I am a Date Palm. Winds may threaten, bend and
and snap back my trunk; nests between my frondy
bonnet yet remain firm -- from me, the palm, feathered
survivors have learned, resilience; and the selfless nature
of lofty giving. Dates ripen, young chirping for their meal.
Mothers not having far to travel. One can say, I am bed
and breakfast service. No need to call and wait for market
delivery. Lookout of the desert, mast and sail of the sandy
dunes. When comes the wind I whistle a nurturing tune. Such
music both lullaby and grateful prayer. Proud member of Club Oasis.
palm lines: life, head, heart...
the paths I have taken
that set me apart
I word the blood that freed our land
breathing opens minds which are
partly insane
popping midnight blue on cue
splattering palms moist
hoisting what is true
onto blank page as unhealed rage
this theatre an expanded oyster
Pearl becoming translucent
¥¥
glows pink silver the waiting Pearl to hurl
theatre seats are empty cold
rage evaporating with poverty
Truth speculatively mature
palms wrinkled warmly
cool blue a crying sky afar surfing
insanity protected his Heart
my blood runs a River of Stories
~~~~~~~~~
A palm, I said on Sunday
As I stood upon my bed
Looking in a window
At the outside overhead
I saw a smear of moonbeam
That screamed out yesterday
Then watched the shallow sun arise
While bright stars fade away
I whispered to a waning willow
Weeping on the street
Why so sad, my troubled tree
What dream has caused you grief
The willow said that sun does blind
Those shadows all deceive
Black earth is damp upon my feet
No longer I believe
So, trash the vexing memories, said I
Let the past rewrite each lie
Turn that icy barb of fate
From sorrow - now don’t cry
Francis J Grasso ©08.23.2025
(“Bardo Dreams”, 2014, original oil and acrylic)
Buddha in the Palm of Your Hand
Sitting like a stone statue
Dancing like a small child
Hugging like age old lovers
Surfing like dolphins wild
What it is that dwells within
What it is that reflects
What it is that moves us when
We take time to connect
Nowhere else will we find it
Nowhere else can it be
But just resting here and now
In our hands, always free
(8/19/25)
s h a p e me ~
with nautilus shells,
shimmering
like shifting shadows
in sultry silence
across
hermit
shores
where
the inked
silhouette
of the cerulean siren
dawns as
sapphire
souvenirs
of poetry you've written
beneath
lovestruck
skies
of music you've dreamed
beneath
crystalline cloudscapes
swaying in hammocks
hugged
by palm-leaf
p r o m i s e s ...
for within the
aquatic eyes
of the
heart-laced horizon
I feel
saffron sighs
while thoughts
of teal roses
roam
to home
and rhyme
the sun and the moon
in sea-kissed
warmth
amidst the
trembling tip
of your
quivering quill
purging
selkie
soliloquies
painting
shipwreck
shivers~
an island
l o v e reverie
brushed with
t i m e and h o p e...
The chimp stretches its arm,
a small hand, palm up under my chin,
fingers and thumb supple,
a pink-pawed sharing.
It’s a palmistry offering,
if only I had the skill to read it.
There is a lifeline.
It looks a lot like mine
if my hand were his.
I see a heart-line,
it seems open and flowing
as if this ape were following
another meaning of ‘heart.’
The handler moves on.
I check my own palm,
note the similarities, even see
an indistinct squeezed crease,
where the heart line bifurcates.
A sign, but of what?
And why does my hand
look like an old map of the moon,
while his looks like the hand
of a poet?
I look at them, at the lines on my palm like rivers flowing through secret deserts,
Wondering if they truly tell fate, if the future hides in the mist,
Or perhaps they are just lies spreading like fire igniting dreams that burn.
I look at them, hoping to see something, a whispered word among the lines of silence,
But all I see is incompleteness, a void stretching like an unbounded sky.
Each curve is a metaphor singing its story in hidden whispers,
Each feature is a rhyme dancing to the rhythm of passing time,
Every ending is abrupt, like a leaf torn by the merciless wind,
Every beginning is a murder of hopes, a secret untold to the world.
Some lines are deeper than others, like rivers carved deep into rock,
As if they had cried out from the beginning, wanting to reveal something hidden in shadows,
And other lines are silent, like birds that do not sing at the dawn of a new day,
As if they were mute from the start, fearful they might reveal secrets.
I look at them, and no matter how hard I try to decipher the mystery surrounding them,
I cannot decide if it is a labyrinth we must solve in secret,
Or just an illusion we should ignore, letting it pass unnoticed.
I thought to read
my own palm...took
a 5’ver out of my pocket
to be authentic
spoke out-loud
only listening too
the echo:
“Does she love me,
or does she not?”
my wife had entered the
room, and crept up behind
me: “She loves you!” and
took the 5’ver from the table.
keen orphic reader
cabalistic tendencies
mystical and keen
enigmatic strong
a master of the occult
lively prophecies
In the palm of the universe, only the mad ones dare to tread,
Mad to live, to speak, to be saved from the relentless currents of time,
Craving everything at once, like a blazing sun at its zenith,
They never yawn, nor utter the mundane, but burn with the brilliance of fallen stars,
Like fabulous yellow roman candles bursting into webs among the stars,
Their light dances upon the walls of my soul, weaving dreams I can never touch,
While sandcastles rise in my wandering mind, without foundations to hold them.
Marble staircases and crystal chandeliers waltz in the echoes of forgotten dreams,
Through the labyrinth of unwritten memories, I roam, lost and searching,
Unaware of the source of this sweet poison that floods my senses,
Oh cruel universe, why do you show me only shadows of happiness?
Let me glimpse the light that dances, yet remains untouched by any hand,
In the merciless universe, why reveal mere shadows of joy,
When my prayer is an echo of unfulfillment, a melody without end,
That is lost in the infinity of the universe, untouched and unheard by anyone.
In this charming retreat,
the silence of nature and hills talk to me,
whispers of forgotten tales in the breeze,
of hidden secrets of times bygone,
an era of luxury and grandeur,
where every stone holds a story untold.
In the marble statues and king-size portraits,
etched in elegance, they gaze through time,
their faces frozen in an eternal grace,
gripping the pulse of a golden age.
Laid in every nook and corner of the mansion,
they speak of grandeur
of feasts and whispers in the halls,
of laughter echoing beneath crystal chandeliers.
The velvet curtains, the blinds drawn in quiet reverence,
softly filter the light, casting shadows of tranquility and peace,
the swimming pool in the front yard
girdled by palm trees standing tall and erect like silent sentry
the mango tree laden with fruits drooping over the pool
a visual treat for hungry eyes sore with city life.
and outside, the hills stand,
ancient and proud, keeping their vigil.
on the idyllic retreat
where wealth and wisdom reign in peace.
and time slows, and memories breathe.
A hand untouched by destiny
A journey uncharted, no lines to trace
No fate impacted, poised for its take
A narrative of choices awaiting to prevail.
Fingers quiver, wrist dance
As the unknown calls in a whimsical trance
Lacking direction, no routes defined
A quest of self-discovery, uniquely designed.
A hand untamed, an enigmatic find
A life unanchored, free from the bind
Weight an endless expanse of choices
For which there is no mate.
Yet, amidst the ambiguity, a beauty emerges
A realm of self-forging where creativity surges
The hand devoid of fate, a riddle to retrace
A voyage of self-discovery, a limitless space.
On this pristine canvas, a narrative aches to ignite
A life of endless options, yearning to take flight
A palm without fate, an artist delight
A universe of possibilities, forever to ignite.
Let’s make the Greenland green again
Melt down the ice with fire
Let’s build on Greenland’s pleasant land
A city of desire
Erect the towers most gigantic
And hotels on the coast
The biggest port on the Atlantic
I dare to propose
Let’s make some money out of soil
I hope you understand
We’ll label it a Greenland oil
A number one oil brand
The Danish king must be well paid
To him we’ll do no harm
We’ll offer him a job to paint
A brand new coat of arms
I’ll be depicted in my pants
With a stone axe in hand
Parading on the golden sands
Of Greenland’s pleasand land!
A young oak grows tall and broad
like its peers, brushing the sky
Mighty, though not unique to the eye …
A lone palm appears midst the parched desert
It alone, steadfast and upright, is seen to flourish
It alone, merciful and kind, travelers nourish
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