Palm Reader

Do you believe in palm readers?

They see all the crevices
In your hand.

They have a story for each one.

Hold your hand in theirs,

Touching the lines.

Look you in the eyes—

These hands are the hands

Of an artist,

They will make you a million dollars, wait and see.

Since then my hands have made things.

Since then my palms have
caressed things.

Since then my fingers have
said things.

Hands have hidden stories,

Waiting to be told.

Hands can read.

Hands can heal.

Hands can kill.

Hands cover my
Eyes,

and turn the page.

Hands can say no

Or salute you instead.

My hands can feel

What that palm reader

Once felt to be true—

I’m good with my hands.

It’s there in the crevices,

the many deep crevices of my
Hands.

Levi

We named our third child
Levi.

Swinging on a country playground
in Texas with my wife.

Levi, sounded like a
Good Texan name.

My life was at a cross-roads
Then, reflecting how I feel today.

It was the start of a new
Chapter in the book
Of our life.

Levi’s birth reassured us things
Would be alright.

God loves Levi so much He
Ordained him His personal
Minister on the foot of Mt. Sinai.

Somewhere it says, “…if the moon loses its luster and the stars stop shining, then my servant Levi will stop being my minister forever…”

As far as I know, the moon
Is renewed from month to
month like a well
Functioning clock, and

That solemn oath still stands,

Since the stars are as brilliant
As ever,

Nightly covering the Earth
Like a blanket of unbroken promises
Made to our prophets and sages.

Promises made one lone starry-night to Abraham our father.

“Look up, count the stars, that will be how many your progeny
will on day be”,

He having none at the time, I’m
Sure was mesmerized, by the
Uncountable flaming dots.

Levi’s birth marks a festive occasion.

My father before he passed asked me
To take care of Levi, he loved
Him so much.

God also told Levi’s 11 brothers to watch after their brother…

It all started on that fateful night,
promises fulfilled not only to me but to our father,

Who stood there gazing at the stars thinking incomprehensible
thoughts of the
Many possibilities and the future,
The future birth of one more son.

God Grant Me A Wish

God grant me a wish,

Just one!

I know world peace

Is someone else’s dream.

I need to be authentic,

I need a wish that’s solely

Mine.

I want an original wish granted, I’d

Love to find hidden gold, but

I know the conquistadores and their mothers
Wished on that one…
And all The 49ers that
Made their way to
California
Gold country
Obviously did too!

The wish of fame and fortune,

Those wishes are blasé, I’m
Sure just about every
Hollywood star has wished
That one before.

Strolling down Hollywood Boulevard confirms
Those wishes have all just about come true.

Fortune?
You can see those
Wishes materialized
In Beverly Hills and on
Malibu’s pristine beaches.

Nowadays, the wish of
Fortune, can be seen up and
Down the California
Coastline, prices have
Seriously gone
Up since the Sixties.

The wish of love, some people
Wished they never wished for
That one. The courts are full
Of those wishes being
Defunct, thank God I’m not
One of them, I’m happy in love.

Now that I’ve gone through
This little exercise,
I’m running out of wishes,
I can see
Some of my prior wishes
Have already been granted.

They’re the ones that
Call me, “daddy”
Embracing me every time
They see me anew.

Thank You, God,
for
My little wishes,
I love
Each and
Everyone of them,
Fiercely—as
Much as a grown man
Can love wishes
That come true.

Sun

Break forth
glorious sun
shine once again.
I need to feel your
loving warmth.

I’m cold and shivering,

It’s your fire
I passionately desire.

To bath in your
wondrous light,

To feel the radiance
of your powerful glow.

Softly,
caress my longing soul, and
help me to always, always grow.

I want to sense the
tingle in my skin when I
feel the touch of
your heated embrace—

from the tip
of my sultry head down
to my sullen toes.

Loneliness

Why don’t I go, why am I
Staying away, it’s only because of embarrassment, my journey has taken an unexpected fall.

I’m three steps from homelessness, seriously penniless, and unfortunately, currently unemployed.

I have a beautifully large family and they need my provision, my cooperation. My priorities have now dramatically shifted.

I’m in the early stages of trying to rebuild, living off the charity of loved ones who delightfully have taken us in. I thank God for them, even though it gnaws at me from within.

I feel frantically useless, as if I was somehow tied to my now defunct business; as if it defined my manhood, even though deep down I know it didn’t. Now, I’m double-guessing myself. Confusion comes with the territory I’m running on.

Look at me now, in this great country of ours, if you don’t have a job you’re nothing, less than zero. It doesn’t matter what you’ve achieved in the past. It’s only our current state of success that defines us.

I take mental comfort in knowing that at least, if I was in Europe as an unemployed poet, I’d still have a semblance of dignity. People would say, alas a true artiste, look at how he suffers for his art!

Instead, in my great country art is considered leisure; something someone does as a hobby. You’re only admired if you make tons of money. It’s only then when people take you seriously, nobody begrudges a cash cow, no matter how silly it is, or how degrading your work becomes.

Cash cows are worshiped exactly the same as they were worshiped at at the foothills of Mt. Sinai, nothing has changed since then.

Life without suffering is not the life of a poet.

I’m not going because of the state I find myself in, vulnerable, needy, insecure, a terrible loneliness has enveloped me, a familiar blanket I’m supposed to wear.

I’m secretly suffering, I want to achieve things just like everyone else does. I have goals and purpose, but nothing has materialized; I’m just sitting here in a corner of a cafe whining about my life, wishing my life was in another place.

River

We’re
going
camping,

And, we’re
piled in
our black ’94
Suburban like
a tin-can
of exquisite
Mediterranean
anchovies.

Hannah is
turning four
And her
powers of
observation,
are being
realized.

Hannah,
is starting
to make
lasting
verbal slash visual
associations.

She’s starting
to communicate,
what things
mean to her.

She squeals in
delight
every-time she
sees a body
of water,

Whether it’s a
dyke, or
lake, to her
everything wet,
is a gleeful,

“Look daddy, River!”

River means—
wadding and
throwing wet rocks,
seeing them burst
like fireworks
as they hit the
water.

It’s watching
her brothers
happily
catch
spunky clawed
crawdads.

River means,
setting up camping
tents and the
smell of
chili-beans
cooking on
an open fire.

Or running all day
in her favorite red
Ladybug bathing
suit chasing
cobalt-blue
dragonflies.

Eating
marshmallows
toasted by the
Big Dipper wrapped
In a blanket of
Milky-way stars.

River means–
Swinging like
an Angel under a
glorious branch of
a live oak tree.

And,
chasing toads by
flashlight in
the darkness
of a jasmine
filled night.

It’s waking
up to the cooing of
turtle-doves and
the warmth of an early
California sun.

When Hannah says,
I want to go to
the river,

she understands
it’s a spiritual
oblation,

She comprehends
it to be an
exceptionally
blissful time.

I’m Drowning

I put my life vest on
Because I’m
Going for a plunge.

The waters are deep
And so many strong
Swimmers have
Drowned, I know a few
Friends of mine
that have
Never been found.

There are no
instruction or
Warnings, and
Lifeguards
Are useless,
There is no adequate
Training to save anyone.

These waters are new
for the uninitiated,
They’re infested.
Survival depends on
Perseverance and laughter
On romance and
Commitment, without
Compromise you’ll
Certainly go down.

There are
No guarantees
At all for survival
Some say it depends on
Dumb luck.

It’s hazardous, but
One thing
I’m certain of
Is that I’m happy
Barely
Treading water,

Swimming in the Sea
Of Love.

Summer Grapes

In the summer the vines are
Pregnant with fruit weighing on
Branches, swollen, delightful,
Fragrantly sweet.

Your lustful aroma penetrates
My defenses. Magnificent golden
haired temptress, your kiss
Is sweeter than ripened
Burgundy grapes.

Of all the willing clusters,
I picked you. Of all the
Fair maidens, it’s your love
That’s more intoxicating than
The best of the
Preeminent wines.

Oklahoma Rain

The overhead clouds
look heavy it’s
as if they had
massive lead
weights, weighing
them down.

Ominously dark
and
laden with
rain,

One moment the
horizon is clear,
the sun
shining lovingly
bright,

the next time I
glance, massive
black clouds are
steam-rolling
heading
my way.

The heavens
are dragging
themselves over
the earth
like a
drunkard after
an alcoholic
binge.

The theatrics
begins
with a slow
pitter-patter
of tiny droplets
while, the smell of
precipitation
permeates the
pregnant moist air.

Suddenly, the
floodgates
are opened with
thunder and lighting,
snapping and sizzling,
announcing the
mighty deluge.

There’s no escaping
the inevitable,
while cloudburst
eruptions
proclaim the
apocalyptical.

I’m blinded by
the sunless
downpour;
frightened,
I’ve never seen
the force of
nature so
dramatic before.

All I see is
torrents,
and like
the story of Noah,
there’s nowhere
I can run to,
Nowhere I can hide.

All I can do is lower
my head and quietly
ask God for forgiveness
and a little respite.

Ode to Jimmy Stewart

I wish I could write
poetry the way
Jimmy Stewart
articulated his lines.

His unmistakable voice
soft, charismatic, always
delivered with a
twinkle in his eyes.

Seems that I can listen
to him forever, if forever
was a place to be.

In those days movies were
spoken,

An art form to carry
A conversation with such élan,

Jimmy carried them
eloquently like a
high priest in the temple
of the spoken word.

And, If God could speak
audibly, I’d like to believe
it’d be with
Stewart’s magnetic ease.