Mother’s Hands

Mother’s hands

are strong, stubby, smooth and soft.

It touched my forehead
When a fever burned
Massaged my back when I could not sleep
While white ladies floated in my imagination.
It gently caressed me when something hurt,
From a stomach ache,
To a wounded knee from a daring fall
from rollerblading a downward slope.

When I was a little girl
my eyes gazed at her fingers
gracefully scribbling her signature at the cashier counter
watched her draw smiling faces and trees and houses and mountains
observed her cut apple peels
And knead dough for apple pies
Her hands knew everything
For everything her hands touched
Was perfect and polished
Incomparable to the works of my tiny, incapable hands.

Until I learned script at 3rd grade
My drawings turned from sticks to shades and shadows
My fingers learned to strum the guitar at 13
And by college
It could tinker scales and arpeggios on the piano
– eyes closed.
My hands shook President Obama’s
It has traveled far and wide
Packing and unpacking suitcases
From place to place,
(searching for fingers that could intertwine with mine)

It now knows where to go
And which finger to raise
For specific and special occasions.

But many times
My own hands betray me
They have played the wrong notes
wrote terrible poems
Shook hands with politicians
Grabbed things
That were not good for me
And made a terrible mess of myself.
It has learned how to cover my face
Rub my eyes
And wipe my own tears.
Many times,
Cold and clammy,
My hands shake from anxiety
Of the future
Of not knowing what to do,
what to build
Or who and what to keep.

I turn to my mother’s hands
Imperfect hands that
made its own mistakes
And cleaned up
Much of life’s dirt.
Yet still massages my back
On sleepless nights
When demons start to dance in my mind;
Opens the door for me
When I come home at 2am,
Drained and tired, heartbroken
And holds my hands together
When I have lost faith.

My mothers hands
Are stubby, smooth and soft
A little bit wrinkled now, yes
But still with unyielding strength and beauty
I take her palm and trace the lines and curves
That tell the story of her fate
Somewhere in her palms,
I look up to an invisible Almighty,
I’ve been given such honor
To be written in her destiny.

Philosophy, Poetry, Thoughts

Divine Hands

We are all not seeing something

For we are only looking through a spec of this existence

Impossibly attempting to piece puzzles together

To make sense of the things

Specially those beyond our control

Until we discover the illusion

that, not only some things

But everything, is beyond our hands

For even our own hands 

Were made not merely for ourselves

But for lifting the world a step higher



Poetry, Thoughts

Sunday Drizzles

Upstaging the morning sky

The nimbus clouds appear

Unexpected and unwelcome

Announces an imminent downpour

The rain

Will come when it comes

Impartial and downright 

To the last droplet

The pouring 

Spares no one

No choice but to surrender

To the winds and wetness

Our eyes may too very well know

But may one be reminded

we are always granted

the liberty

To bring or not to bring

An umbrella

Poetry, Thoughts

Someday and Some Days


Skulls and bones 

Shall be the only evidence 

Of our bodies, nameless relics

Exhumed for exams and exhibits

Or commemorated twice a year

When we are fossilized

10 feet underneath. 

Some days

Blood, meat and flesh

Sweat, salt and breath 

Are all we really are

Grinding for our daily bread

Beyond our bodies something lies

Dead long before

Death arrives.

Philosophy, Poetry, Thoughts

A Short Guide to Self-inflicted Suffering

How to Let Go of Things We Cling To: 

Why We Need to Let Go of Things We Cling To:


A Short Guide to Self-inflicted Suffering:

When letting go is seemingly an impossible feat, it is easiest to release the clench of your fist when something is held on too tightly. Clasp that dear thing so tightly in the palm of your hand and make known your power and command over it until:


1. It is displaced and dispatched into the air.


2. It slips away from the hinges of your sweaty fingers.


3. It snaps. And/or dies.


4. Your palms begin to bleed.


Music, Philosophy, Poetry, Thoughts

Kismet Island

Kismet Island

How you have found your way
To my virgin isles,
I will never know.

Perhaps, after tasting your salty tears
And crashing dry into my heart,
the waves and the winds decided
to make love again, their ecstasy
Meant to bring your sails across oceans
Towards the bosom of my shores

I found you
The only thing alive in you
Was a pained heart
Still beating.
So I caress your wounds
The only way I know how:
With all that I have
With all that I am.

What else am I to do with my being?
I did not exist
Until you found me.