Please Listen

I wonder if I can ask you

to share a few moments

seated quietly on this land

listening deeply

to hear what it might say

about the untold millennia

it had already weathered

long before we were born

Before we move a rock

or remove sod to plant

let us listen to the land

to the winds, the birds

and the animals that call this home

Let us take time to observe

the health of plants and trees

that are growing here

and watch the light

as it changes through the day

Let us feel the earth

beneath our bare feet

to learn what we need to do

as temporary stewards

of this small space in the cosmos

remembering that love and care matter

even though we will not be here to

witness their future fruition

I wonder, too, whether you will still love me

if I risk sharing who I can be

in moments of deep reflection

that sometimes make living difficult

in a world that is too busy, distracted, noisy

to listen deeply to the quiet songs of life?

April 1, 2021 22

Signs of These Times

Carol A. Hand

Greeting the morning

as another fighter jet roars overhead

in the periodic practice flights

to stay ever-ready for battle

Watching moving afternoon shadows

glide over the snow-laden garden

as my neighbor’s flag moves

rhythmically with the wind

blocking the southwestern light

from the long-awaited winter sun

emphasizing the precariousness

of these troubled times

when killing for power, oil, flag, and country

is easier than conflict resolution and diplomacy

Let the voices of children touch our hearts

and their dreams for their future point to way

(Heal the World (by Michael Jackson) – kids artist)

January 6, 2020 26

Sounds of the City

Carol A. Hand

When greeting the morning

the silver-toned song of a bird

got me wondering

How does one convey

the sounds of the city

engulfed in a misty fog

that amplifies sounds?

The whisper of leaves

in the breeze – sh-h-h-h-h

The sounds of workmen

replacing a neighbor’s roof –

with the tap-tap-tap of hammers

and the sharper rhythmic

sounds of a staple gun

The sound of the lawn mower

growing softer then louder

depending on the direction

of the unseen mower

whir-

r-

r- ing in the distance

Listening intently to the world

and trying to describe what one hears

on a silent page is not an easy task

and a challenge I will continue to ponder

September 20, 2019 37

A Peaceful Moment

Carol A. Hand

July 6, 2019 16

Bella’s Elixir by Raymond Roy #fiction #shortstory

Recently, it has been increasingly more difficult for me to find time to write posts for my blog. At the moment, I have a batch of student papers to grade and two more assignments coming in this week. I have been wondering what to do with my blog. And then it occurred to me. When I first began blogging, a new-found friend with a huge following featured some of my early posts on his site, instantly helping me connect to a wider community.

One of the things I have loved most about being part of a blogging community is the opportunity to meet so many talented artists, photographers, poets, writers, and storytellers, and so many kind and decent people. This morning, I read a story written by one of them, Raymond Roy, at goroyboy. I was inspired to ask Ray, a writer whose work often touches me deeply, if he would allow me to reblog his newest story, Bella’s Elixir. He graciously agreed to allow me to share this work.

Please take time to visit Ray’s site.

goroyboy's Blog

Chapter 1

“The Gift”

Mid August-The Perseids (meteor showers) were in full swing. Named Perseid as the shooting “stars” originate from the constellation Perseus (A Great Greek hero), slayer of monsters and most notably, the Gorgon Medusa.

High winds made for a clear night. A gamma ray infused meteor ignited as it entered earth’s atmosphere. With evaporating layers of ice, rock and carbon, a vapor trail streamed across the night sky. With a loud thud, the meteor landed in a small pond, just outside a scrap metal junkyard in rural US of A.

The impact of the space rock stirred a little dust in the makeshift den, a scrapped 69 Chevelle. A cob web broke free, shimmering in the sliver of white linen moonlight floating for a moment, then landing onto the nose of a soft fluffy fur ball named Bella. Bella was solid black from head to toe. In…

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October 28, 2018 4

Awakening Slowly

Carol A. Hand

Awakening slowly

after a stormy night’s

seemingly dreamless sleep

frequently interrupted

by the urgent sound of rain

pounding on windows and roof

accompanied by booming thunder

that shook the house

to its very foundations

yet resting unafraid

and rising gently

to greet the day

gardens transformed

overnight

***

***

other awakenings grace my days

encountering random kindness

in unexpected places like the city bus

as a stately elder gentleman

reached across the divisiveness

so prevalent here today

to bring kindness and comfort

into the lives of others

and graciously dealt with

rejection from those

effectively conditioned

to fear difference and joy

I couldn’t leave the bus

without thanking him

in the only words

that came to me

“Sir, you are a blessing to others”

***

July 12, 2018 24

The Fourth of July: Nationalism and Colonialism

The time seems right to share this post from years ago as fiery flowers once again light the sky in a celebration that I don’t share.

Voices from the Margins

Carol A. Hand

As the date of the quintessential celebration of colonial oppression for Indigenous Peoples in the U.S. approaches, signaled by loud explosions in the night, an image from my childhood comes unbidden to mind – a child crouching, head bowed, eyes closed, hands tightly covering ears.

Photo Credit: Carol A. Hand

I remember how much I disliked attending these events with my family, surrounded by crowds of people cheering and oohing and aahing in the local park as the symbolic missiles of war blossom like booming “fiery flowers” in the darkened evening sky. I didn’t know the deeper symbolism then for Indigenous Peoples, but the mindless and frenzied fascination of the crowd frightened me. I realize it still does. It brings to mind a story I wrote about my experiences in Missoula, Montana, during the U.S. invasion of Iraq.

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