched as far down as I possibly could.  

I opened my limbs to the sun and embraced every drop of rain that fell, but nothing came,

Not one fig could I name my own.

I guess I didn’t have the creative juice.

Maybe I don’t know how, or maybe I suffer some strange disease.  I don’t feel sick and my bark is smooth.  I even produced bright green leaves last summer, not one turned yellow,

and that’s a fact.

Oh I do hope I can do better this year. Maybe I will have a coming out party if I blossom.

But the owner seems so angry and impatient.  He’s making me nervous.

The gardener talked earnestly with him, yesterday morning.

I heard him say he would pay special attention to me all season.  Oh, I think I may get a second chance.

The gardener laid his axe aside and spread fertilizer around my trunk.  He dug at my roots and pruned a bit, not too much.  He provided good care and fine service.  

It felt good to have my plot of ground loosened.  The fertilizer smelled of fresh nutrients; I think it will do me some good.  It is powerful medicine my neighbors whispered.  

Thank you, Mr Gardener for another season.  Thank you for taking time to show your love. I promise to do everything I can to bear fruit this season.

It’s a new day.  Spring is a few weeks away.  Winter was cold but my roots stayed warm and no frost burned my limbs.  I’m ready to blossom. I feel it under my bark. My sap is rising in the heat of the sun.

What a joy it will be,

To finally feel like a real fig tree. 

What a gift to be able to provide my owner fruit for breakfast.

Grateful I am to say the least, for the new growing season, for a second chance to be the fig tree I am meant to be.

Thank you, Mr Gardener for your faithfulness.  I appreciate all your kindness.  Thank you for saving me from becoming kindling, stacked on the burn pile out back.

By forgiving you gave me a blessing,

You gifted me time, and created space to bear new life. and that’s pure grace. Now I stand with abundant figs, a full fledged member of the tree of life.

Here won’t you try some of my fine fruit. I believe the taste will be a delight.

THH

3/27/25

Layers of clouds spread over the earth; 

A diffuse light glowed soft and warm,

No sign of blue sky only an airy white comforter to pull over.

A billowing shield from harsh sun rays.

A cover for dreams, inviting sleep.

Then a clear blue patch popped up on the morning horizon.

Light beckoned earth get a running start.

My sleep worn eyes opened, astonished,

Having awakened from a long, cold night to catch the wink of sunlight.

Awakened from somnolence I could only grin;

Stretch out gleeful hands as if today would be like no other.

Joyfully greet another gift from out of the blue.

THH

03/25

Jesus is asked about tragic sufferings of a group of people. He responds: what about this group and what about this one back when. They suffered calamities as well. He adds repent. He reiterates this after citing each example as the crowd queries him about the meaning of suffering. Jesus has a point to make.

He tells a quick story of a fruitless fig tree and a second chance. The implication is before we are cut down for lack of fruit, make the most of this one opportunity. This moment is grace. You have whatever time you have to create a life. To be who you want to be. You can even choose to improve yourself. So repent of worrying about troubles and the causes for this or that, none of that is where life is; instead turn to the life you are given and nurture it. Stop performing rituals and outward signs to make yourself look righteous.

Just live in your heart where you can be truly alive.

Jesus uses repent like a mantra.

I wonder if these days he might simply say stop whining, get on with living.

His instruction refers to turning ourselves around in the midst of life, in the midst of suffering, to stop looking for reasons for blame. He suggests gratitude for life given is the best attitude. Only then, are you free to concentrate on nurturing the gift bestowed. This life you have is your moment so make something worthy of it.

To repent : turn from your pain, worry, and shame. To repent: accept the gift with humility. You will never know the reason why. It is pure grace. And this moment is all you have or may ever have.

The gates of life have opened, for however long, don’t waste time. You may not get a second chance.

Don’t let the abrupt nature of it scare you.

Life is a gift beyond understanding. Go live it.

It is the hardest lesson.

Jesus admits life is hard. Jesus doesn’t whistle past graves of the dead or ignore the pain and suffering endured during life. But he refuses to judge or weigh the suffering of others, as if the trouble suffered was brought on by sin.

Suffering goes with life. No one deserves it. No one earns it. It is not punishment for anything done or left undone.

Living with suffering is the difficult task of wearing heavy gloves to do good work while protecting and preserving the tenderness of your heart the best you can.

Jesus asks us to stop fear mongering,

Be love of your neighbor as you love yourself.

A favorite quote of mine from Zorba the Greek sums up this passage pretty well.

It goes: ‘ Life is trouble only death is not, to be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble.’ Zorba tells his boss wear suffering like work clothes, and take them off when no longer needed. Live with passion and joy as best you can and confront troubles with integrity.

I think Jesus would endorse Zorba’s approach with a happy smile and maybe add you reap what you sow. Now be on your way.

THH
3/18/25

Some Pharisees come to warn Jesus that King Herod was looking for him; he answered, ‘ go tell that fox …’ I am working and healing, too busy to worry about you.  He adds a pointed reference to his three days of work and laments of the many prophets before him whose faithful work ended with their murder. He adds he must go to Jerusalem where he will meet his end.  Jesus declares how he longed to gather all his chicks under his wings like a mother hen. But they would not listen, wanting instead to go their own way, presumably, and now are to be left behind until a future time when Jesus promised to return. 

This is a rich rhetorical framework in which to imagine life in the world of the Fox, the Hen, and chicks. Not to mention a platform for the evangelist to bring home the point that Gd cares.

The evangelist puts these words in the mouth of Jesus for rhetorical purposes.  What is his message?

What is it like to live in the world as a fox? A hen, a chick? 

Imagine you are a hen trying to gather your chicks.  Desperately, she tries to get her chicks to stay under her wings for protection.  One might imagine she fears a fox on the prowl or a chicken hawk circling overhead. The chicks keep trying to get to the barnyard to hunt and peck,innocent of the danger, driven by hunger.  The hen clucks and hustles them back to safety under her wings, shielding them from threats of predators.  But they refuse to settle down. 

The chicks don’t want to be mothered.  They are restless.  They are hungry.   They want to hunt seeds, bugs and worms. They want to eat and explore the world around them.  They want what they want and won’t look up. The mother hen does her best but is frustrated and worried like any mother would be.

The world of the chick is small; they are ignorant of danger and don’t even know enough to worry for their lives or futures.  What could happen? Like teenagers driving home after a big game having too much fun to notice on coming headlights — A parent’s biggest fear, I know, I’ve been there.

We can all be careless creatures, and unaware of wings that spread out to shelter us.  Too often invisible as we rush through busy lives.

The world of faithful people (adults and children) is small especially in the context of the cosmos, and we are naive to think we understand the mysterious depths of the world or of Gd’s love. We prefer to be on our own and follow our own predilections. We think living under the hen’s wings restrictive or too burdensome.  

Chicks do not long survive without protection in a predatory environment, no matter how brazenly they approach the world.  Foxes are always hanging around and make the world a dangerous place.  Chicks have little foresight. They are controlled by hunger and resist mother hens.  It is the old innocence to experience theme on steroids.  

Those of us who survive to adulthood or old age look back in wonder at our survival and whatever successes. Trust me.  I can relate.  I shake my head in surprise daily.  It is a pure expression of grace that I’m here.  And I am very thankful.

Foxes are predators. They are opportunistic.  In their world they look for any chance to grab a meal and are often ravenous and destructive.  They don’t have limits beyond the practical, ie the availability of food (or read drugs, sex, power, etc) which includes assessing the possibility of pulling off a raid without adverse consequences.  We probably know people who fit this description.

Surely the evangelist was aware this metaphor could be applied to powerful people.  And we see all about us today manifestations of power where people decide they know what is best for the rest.  Such leaders believe they have special privileges to exercise vengeance on those who do not measure up to their standards or fail to show proper deference and respect for their authority and interests. This is not new and unfortunately, it has come home to roost today in our own country.

The evangelical point seems to be: Jesus is (was) here. Jesus is (was) available. Jesus offered to be our protector, our mother hen. Jesus poured out his love for us through his work in the world, but sadly we didn’t grasp his purpose or failed to listen closely. Perhaps we were too preoccupied with our own hungers or worried about foxes.  

The fox remains on the on the alert for an opportunity to attack unsuspecting prey as Jesus clearly knew.  So be wary.  Don’t let your hungers lead you into unsafe territory.  The evangelist’s story gives us a warning, a prediction, and a promise; it was written probably somewhere between 80-90 CE for his audience, IE, followers of the way of love in a time of persecution. It applies equally well to us in the maelstrom of the present day.

Don’t be fooled by the machinations of foxes.  They will use any means to entice you from under mother hen’s wings.  Be steady in your faith and stay with your community under the guidance and protection of elders. Learn from them.  Keep the faith that Jesus will return and place us under his protection in the kin-dom to come.

Woe to young innocent chicks who allow their drives to dominate their lives, or succumb to wilderness temptations.  For they are easy prey.  Be prepared.  Learn to be wise in the ways of the world- wise as serpents, gentle as doves. 

By extension the message goes on to point out how few of us listen.  Most chicks head out to hunt and peck and feed their hungers leaving behind family(fathers and mothers, etc) to explore the world and seek their fortune.  This is to be expected. Such is the tragic life as Miguel de Unamuno proclaimed.

Jesus agrees as when the evangelist has him say but you would not stay (similar to the prodigal son) and now I must be off to Jerusalem where prophets go to die.  And soon I will be gone but you have the spirit of hope and someday I will return when you are ready. So have hope! Keep the faith! Practice being a loving community!

Explore Gd’s creation as the gift it is,

But be wary of foxes who will make a meal of you. 

And be kind to hens who do their best to keep us safe under their wings.

PS : I don’t know if I believe in Gd or the return of Jesus, sometimes yes, but not as a certainty.  I do think love heals, and we are blessed with life which gives us the opportunity to choose to play the fox or the hen. And just as importantly,

we have one chance to take care of as many chicks as we can. 

THH

3/17/25

St Patrick’s Day