I gave you a Rose,
fond blossom of the
season. You replied
with a heart, a garden
for all Time --
Something simply slides
From one’s to show us
The direction in
Minute actions and
It's called a gesture.
Kindness is a rare, unpolished gem,
A steady, quiet spark
Hidden deep inside us.
It is an open, reaching hand
Extended with no strings attached.
It is a whisper of solace,
A living action aiming to mend,
Marking forever—not in silence—
What the gesture made flawless.
It is fiercely resilient,
Refusing to make excuses.
It is a quiet fire
Guided by bravery,
Burning for everyone to see.
A breeze came my way
on a hot, sultry day
Declining to stay
on its way it was going
When stunned by a gesture
it returned... resumed blowing
For I had kneeled down to beg
amputated both legs…
Is there meaning in our most desperate acts?
Whatever you think, those are the facts
we keep our bodies in layers,
like a river keeps its bed.
this surface , this inked architecture,
is but a trellis
for a deeper growth.
I am watching the transparent version of you
hover, like a cloud in a glass house.
you bend , the light showing
the phantom trace of your spine,
the clear, unhurried arc of your neck.
you look back at yourself--
the other you,
the one with skin,
etched with patterns and circles,
a map of all that has been held.
is this how you decide which face to wear?
one of a girl,
another of an ancient man,
a memory ghost waiting to be fed.
at the periphery,
your hands drift like smoke,
almost meeting.
one with fingerprints and geometric lines,
and one that is just a gesture.
a humming-bird on a single thread-
an impossible physics--
is being fed or led,
and it does not know the difference.
we exist between this solid,
pattern-matched bone
and the desire to be nothing but the light
that passes through.
the body is the first mask,
and the first mirror.
It all came fast, a sudden start,
I wondered why I won your heart.
The days we’ve shared are still so few,
Yet everyone brought smiles with you.
The beginning remains a mystery unknown,
Your touch, a presence still not shown.
There are times you face a question’s weight
Your eyes ask why – unsure of fate.
But eventually, you’ll feel I’m yours to stay,
No what-ifs, no buts – just hands that won’t slip away
Your gaze becomes my forever’s light
Your arms, my rest through every night
Why you? Was it the meal that you lovingly made?
Why you? Was it the warmth in every kind gesture laid?
Why you? Was it the laughter we both freely shared?
I choose you – why not? You’re meant for the road I’ve prepared
I saw many people
sitting on the road,
begging to continue their lives
like a child yearning for her favorite toy.
Some pass them by,
some offer money, food, or kindness,
but many remain ignored,
sitting in the cold, the heat, the dust, the trash—
as if death were better.
These people were not born beggars.
They are mothers of children,
fathers of families,
elders pushed out from their homes.
Have we ever wondered
how they feel when we ignore them?
Some are young, strong enough to work,
even when exhausted.
Some are forced into survival instead of study,
stripped of opportunities they deserve.
Even one small act—
teaching them, offering food or shelter for a day—
can be a godlike blessing in their life.
We are not rich,
but a simple gesture,
a shared meal,
warm clothes,
a hand extended—
can let them live, even just for a moment.
Some beg with their children in their arms;
their lives are like thunder striking the earth.
Help them.
Let them live.
Let them feel joy,
even once.
Today’s blessing comes from the words of Steve Maraboli…
Who, as often is the case, express it better than me.
Since we can’t always see what another person is going through…
what kind of suffering…anguish…ordeal
a kind gesture can reach a wound
that only compassion can heal
Red roses in hand,
A lad gives on his way—
First flower blooms bright.
It's a kind gesture
that brightens a rainy day
A good feeling comes your way
It's a kind gesture
that isn't too much to give
It measures another
It's a kind gesture
thar connects us in this world
A birth of love we deserve
It's a kind gesture
Choose a positive way
It comes back to you someday
Heidi Sands
5/3/25
(C)opyright
Dutch artist Willem de Kooning
with gestural* art had a fling
Action expressed with nonchalance
a genre requiring taking a chance
*www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/g/gestural
Motion,
Constant rhythm,
Crashing, receding flow,
Life's limitless, changing cycles,
Ocean.
©bfa030925
If I invite you into my home, please do not show up with the floor plan and Pinterest boards of your ideas to decorate it as you see fit.
I like the plants I have hung up and the rainbow catchers hung in the window. They bring in growth and sunshine.
And before you forget, make sure when you exit you lock the door behind you. Because I told you, this chair you brought with you, well it just does not fit.
So maybe next time, you can sit in the chair I gave you that already was here waiting for someone who could sit and not just stand by and visit.
ART AS A GESTURE
a
zest
of
satisfaction
in
a
gusto
of
ultimate
certainty
deepens
with
intimacy
of
accidental
curiosity
inherent
perception
within
transposes
emotion
in
the
miracle
of
our
disparate
mind
unhindered
visible
audible
in
the
tangible
expressiveness
of
outgoing
energy
of
tactile
significance
consummated
&
uniquely
pervading
&
pervasive
internally
integrated
self concerned
in on-going
interplay
of
expression
incorporating
past
coherent
awareness
of
conceived
interactactions
berthed
in expressive
action
of
awakened
personal
pictorial
presentations
of
prior
experience
in
the
completely new
His intrinsic calamity of calmness
burning down my bugbears
meticulous admirer that you are
lifting me through the stairs of Arcadia
with this brutal force of ocean’s nature,
re-reading the solitude of memories
the real unfolding the fictional underneath
to profess and pass through the infinite
treasuring the hearts of the time
like a favourite book of mine
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