Autumn concert

For too long, I was wrong,

Thought I was free and strong.

In mother’s stories 

We heard of barred, free 

By shackles, walls, and blinds, 

And the walls and handcuffs. 

She talked of dictators 

And the cruel governments

Taking the control

Of our mouths, eyes, and ears

As well as hands, arms, and legs,

“But your thoughts? Can never!”

“So, you are, always free…”

She said and we believed…

No, no, no

We are not…

Look at the Troika,

Three friends, 

Iran and Russia, and China.

Search for the brutal 

Troika comes at the top

Iran, China, and Russia.

They start and trace

Torturing the brains.

Each of us, to Troika 

Is nothing but a number

Poisoned is consciousness.

Their rival governments

Are the Taliban, and Israel. 

Oppressed are the women, Hazaras,

Palestine never survives genocide. 

Uniform trauma is a killer!

Uniform trauma is a killer!

Uniform trauma is a killer!

Trauma’s origin,

Is a wound in Greek

But the badly misused,

To talk of the great pain.

Trauma, as I learned,

Reflects the trace that remains,

Of a wound in the heart or brain, 

Upon the sighting, remembrance… 

Some call me a veteran

I hate that…

That takes me on a tour

Of dreams and childhood

To my needs and manhood.

Uniforms haunted us,

The cadets, very young,

Not because of our love

But because needed jobs.

I never thought of wars

In my days, nor at night,

I hated shedding blood.

The soldiers are puppets,

Abused in the ugly games,

Planned by the warmongers

And the dirty politicians.

I witnessed three wars,

Pakistan’s and Dhofar,

As well as the Iraq-Iran!

Happily, out of touch

I was with killer guns.

But still, feel the guilt,

We flew the logistics,

Carrying soldiers, guns

And most of the supply.

We took men standing,

Brought bags on returning, 

And caskets, and stretchers.

Uniforms to me are monsters, 

The military or police, regardless.

Uniform trauma is a killer

Like the pains of slaves

Stolen, tied, and shackled.

Uniform trauma is a killer

Like what felt the Indians,

Lied to, and then insulted.

Uniform trauma is a killer

Like the pain of women

Forbidden to give birth.

Uniform trauma is a killer

Like the pain of parents

Sixties’ scoops, in reserve.

Uniform trauma is a killer

Like the pain of Hussein,

A hungry laborer, prisoner.

The soldiers, NCOs, officers,

Are fooled by the word “Veteran”

For shedding blood, and murders. 

Read about the returning soldiers 

From wars, genocide, and terror.

Uniform trauma is a killer!

Uniform trauma is a killer!

Uniform trauma is a killer!

TELUS acts as an Emperor

Is Majestic ruler, a dictator.

Emperor has gladiators,

Lincoln is one of them.

The latter is busy, prepares

For more fights, survival…

Strong, fearless, murderer 

Seem to be the gladiators,

Inside the amphitheater!

What about Kathy’s case? 

Let us see what happened.

Amy lived with Kathy

A co-tenant and a friend.

Both women used drugs,

One heavy and one mild.

Excessive injections

Took Amy and her life.

When alive, many times

Kathy murmured dislikes.

But after Amy died 

Kathy became a caretaker,

And sister, and the friend, 

She cried like her mother.

She had to handle the

Burial and the rest.

While Kathy was on leave 

To handle Amy’s peace

Lincoln was brainwashed 

Thanks to one gladiator, 

A Lane-Tech, or an LTC! 

I had gone for shopping

Vegs, fruits, and vitamins.

Saw the boxes of pears

Good looking, well managed.

The store did not sell 

By the piece or single.

Bought one box 

Brought home.

Had no time to eat but 

A few, the rest are

Softening, browning.

That means 

Can be rotting.

Have and will hate wasting 

The harvest of hard work.

I never disrespect

The pain of hard workers.

Am in search of a way

That helps me preserve

Can consume them later.

Relatives and friends

Please come and suggest

A system to manage…

Promise to remain

Thankful and grateful.

From now to the end

Whenever set the table

I confess to conscious

Hate me for being a thief.

In a way

We knew what he did

His action was a theft.

No one talked,

Concretely silent!

Our silence by no means

Was a sign of politeness,

Indirect were our shares!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

In a way

We would share the harvest!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

We are the characters

Of Aziz Nesin 

In a book about shoes

Of shoes of hay-seller!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

In a way

Every rich and the poor,

All of us can be thieves. 

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

We are thieves!

By Fraser River

Of Richmond, Vancouver,

I stand and observe

Falling leaves, drizzle,

Shallow waves on the water. 

They ripple and ripple

On the logs, like fishes. 

Tree logs float and 

Without roots or a head.

I adore autumn’s life,

Breeze comes beautifies.

The serene falling leaves,

Their dances in the rain, 

And trips with the wind.

When departing, mothers, 

The trees, undress, 

Are exposed, get naked…

How I wish I could learn

To speak with the breeze,

With nature, and the trees 

With alive and dead leaves, 

On the water, in the wind.

I enjoy their concert

Wearing masks, scarlet,

They are soft and sweet.

No need to rush to judge

Think, think, think,

Think twice,

Before using your tongue.

Mosque and I have hardly

Been close, friendly…

Not because of building

But because of mullahs.

Yes, the time demanded

Use of a mosque as a base.

For a long I, an officer

Disliked ruling system

Of our Shah and his men,

They made him a dictator!

I never hid myself

Behind foolish actions,

Rarely lied, was open. 

I read and met people

The poor and with riches,

Caravanserais and castles. 

Most of the generals,

The closest to the shah

Lived in the palaces

Or villas with gardens.

They were like electrons,

The cloud orbits of atoms,

They rotated and stopped

In the Maison, here, there. 

They censored and scissored

The facts and built curtains 

Between Shah and the Nation. 

And I was against the

Generals, ministers…

So, happened what happened

In thirteen, fifty-seven…

To me that incident 

Does not have the same name:

“Revolution…”

It is right in the meaning,

The etymology of changes.

People were like drops

The drops made a flood,

A blizzard and the flood 

Can take us to the skies.

Khomeini, a puppeteer

Surfaced like a dragon

At the head of the river.

His words could make fire, 

They broke, washed away 

All the hills and mountains.

Armed bases were looted,

People had guns, bullets,

And life was dangerous.

I heard some, jokingly

Talk about the injuries

And aiming and killing.

I had to do something,

Turned me into a sandbag.

I gathered some friends,

A truck with a loudspeaker.

Asked them to go to people

And be my messengers:

By giving my address…

I wanted each person

With a gun or bullets

To come to my place.

For too long an officer

I was the most experienced

To teach them how to repair 

Or exchange guns and bullets.

We set a time, Two PM,

And exactly on the same day

Khomeini used the waves

To issue an order

Same as mine, similar:

“Take your arms deliver

To the closest Masjids…”

I was caught in the middle

Of the rivers and the fires,

So, I changed my address

To the closest Masjid.

We made a committee,

Not because we wanted 

But because of the current.

As the head, commander

I was judge and justice

And all the government,

The highest to the lowest.

I was the police and banker

I was the shop, shopkeeper

Heard a lot and witnessed.

Our people were like a herd

Encircled by tigers

And there was no shepherd.

Life is tough whenever

Collapses government

Even if a shrewd dictator.

I do not remember

If saw her, knew her.

But she was a colleague

With a paddle, yellow suit

That I call banana…

We do what police des

Handling traffic…

But not I!

I, mostly, help the team

With whom we are working,

From digging to pulling,

Even to celebrate occasions.

But Amy is no more,

She is dead, she is gone

And Kathy is writing

A note for eulogy!

With tears on her face,

Kathy said:

“She copied, mimicked me,

And bought a blue dress,

She’ll wear it when she is

In the oven, being cremated!”

And I see behind these

Far away where the sun

Kisses the edge of Earth,

Horizon, horizon…

Dizzy and vertigo, I question:

“What is this?

Why happens?

Overdose and crimes?

Mass murders, genocide?

The dictator mullahs!!!???”

No reply…feel drunk…

It is hard. 

It is hard.

It is hard.

It is hard to belong

To a land, to a ground 

That floats on the blood. 

Dear Mother,

My Iran, the ancient,

You are where I am from.

I know you, know your past,

I read and watch, and track

Your news also stories tagged

On daughters, girls-women.

I know of Anahita,

Gordafarid to Mahsa

All fighters, until now.

My lessons and advice

Are Rumi’s and Khayyam’s.

Feel proud of that cylinder,

The Cyrus’s Human Rights.

Read Saadi, memorized

His poem on care, Love.

With Hafez I fly,

With Sohrab, I come down.

With Khosrow I raise a fist,

With Nader, win the wars.

Me? Idle?

Cannot be!

Saw a truck, offloading 

The bricks, when sixteen.

I saw the soldier’s bullet 

Affirming the revolution

In nineteen seventy-nine...

It is hard. 

It is hard.

It is hard.

At times see me in a cave

Without a torch or candle

Long are nights, forever,

And cannot concentrate.

Some men took the bricks

And broke, threw them

Hitting a group of soldiers,

They had guns and batons,

Fully covered with helmets.

Mercenaries raised their guns 

And addressed the rioters… 

Saw their blood scattered

And many fell, wounded.

I was on the bicycle

Saw it all and observed.

It was hard. 

It was hard.

It was hard.

Then again, after years

Rose new rioters

And this time a soldier

Killed one of the guardians.

It is hard to belong

To a land, to a ground 

That floats on the blood. 

Bring an end, help me, God

I was a child, remember,

Mattress and the nights

In the heat of summer,

On the roofs and in open.

In the dark the mothers,

Checked on their children 

To be sure are covered.

One of the nights a mother

Hosted her son and daughter,

Each married to a partner.

She passes by the son,

Partners are apart,

She murmurs:

“Get close, hug him tight.”

When passing by the daughter

Finds the couple in a tight hug,

She murmured to the lovers:

“Let her breathe, separate!”

The son’s wife says later: 

“One roof and two climates!”

The same is with mullahs,

The murderers are brutal.

Who kidnapped the innocent?

Who made the chain of cells?

What about Guantanamo?

What about Trump likes?

Politicians, presidents?

CIA? Senators? Joe Biden?

What about the homeless? 

And what of the hunger?

And the poor world around?

Is it not very same, ring a bell? 

By reading Jane Austin,

Artisans and writes,

I picture Juliet,

Not that of Shakespeare,

But my own, the Janet.

She, the thief of my heart

Forty-two is crowned 

As a child, well-mannered.

She, the great magician,

Is fun and devoted,

Is clown, comedian,

Also is my grandmother.

Follows the rules of love, 

Is aware of our time,

And she is, most of all,

Residing in my heart

To be mine, only mine.

Looked alive,

Half faded.

White and red,

Rose was dead.

Gravitates,

Action less,

Beautifies,

It behaves.

Went close

Some steps.

Very young,

Seemed alive

But wintered 

In autumn!

No need to rush to judge

Think, think, think,

Think twice,

Before using your tongue.

Mosque and I have hardly

Been close, friendly…

Not because of building

But because of mullahs.

Yes, the time demanded

Use of a mosque as a base.

For a long I, an officer

Disliked ruling system

Of our Shah and his men,

They made him a dictator!

I never hid myself

Behind foolish actions,

Rarely lied, was open. 

I read and met people

The poor and with riches,

Caravanserais and castles. 

Most of the generals,

The closest to the shah

Lived in the palaces

Or villas with gardens.

They were like electrons,

The cloud orbits of atoms,

They rotated and stopped

In the Maison, here, there. 

They censored and scissored

The facts and built curtains 

Between Shah and the Nation. 

And I was against the

Generals, ministers…

So, happened what happened

In thirteen, fifty-seven…

To me that incident 

Does not have the same name:

“Revolution…”

It is right in the meaning,

The etymology of changes.

People were like drops

The drops made a flood,

A blizzard and the flood 

Can take us to the skies.

Khomeini, a puppeteer

Surfaced like a dragon

At the head of the river.

His words could make fire, 

They broke, washed away 

All the hills and mountains.

Armed bases were looted,

People had guns, bullets,

And life was dangerous.

I heard some, jokingly

Talk about the injuries

And aiming and killing.

I had to do something,

Turned me into a sandbag.

I gathered some friends,

A truck with a loudspeaker.

Asked them to go to people

And be my messengers:

By giving my address…

I wanted each person

With a gun or bullets

To come to my place.

For too long an officer

I was the most experienced

To teach them how to repair 

Or exchange guns and bullets.

We set a time, Two PM,

And exactly on the same day

Khomeini used the waves

To issue an order

Same as mine, similar:

“Take your arms deliver

To the closest Masjids…”

I was caught in the middle

Of the rivers and the fires,

So, I changed my address

To the closest Masjid.

We made a committee,

Not because we wanted 

But because of the current.

As the head, commander

I was judge and justice

And all the government,

The highest to the lowest.

I was the police and banker

I was the shop, shopkeeper

Heard a lot and witnessed.

Our people were like a herd

Encircled by tigers

And there was no shepherd.

Life is tough whenever

Collapses government

Even if a shrewd dictator.

I do not remember

If saw her, knew her.

But she was a colleague

With a paddle, yellow suit

That I call banana…

We do what police des

Handling traffic…

But not I!

I, mostly, help the team

With whom we are working,

From digging to pulling,

Even to celebrate occasions.

But Amy is no more,

She is dead, she is gone

And Kathy is writing

A note for eulogy!

With tears on her face,

Kathy said:

“She copied, mimicked me,

And bought a blue dress,

She’ll wear it when she is

In the oven, being cremated!”

And I see behind these

Far away where the sun

Kisses the edge of Earth,

Horizon, horizon…

Dizzy and vertigo, I question:

“What is this?

Why happens?

Overdose and crimes?

Mass murders, genocide?

The dictator mullahs!!!???”

No reply…feel drunk…

It is hard. 

It is hard.

It is hard.

It is hard to belong

To a land, to a ground 

That floats on the blood. 

Dear Mother,

My Iran, the ancient,

You are where I am from.

I know you, know your past,

I read and watch, and track

Your news also stories tagged

On daughters, girls-women.

I know of Anahita,

Gordafarid to Mahsa

All fighters, until now.

My lessons and advice

Are Rumi’s and Khayyam’s.

Feel proud of that cylinder,

The Cyrus’s Human Rights.

Read Saadi, memorized

His poem on care, Love.

With Hafez I fly,

With Sohrab, I come down.

With Khosrow I raise a fist,

With Nader, win the wars.

Me? Idle?

Cannot be!

Saw a truck, offloading 

The bricks, when sixteen.

I saw the soldier’s bullet 

Affirming the revolution

In nineteen seventy-nine...

It is hard. 

It is hard.

It is hard.

At times see me in a cave

Without a torch or candle

Long are nights, forever,

And cannot concentrate.

Some men took the bricks

And broke, threw them

Hitting a group of soldiers,

They had guns and batons,

Fully covered with helmets.

Mercenaries raised their guns 

And addressed the rioters… 

Saw their blood scattered

And many fell, wounded.

I was on the bicycle

Saw it all and observed.

It was hard. 

It was hard.

It was hard.

Then again, after years

Rose new rioters

And this time a soldier

Killed one of the guardians.

It is hard to belong

To a land, to a ground 

That floats on the blood. 

Bring an end, help me, God

I was a child, remember,

Mattress and the nights

In the heat of summer,

On the roofs and in open.

In the dark the mothers,

Checked on their children 

To be sure are covered.

One of the nights a mother

Hosted her son and daughter,

Each married to a partner.

She passes by the son,

Partners are apart,

She murmurs:

“Get close, hug him tight.”

When passing by the daughter

Finds the couple in a tight hug,

She murmured to the lovers:

“Let her breathe, separate!”

The son’s wife says later: 

“One roof and two climates!”

The same is with mullahs,

The murderers are brutal.

Who kidnapped the innocent?

Who made the chain of cells?

What about Guantanamo?

What about Trump likes?

Politicians, presidents?

CIA? Senators? Joe Biden?

What about the homeless? 

And what of the hunger?

And the poor world around?

Is it not very same, ring a bell? 

By reading Jane Austin,

Artisans and writes,

I picture Juliet,

Not that of Shakespeare,

But my own, the Janet.

She, the thief of my heart

Forty-two is crowned 

As a child, well-mannered.

She, the great magician,

Is fun and devoted,

Is clown, comedian,

Also is my grandmother.

Follows the rules of love, 

Is aware of our time,

And she is, most of all,

Residing in my heart

To be mine, only mine.

Looked alive,

Half faded.

White and red,

Rose was dead.

Gravitates,

Action less,

Beautifies,

It behaves.

Went close

Some steps.

Very young,

Seemed alive

But wintered 

In autumn!

As black as a night

In the far, older times

She followed her senses.

Smart and clever,

She knew,

Food was there, 

Even if out of sight.  

I stood like artists

With brush and with paint

Staring at their subjects

At the shores or beaches,

Flowers, hills, mountains.

But thought of the poet

Writing of the Plums,

Wheelbarrow, in rain, sun.

As black as some lives,

Neither cried nor was shy!

She found her landing site,

Garbage bins of a house,

City of Coquitlam’s…

One was sealed, very tight,

Half-open, another one.

Used her tools, beak, and legs

With her wings and feathers.

She tried very hard,

She tried very hard,

She tried very hard.

Jumped on and flew down,

Went from side to side.

Life’s tunnel was too dark,

She, without torch and light.

Wonder if you ever

Had the time to listen

To the leaves, branches!

They do talk,

Speak soft,

Full of love.

They, also, complain

Of the mean, and careless.

I took time

And chatted with friends

Like bushes and grass.

They told me stories

As do the First Nations.

Was lovely and great

To hear how the first 

Kernels, and the seed 

Sacrificed to give birth 

To crops and each herb 

As well as fruits to nuts.

I told them that one day

I will go and join them

Colorful like the leaves, 

That dance in the breeze.

We know not about why

The geese’ fly formation,

Their logic for V shapes

And about the conditions

To become the top leader!

We know not of ants, bees,

The heartbeats and feelings,

Their reasons for building

Their nests, hives, families!

We know not, not at all

And science tells us lies,

The scientists interpret

Like the blind journalists!

Therefore, we made a God

To have made seas and sky,

He is a magician, puppeteer

In thin air, and mountains.

Mazda is simplest, is Ahura,

And the worst is, Abraham’s!

The latter laws, advice:

“Slavery is authorized.” 

Kathy came with tears

On her face two rivers.

She spoke of Amy:

“Died of the Fentanyl!”

Heard of Amy and Kathy,

Being friends, enemies.

Both, for work, did the same,

Both lived in the same place

Both enjoyed free sex...

And I do understand

The women’s lifestyle.

In distanced horizons 

See scope to question:

“Why and how a woman

Can end up in such hell?”

Being a photographer

Going out, day by day,

Role models are lenses,

Focal point, wide, tele,

ASA with the shutter...

The good sight and angle

Correct light on a subject 

And the chosen distance

Make the pictures perfect.

What about these women?

What about these addicts?

What about the homeless?

Can it be the man’s greed?

Our ego? Politicians? Politics?

Of us being eight Billion?

Soon will be like Mammoths!

See these words like water 

In a bucket, on a hot desert day. 

You who were in Tehran

In nineteen-seventy-nine,

Not idle, but involved,

Take some sips and recall.

I, Air-Force-captain,

Was a student in Tehran.

Studied electronics

In the College of Technics, 

Of the oldest University.

“United, fight, will win,”

Students said, running

From campus to the street.

Laws forbade the police

To enter the schools.

We were caught and hunted 

At the gates and elsewhere!

Even now, I can feel

The pain of slapping!

Camouflaged, a sergeant 

Was hiding by the gate,

Slapping tore my earlobe

With his big golden ring. 

The foreigners, our masters,

Mainly from the USA,

Packed, were gone, to be safe,

The chasm must be filled,

With ourselves; way too big!

I replaced the teachers, 

Taught the Air Force cadets.

Veterans’ day’s columns 

Are three elevens, 

Day and month, and hour.

It is for recalling

The injured and the dead.

Being an ex-officer, 

Take it as a reminder

Of a shame, damnation,

Yes, warlords, politicians,

Warmongers, arms makers,

War in their easiest business.

I was in three wars

Bangladesh and Dhofar

And Iraq with Iran.

I saw deaths, disasters,

Families that shattered,

The widows and orphans.

I saw the wasps, flies

When landing, taking off

On those killed, their blood.

And I lost my friends

That lost life, or legs, eyes.

The day of Veterans?

Veteran? What the hell?

Respecting once a year?  

Ladies and gentlemen,

Forgive me, I want out!

To respect veterans 

Search for the criminals. 

They are the politicians

As well as warmongers.

Far away, overseas,

On island, a she thief,

Knows the way to steal.

I, here, silent, numb,

Try to behave dumb,

And enjoy bleedings.

Vampire she must be,

Her long fangs go too deep

In my veins, corpse, unseen.

My heart is in her palm,

She winds it and unwinds

Makes it pump and throb.

I have asked the angels

To be my messengers, 

Go, enter her place: 

“And tell her it is me.”

The Red Bird sent message:

“Keep loving Juliet…”

“But she is a stove

And I am a tinder…”

I replied in whisper.

“Wash your mouth and never

Speak so, complain…”

Ordered me The Red Bird.

BBQed and roasted

I feel by loving her!

But enjoy the moments 

Of waiting, to meet her.

Hand in hand by the river

We share life then after...

Some people wonder why

I have been in and out

When talk is about the war!

Unaware, most of them 

Act like saw, axe, hammer,

Judging a book by the cover.

I flew Hercules

In and out of borders,

Logistics and secrets.

Then, weighed the relations

Of Iran…USA…

Felt slave!

Felt slave!

Felt slave!

Two planes had number

Unlike rest, were coded,

In them had instruments!

On contours of borders

Of Iraq, their friends

We flew, recorded 

Classified and cyphered.

This far, things were OK

But the shock came later.

Bald Eagle was master

And crew, were slaves!

None of us ever learned 

Of the AWACs gathered.

We felt like the gardener 

Deprived, not permitted 

To use, taste his harvest, 

I hated UFC, USA, CIA!

In the heart of mountains

I was child, innocent.

My dreams were simple,

Making love with nature.

Went around in gardens,

Talked with my playmates,

Goats, to lambs, and chickens.

The skies and parents

Changed my life, future.

Never thought of ending

In the jail, in Evin.

But I did…

Not that I had not seen

Not that I had not lived

Not that I had not read

I had in other ways…

I had had, 

I had had.

But being handcuffed and

Beaten with blind bands???

With that jail I added 

To the list of to do: 

“When outside, if ever,

Speak of the tortures,

To you and to others,

Applied by the rulers.”

Wanted or unwanted

Learned from a jailer 

Questioning a woman

Answering very firm 

Like the roaring lion.

My left wrist tied to right,

Both my eyes in a blind,

I stood and faced a wall

Listening to their talks.

The man’s voice was dread,

Dictator’s, with power,

His judgements like Hitler’s.

But woman was smart

Prepared for the fight

Even when in handcuff

And of course, in blind.

“No that is not true…

That, I would never do…

I followed my husband.”

Every word that she said

Made me think of braves

And adored lioness…

Her words, behavior 

Set fire to tinder 

In me, gave strength 

To fight back, be lion.

Now, Iran’s Government 

Is popcorn on fire

Thanks to that strength.

Bravo to women,

Regardless of the ages,

Elderly to little schoolgirls. 

The sun and the lion

On flag, our anthem

Of Iran, forever

Tell us of Iran’ debt

To women, the brave

Heroines and fighters,

The lovers and mothers.

Before comes the weekend

The members of ANVET

Do gather for the supper.

Evening, Friday,

I sat at the table.

Though at the same table 

We are the tectonic plates,

Single Earth and the layers!

Many talked about pets

I remained calm, silent…

But maybe my eyeballs,

My forehead, eyebrows,

Reacted, were too loud.

I thought of my lambs, goats,

And the chicks, hens, and cocks,

In my head memories, donkey rides.

Waited till the dogs talk

Became the candlelight,

Then spit my words out.

Not too poor and not rich,

Had our house and we lived.

In the suburb of the city,

For going to school

I had to cross farms 

Of the fresh produce. 

There, among the gardens

Students were afraid

When alone, by ourselves.

My friend and guardian

Was my dog, she, female.

Punctual and well-behaved,

Strong, sharp, and brave.

Each morning’s school time 

She arrived right on time,

And waited near our house.

With the dogs’ smell sense 

She felt me on my way. 

Walked with me to the end

Of the walls of gardens.

Looked at me for goodbye,

Each of us had our job,

I headed for school,

She became a phantom…

When, at noon, I returned

She came and appeared

Like Jennie of the bottle.

She left me at home and

We parted to own lands.

A day came, by sunset

I heard her complain,

Went close and saw her.

Had gotten pregnant,

Was in pain of labor

But could not deliver.

Saw her bag was half out,

She breathed very hard.

The amniotic sac stuck,

She spoke with her eyes.

Too young, a schoolboy

Thought of a kitchen knife,

Saw a blade in the bathtub. 

The sac was for my cutting, 

The bag’s water was freed

And with it came the babies.

I, still see her thanks…

Grace to women

To whom I owe

They taught me

But…

Did I learn enough? 

Busy with Ezra Pound

And T. S. Elliot

The Cantos

And the Wasteland

...

I recall the works of

William Carlos William

And my professor

The Red Wheelbarrow

She talks of his poems

And about freckle

…

…

I see her

And see my mother

…

…

I picture them in my brain

Their enlarged pictures

Hung by memories’ nails

Are in large frames

There, far in the corners…

…

Their memories fly

In my head’s sky

…

…

I see them

In these words

The words, I read

…

…

And I read

And I read

…

…

From Ritual to Romance,

Imagism,

And that too is shattered.

…

…

And I hear

The shrapnel

Fall and scatter

…

…

And my mother 

Leans against a wall

And gives us advice

And Priscilla

Our professor

Faces us…

…

…

She talks of cuffs

And blinds of the dictators:

“They cannot tie the thoughts.”

…

…

And she talks of Tropes

Juxtaposing

And defining

Correctly

Short and concise

…

…

And I read

And I read

…

…

And love women

Mother and sisters

Teachers, professors

And my daughter,

And the lovers too…

After heat, long drought

The chilly wind arrived.

She stood, very firm,  

Half naked, uncovered,

Heavenly, full of colors

Attractive and silent.

Sun and I, two lovers,

Were in a race to own her.

With Sun’s rays in her hair,

Fell my jaw, mouth watered.

Jealously felt a shiver

And hated the sun’s rays.

Asked the clouds to come help

And save my scarlet, 

And wash her with the shower.

Poured and fell raindrops 

On my love’s silver arms.

Undressed my lady, 

The tree shed her leaves.

I stood and observed 

Her trunk, branches.

Her thigh, leg, pinnacles, 

Goddess she, stood there.

Her leaves or her dress

Soft, sweet, fully wet

Lied on the Mother Earth

Like the girl’s-soaked skirt.

eye-catching

Colorful, eye catching

I saw life in painting

Done by the best artist.

You know not the people

Unless you know them well.

The base and foundation 

To know them is Patience.

Think you are the center

In the oldest circle 

Of ages and cultures, 

Center loves borderless.

Normally my letters

Start with “Dear Sir.”

You, a mushroom, worthless 

In this world, are some hay

And do not have value,

So, say: “Hey.”

You the beast, the animal,

Call you ‘Hey,’ then stop, 

Why further, why go far?

Now listen, Khamenei,

I know you for decades,

from when has long past,

Then I fought the invaders.

Now, sitting, in old age

I look back and observe

That you and all mullahs

Are jackals and crows

Not lions and eagles.

I feel bad, embarrassed,

Lower head, I am ashamed,  

Keep asking this question:

“Why did you trust them?”

I remember your book 

That you wrote with friends. 

It covered good research

About the time that Islam

Newly born, was to rise.

Another was the book

On Iran’s Amir Kabir.

Then I thought you, also

Are the parts of Iran

And sadly, I was wrong.

Wonder if you recall

When you were in exile

In hardship, and in Khash!

Talk about the meaner,

Were you, then, treated

Similar, like these days?

Surely not,

Not at all.

Then we who were free

Did not like, disagreed

With arresting people

To support the dictator.

But simple honest, kind,

We ignored old advice:

“Power corrupts...”

These days you, a fool in power,

With absolute power “A leader?”

Are in power absolute, a corrupt.

Now, listen, you devil,

“Thank you,” I may say.

Mankind’s life is like a ball

It rotates and evolves, 

And brings days and nights.

Our ancient, rich history

With leaders like Jamshid 

Also, had Azhidehak, a Tazi.

He used the youths' brains,

Fed ferocious snakes, 

Made Fereidoon, Kaveh.

They brought peace and calm

Filled Iran with life, love,

Thank you Azhidehak.

In 1342,

Then I was sixteen and

A student and doctor…

Of course, had no degree

My work was from needs

In my life and the patients.

I worked in the pharmacy,

Bought and sold medicine,

Stitched, did the dressings,

Injected both I. M. and I. V. 

Once boss called, asking me: 

“G to, the Shahbaz Street

And alleys for the shootings.”

I jumped on the bicycle,

Was very fast, peddled.

Saw the grocer of Shahbaz

And the police with the gun.

The grocer closed his shop, 

Decide to leave, run,

Find a place, safe, and hide.

The bullets of the police 

Riddled that grocery.

Teenager and an adventurer

I biked and went farther, 

Sought for more, and excess. 

Though had seen Coup d'état

When I was six, or five,

And had been beaten hard

In my head, legs, and arms,

Was eager to find their cause. 

Finally, I ended

At the bazaar, where people

Had amassed in numbers.

They shouted slogans

With flags roaming around,

Watched a truck with bricks

Stop, and offload cargo.

Some broke the bricks

Some threw the stones

At the police by an arch.

The police were grouped

Wore helmets and to gear,

Armed, ready, well-settled.

I saw that one object 

Hit and hurt one of them. 

The injured turned around,

His index toward his boss,

Seemed to say in anger:

“Allow me to shoot them.”

Suddenly around me

Fell people, as if wheat

Cut by a sickle, a machine.

Blood covered the street,

Injured were plenty…

Motorbikes, tricycles

And many vehicles

Took the injured away

From the guards, police.

The rebels knew of the law:

“Let the injured lie to die,

Here or in the hospitals,

Then a dig pond, bury them,

In a huge mass grave.”

With many killed, escaped

The ember was ash-covered.

Prisoned and exiled

And many lost their jobs,

Some ended worlds around.

The revolving Earth, Sun 

Saw the years go and come.

In Iran, around the Shah,

Slaves-likes kept bowing,

The corrupt were massing,

Both happy and unhappy.

We read books secretly,

Wrote in codes and hiding. 

Came 1357

The phoenix retained life 

And loud-voiced slogans 

Sparked, boiled in a shout:

“Martyrdom and the jihad.”

Now, again, I am there 

Like when I was sixteen, 

Six or five, and between

And beaten by the police  

Injured nose, and bleeding.

Now watch me in the mirror,

Feel like seeing a big bear, 

Full of care, brainless.

My friend is asleep,

And a fly bothers him

It hovers over him...

Intending to hush the fly, 

I go and find a huge rock

To hit and kill the insect,

But I kill my friend, instead!

The copper is replaced, 

In cables, by fiber.

The fiber is made of,

Partially, plastic,

Covered with plastic,

The NAP is plastic,

The box is plastic,

To open conduits,

Rotors are plastic…

I doubt that a worker,

Engineer or simple,

To the truck drivers

That work to earn bread,

Can have time or knowledge

To think of plastic!

Media and the experts

Speak; are permanent

In talking of Oxide,

Monoxide, dioxide,

And smoke in the air

Pollution, death of Earth.

What about the questions:

“What made oil? Origin?”

I, the child of Iran

(The second gas owner,

And an oil exporter,)

Think that oil is ancient

World, nature, ancestors

That died and are extinct,

When buried, compressed,

They became the crude base. 

I observe that people

Concerned are about oil, 

What about plastic?

Will that too be extinct?

For years, lived in Dubai,

What if I had remained

And dealt with the tires,

Spare parts, Mercedes.

Wonder if would have guts 

To do what I have done.

Was helpful to the others

With the trucks, storage,

Exchanging the labels

On the items purchased 

From those forbidden,

Like the United States.

We ordered, printed 

New and false labels. 

Saw the Tehran’s mullahs

As donkeys, a few dumb, 

We repacked the items

And put in containers

With new manifests

And shipped them to Iran.

Brainless has a tongue 

To bray, howl, bark.

Said no to fax machines

To toughen censoring, 

Kill the nation’s liberty.

I opposed such choking 

So joined in smuggling.

I bought and imported

Many parts for buyers

Forced into a darkness 

To converse in silence,

By signal and cyphered, 

Send info, add knowledge.  

We, unlike politicians,

Kremlin to Europe,

Washington, U.S.A.

Do not bomb to murder,

Talk of peace, are friends.

We are five, a mixture

Of Iran and Ukraine,

A combined, Norwegian. 

Combined asks:

“Which blood?”

Has roots in the Vikings 

And Ireland, Scotland, 

To France and German, 

And Cree, Ojibway,

Comanche and Mohawk.

We are all united

In oneness, borderless.

To know where you head for,

Natives say: “You must know

Whereabout that you are…”

Far better is knowing 

The base you came from. 

A young girl saw and filmed

George Floyd under the knee.

Video went viral,

And shivered the spine

Of rulers in the White House.

A young girl named Mahsa 

Was murdered, lost her life

Based on the laws of mullah.

Her death has done the same,

It broke the silence

And shattered the mountains, 

Rolled them down the rivers.

No more girls are afraid

Of the mullah’s turbans. 

Wish I was a painter

With brush and canvas.

If I were I would paint

One huge rock mortar,

Like ours in the village.

It would be from rock,

Majestic, a well-carved, 

Quite large like a pond,

Sat the people around it.

Inside it poured almonds,

And colored shells brown.

Everyone would have a

Long stone as a hammer

To break almond shells

And take out the kernel.

This is what people did

For work, fun in winter.

In this way summer work

Would finish in the winter.

Spring would be a time

To sell those to market.

There, life meant rotation

For the Sun, for the Earth.

Life is greater and simpler

For farmers and shepherds

In the farms and mountains.

I would be one of them

Had I not left the village

For the survival courses

That made me an officer,

From whom made a pilot.

 It was some cold winter

And we lived in the village.

At home as a small child,

I heard my mother’s call,

Emphasizing my name.

I ran and looked at her,

She asked for some carrots.

During the fifties,

No freezer, fridge,

Natural was storing.

Went to the veranda 

And stared at our yard,

Everywhere, everything

Was under snow, white.

My body felt the chill

And shivered my spine.

Saw every farm, garden,

And plain, and mountain

White and snow-covered.

Saw the brides on canvas, 

Snow-White, flawless,

The clouds in the skies 

Held sugar, meant to grind.

I recall that picture,

See snow particles 

Floating in cold air.

No longer, see, hear

Around me the jackals,

Nor foxes, nor eagles.

Wild mammals are scarce,

Nature beats on her chest.

I, a boy, four or five

Obeyed mum, went outside,

Then headed for the plot

Where my dad buried, dug

For the beetroots, turnips

And potatoes, carrots.

Using my small hands 

I brushed the snow 

And frozen mud earth,

Came steams, and I felt

It smelled nice and fresh.

Looking back, remember

Way of life in the village,

I miss that simplicity.

Now, here, in the city

Drive and go shopping

In packs are everything.

Frozen, canned, in bags,

On them have the stamp:

“Produced, expires…”

I pick and throw them

In the cart, pulp paper,

Unhappy, then murmur:

“Ignore it, what the hell, 

Close eyes on this mess!”

Miss bushes, flowers

And flights of the birds

And the wolves and tigers,

And the midnights’ howls.

Miss pure white snow

In flakes and powder

And storms, blizzards!

Hate living in pampers, 

Love living like braves.

News says: “Cousin died.”

His name was Seifollah.

We have met, in our lives

Far less than fifty times,

But still, share blood.

And I think,

And I read.

In Iran war goes on

The youths against mullahs.

And I think,

And I read.

And I wish I did not,

And I wish I could not.

Easily I accept:

“Ignorance is bliss.”

How I wish I was deaf,

How I wish I was dumb.

Hear this every day: 

“Living is too bitter,

For the old, and aware, 

When lacking everything!”

And still, crazy, 

Keep thinking, 

And reading,

And writing! 

How I wish was like her,

A colleague named Karen.

She thinks she is the world

And others don’t matter.

She swears and gossips,

Selfishly sells her colleagues.

And of course, believes in

Being the best, most perfect.

By the windshield of her truck

She has hung a black cross.

Has tattoos on both arms,

One for dad, one for the dog. 

She wants all for herself, 

Does not care for neighbors.

Limited in knowledge 

Knows of cones, delineators,

Thinks she is some professor. 

Ignorance is bliss.

Ignorance is bliss.

Wonder why those like me

Read Dante's Inferno

And Milton’s Paradise

And the past until now

Oppositions, left and right

To the heavens and stars

And about the nations,

Continents, Black and White

To Gulag, Siberia,

To Kremlin and Peking,

Da Vinci in the Louvre, 

And Catherine’s Hermitage.

Ignorance is bliss.

Ignorance is bliss.

Ignorance is bliss.

But still, crazy, 

Keep thinking, 

And reading,

And writing! 

With Iran at the top

Of news, I am kebab.

I read and receive calls

Exposing: “Brave Girls, 

Losing lives, sacrifice.”

Some take it as news,

Some read the slogans,

See writings on the wall.

I shiver and recall

Rebels of old revolts.

I remember bullets,

I observed men, women

I saw the mosque, crowds

And saw deaths and injured. 

I miss my classmate, 

Bahardoost disappeared

When we were children.

I saw the innocent, 

I talked with unaware

During, after shah.

To record all of them 

Or to write about them

I may need the forests

And many, many birds

To make tons of paper

As well as quills to pen.

One of them is Ebi,

Friend of many years.

We met at Air Force Base

Then, became officers,

And flew Hercules

And became good friends.

One morning, in Tehran,

Went to squadron…

Everyone was silent,

I said hi, no answer.

I became suspicious

Till kind of overheard 

Ebi’s name, a whisper.

Soon after discovered

That was shot by rangers,

Puppets of government.

Asked about whereabouts

Nobody knew, talked…

Someone said hospital,

I jumped into my car.

Drove fast, non-stop,

A foot in, a foot out

Was among a crowd.

Everyone was searching

For their loss, were worried.

Each had lost somebody

To the guns and shooting

Of the monsters, Sepahis!

Wearing my flight suit

Most people respected

And led me to a nurse.

On the pole nearby

A list had many names

Ebi was among them…

I spoke with one nurse,

Politely, and questioned

About what had happened

To my old, old friend…

He made it clear

That Ebi was killed, dead.

His body with corpses

Was sent to the coroner.

He would be buried as 

Apostate and worthless!

Promptly, thought in mind, 

Had to rush and decide.

Called Mansoor Khotami

The head of personnel

And told him that Ebi,

Has been shot, is a victim.

Smart and clever

My friend, the major,

Helped us like an angel.

He sent the ambulance, 

Removed and transferred

The cold body of my friend

To the Air Force headquarter. 

I shifted direction

To face the collision

With Ebi’s co-thinkers.

He was a communist,

Had gone to raise a fist

To help the mullahs end,

But we said something else.

“He went there to buy milk 

For the daughter, baby, 

And was aimed by mistake,

So, he is a martyr…”

His uncles, brothers

Kissed me and accepted.

Tavarishes and comrades, 

Scolded me and cursed.

We arranged many to

Follow him to the grave.

I broke, raised my voice,

Shouted at the murderers.

Mohammad, our friend

Took me to the distance

Far from the earth, grave.

I saw the hands and legs,

Not buried, no owners,

The bodies were butchered!

Can ever write all these?

Will ever? Shall I? Will?

Many things, for too long,

During, after shah,

World around, in Iran,

During peace and war…

To do so need ocean

For the ink and all birds

For quills, and forests

For making the papers!

I saw my classmate

Go away, disappear,

And remember teacher

Insulted as the suspect

And I saw that the bricks

Were taken, broken

Then thrown at gunners.

Then, police with the guns 

Using their firearms, 

Shot people to the ground,

Killed, injured, and in blood.

Born in mountains, village

And live in Vancouver,

Have seen lots of changes.

The start was one culture,

Now life is expanded,

Bundled are languages…

Many ask: “Which is the best?”

I repeat my answer: “It depends.”

Change skin, live like them, 

Use your heart with changes. 

Everyday test myself,

Looking in the mirror,

Verify my judgment.

Compare shelters, chalets,

Tepee life with the castle,

A horse cart, with a plane.

Then smile and answer:

“It depends.”

When thinking about bed, 

“On the bus, in a hotel?”

“In a desert or in a cave?”

“On a rock, on the water?”

And smile once again:

“It depends.”

Think of meals, digestion,

Restaurant? In the kitchen?

Recall life in the village

With roosters as rulers. 

The pigeons turned teachers:

“Equal is a woman with a man.”

In a film festival 

Some actors of the world, 

Italians and French; many more 

Sympathized with the girls in Iran…

Took scissors,

Cut their hair.

I think of the Parker,

Cynthia, 

And the myths,

As well as the history

Of great and ancient old Iran…

Farangis, a Turkic Princess

Married the Iranian Siavash,

Good looking man of peace.

Powerful, crazy, his father 

Was king and risk taker…

Two fathers, dreamers,

Enemies forever…

Long after we see that Cynthia

Is married to Peta Nocona…

She was White, Christian,

He, savage Comanche, pagan.

Both husbands were killed by

Families of their wives,

And women cut their hair!!!

Today’s fights, resistance 

Seem to be the exact same

In behaving, movements. 

Wonder if girls, women

Who brave and cut hair

Know of past character! 

This is not a poem

It is an honest letter.

My letter is open, 

Addresses the leader!

Truly, is a leader?

Or a mean dictator?

Our demon, murderer,

Walks the path of Hitler.

Possibly remembers

Time of Shah, freedom

As well as advancements.

I taught in the Air Force,

Wore beard, had long hair 

And saw my students’

Worrisome, the wandered,

Came to me and sought help.

The night before, general

Gun in hand, came fired,

Arrested eight cadets.

“Freedom, freedom,”

Shouted their classmates.

Iron-Guard was outside

Fully armed, with trucks.

Soldiers had to obey

Whatever master said.

Hear me, you, soldiers, 

A bullet left the muzzle,

And kissed some guardian,

Splashed head, shoulder, 

Arrested were the leaders 

The nation was a winner,

That day is “The D-day.”  

It is hard
Hard to write
To write of
Childhood
School
Growth
Migration
And migration
And migration
With no destination.

No firm settlement
Unless like a particle
Of the dust in the air.

The end can be, desert
Or in a cemetery, a grave.

Maybe not even that
Maybe in a river
Or possibly
In a sea, in an ocean
Or under a tree
Or, if unlucky, in a bin
The bin of garbage
Somewhere,
And still in migration.

I recall
Being a farm boy,
Not going to school
Though we had one.

Father wanted me to
Be like my brother.

He lived in the city
But came home to visit.

He talked of the school
And taught me the letters.

Encouraged me
to repeat the English alphabet.

He, proudly, had me repeat them,
And I did so, as do the parrots.

And I knew nothing of them
And I was a chimpanzee!

But homeschooling
Taught me the Koran
And know not how!

Maybe I had talent,
Maybe was intelligent,
Maybe my parents,
Maybe from the birds,
Or thanks to the earth,
Or the mountains,
Or maybe the fresh air.

How?
Know not!

Came time for migration,
Thanks to the flood
And thanks to the clouds
That looked the same
Like thunderstorm,
But I know them now.

Clouds are different
With different names
The mushroom ones,
The watery ones,
The Cumulus,
The nimbus!

Then, in the summer,
We were camping
And came rain
As come the locusts.

We had plucked the fruits,
Had halved the apricots,
Had removed the pits,
And laid their flesh,
Laid on the mattresses
Made of the wheat stalks
To dry for the wintertime.

But the clouds?

And I
A boy of around five
Was beheaded
And transported
Like a Christmas tree.

I was never the same
Never again...
Now, decorated
With the ornaments
Like the bulbs,
The cane candies,
The angels,
I had many birds.

What about the demons?
And the devils?
They exist
Though not shown
And are hardly talked of
Except in the
Religious books
And by the ministers.

The minister who
Want us to do
As they say
Not as they do!

And in the city
I was not taught
Absent were the words
And I grasped them
Thanks to observation!

And I,
A five-year-old boy
Worked
In the bazaar
For the metal smith
And for the cooper.

We half-filled the
Copper pots with gravel
And added water
Then stepped in them.

And a sort of danced
Which was not dance
But cleaning the germs.

Later, the master
Took the cotton
With the lead
And…

And shined the inside,
Silver like!
And I worked for
The hat maker...

We soaked the wool
In the liquid with soap...
And mended the chinaware.

And worked for a shoe seller.

And the flood
Had caused famine
And Iran got help
From others.

And I learned about the politics
Without knowing the politics
And I learned that shah
Or his men
Were puppets of the USA.

They were some clowns
That live in Washington.

I saw them not
Learned that those
In the politics
Are scarlets
Like those in brothels.

And again migration
After a coup
Against an elected Prime Minister
By the US puppets!
And still
No schooling
Except for the school of life
That had forced me to refuge.

And in Tehran
Working in a grocery shop
I was beaten like a dog.
I learned from the insults
Aimed at me by the city boys.

And my tool to fight was
My village-oriented body,
Strong and fearless.
I learned to work
Like a muscle
And fight like a tiger.

And grew strong
And was accepted
Even adored
As smart.
Limited by my duties
To work
And by age
I was led to a night school.

And my classmates were old
Some, as old as dad
Mostly, older than my brothers.

And the words
In the textbooks
Were difficult for me
And for my age
They were for mature
And about the city
And about the police
And about the gendarmes.

And my master was my brother
Owner of the grocery shop...

He broke the lid of a pencil
In my right small finger,
Out of anger.

And there
One of our neighbors was
The principle of
A primary school...

He insisted that I should be
Permitted to go to school.

Once again,
More experienced,
A few years older,
I became a victim of another
Refuge and another migration.

I landed in the village,
Somehow with myself
And with my older sister.

She was engaged
And followed the culture,
Better not to travel.

Our mother
With her brood scattered
In different cities and places
Took care of her children.

Her other children
Scattered around.

And father worked
No more for himself
But for the others.

And I saw my parents
Only when available,
Randomly,
And on occasions,
Whenever, if ever!

I attended school,
According to my age,
I was in third grade,
Not a first grader...

And I had no textbook,
I could not afford it
So, followed my brother,
The school-going one,
Ahmad is my role model.

I trained students
The less smart ones,
Those with the books.
That was the foundation of
Many future schools,
More teachers
And more mentors,
More learning,
And more supporters.

And then came
Degrees and diplomas.

Rest of tale for later. 

Imagine having walked

For very, very long,

In distance, and in time.

Too tired, exhausted,

You sit and squat,

Lean against a mud wall.

Too grand, wide sky,

You look at the clouds.

Suddenly, Zoroaster

Speaks of Ahura,

In art form, dust, brush.

A painting on a wall

Forms a huge mural

And in it, you crawl.

Rushes in your teacher,

You, the young student

Listen to what she says.

She recites a poem

On crow and eagle.

Injected with pride

You fly to skies…

You flap wings, soar high,

And lift the mural

Like the eagle, she taught.

Now, you the small dot

Become ash on ember!

Breeze comes,

Egg hatches,

A phoenix,

Your picture,

Soars; climbs.

Curious, we had gone,

For learning how to fight,

Neither with gun, nor knife.

Too learned were mentors, 

Expanded our knowledge.

We, silent and polite

In the lanes, on the ground,

Sat and lent our ears,

Overheard the motorbikes.

The riders made much noise,

Like these days in Iran

The audience felt uncalm.

The bikers of mullahs

Using chains, attacked us.

Some, like me, hid leaflets,

Most others chose escapes.

A baker gave shelter:

“He is our customer.”

There, I in safety,

Observed the escapees

Behind them rode bandits.

Home after a tough day,

Meant to rest; go to bed.

Suddenly came a call

From the hospital…

The nurse said, secretly:

“Come here urgently…”

I went there and lifted

The injured wife’s sister, 

Saving her from the grave. 

Unlike his ancestors,

Is free, not slave…

But he is enslaved,

Jamaican, for shelter.

Here, he works two shifts

Late at night, then morning.

His blood African

Does not know Africa.

Autumn is the season 

Of the moody changes.

It makes me recall the

Go-go dance with beer, 

Evenings of Wednesday.

Silently I observe 

King, queen, pretend

To be the greatest.

Am aware of the Fall, 

Brutal, waves goodbye

To the sun, summertime

And invites grey clouds.

Fearsome brings death, 

To mothers of jungles, 

Adding to the grievance. 

They go on a strike,

Not to feed any child.

The trees, now shameless, 

Duplicate the Sirens 

Of the myths, of oceans. 

Odyssey of Homer

Reveals the Circe’s way 

Of singing for the lovers.

She dressed scarlet 

Like clowns on canvas.

Most trees do the same

Show skin, strip,

To welcome the autumn. 

They drop all the leaves 

In the dancing breeze,

In the shower, or in wind.

In the mirror of my car,

The one on the left side,

The trees looked many,

Mostly pine, evergreen.

One branch was leafless,

Like some reed, straight.

On it sat a calm bird,

Head to tail in feather 

Brownish and covered. 

Both of us kept silent,

Curiosity was endless.

I remembered Carlos,

William’s wheelbarrow. 

The night was very dark,

The buzzer rang too long, 

On my phone, a message

Showed an Amber alert!

Another Dawn Walker, 

The kidnapper is a mother.

A mother risking her life

Means to find or unite

With her lost dear child.

These women take me to 

That woman, the Bulgar.

Back at home, a lawyer, 

Now was an immigrant,

In Toronto, jobless, 

Struggled like loners, 

And always lost battles.

Diagnosed bipolar,

“Is unfit,” said a judge:

“To care for children!”

The judges and lawyers

Can deprive the mothers

To see their children…

What are such words but sound?

Out of mouths, written, carved?

Who talks of right and wrong?

Who dictates, who decides?

In my veins boils the blood,

As if the wind in high clouds:

“Who is an elder, judge

To decide, set the laws?”

One showed me a blind

With scale, on the wall:

“Law is carved on a rock

Feeling less, with no heart!”

Amelia was a McLean

Abd authored a great book.

Her words are priceless, 

To me the Torah, or Bible.

They speak of the past,

Is research about facts.

It shows us the plains

And the lovely people.

Rebels of the Frog Lake, 

In time, took her hostage. 

Settlers’, Whites’ papers

And the rulers, soldiers, 

Added the salt, pepper,

Kept fanning war’s fire

And blamed the Indians.

Lies were told, scattered:

“A mother, her daughters

Are forced to undress

And raped by Red-Savage.”

Shocked women, children,

Heard nothing but whispers 

And believed the governors.

Long after the dust settled,

Hostages resurfaced,

Were kept in the barricade.

Her father needed the job

So, talked for Hudson Bay

And walked with ministers.

She got married, a woman,

Changed McLean to Pagent 

And wrote about the plains.

With the Taliban

In nineteen-ninety-nine

Forcefully left Iran,

Lived amongst Taliban!

Was afraid, on the run, 

No permit to read, write,

Left good past far behind.

Remembered my stars

On shoulders, and flights

Over the Persian Gulf…

Recalled the Dhofar’s fights 

Between the left and right

And Iran was involved!

I was a dog, of the dog,

Liaison officer

In Oman and Amman,

We pleased Pentagon!

Fell the Shah off the thrown

And came time for mullahs,

We became the milk cows

For vulture, jackal, fox, 

They lied and blamed us: 

“Are agents for abroad!!!”

The ancient VIP 

Lives like the rats and mice,

And his age has made walls,

Feel ignored, seen as none.

Most news that read, watch

Dilute the wrong with junk.

Trump went, came Biden

To spend more taxes, 

Threatens non-Yankees 

With drones and bombers.

Early in the morning

Walking dogs are masters

And we are near a church

With parking that charges.

He sleeps coverless

His cart is full of junk.

I stop and stare

In my heart am concerned

Inside me run questions:

“With wealthy government

We have homeless here,

How can we accept it?”

Broken, with tears

Go away, am hopeless.

Most pages are covered

by Queen’s

Articles and pictures…

In my mind, things differ

See many in the jails

And a boy is shot dead

In Iran’s revolution…

Palace guns aim at the air

He was shot with a bullet…

She lived on our money

His murder caused pity.

Pregnant, his mother

Went to and attended

A wedding that ended.

Everyone clapped, sang

And the guard, a young lad

On a road, Tehran’s night,

Kept shouting, said: “Stop!”

Nobody heard, nor cared

Out of gun, ran bullet,

Landed in the boy’s head

On mum’s lap, his brain!!!

Everywhere I glaze, 

Miseries are framed, 

See movie theatres,

Of velvet are curtains. 

Silently, sit, observe

Hers and his behaviors,

Feel drowned in wonders. 

The poor boy, innocent, 

Fell to the meanest death,

But Queen’s is a question! 

It is hard to write right,

Be honest, and forward.

Politics kills thousands,

And people are silenced.

With a keyboard and a mouse,

I raise my voice, want to shout.

The world knows, is aware

Of the Cree brothers 

That stabbed in a rampage.

I stop, use my mind,

Full of tears are my eyes,

My heart beats like a drum,

Keeps singing its death song.

What happened?

Why? And the cause?

Soars eagle in the sky,

Flaps wings:

“Why? Why? Why?”

Kids were born in reserve,

No school, future,

Deprived feels is in jail,

Watched TV’s daily shows

Saw actors, red carpets

And dreamt of success…

Traveled and researched,

As a guest have mingled

With the poor, rich people

In their tents and castles,

And deeply feel them.

Journalists and papers,

Egoistic, seeking fame,  

Print wrong on a canvas. 

Stalin choked the cultures

Of the colonized Soviets,

On flame books of ancient

Heated the baths to houses,

To the time of Gorbachev...

Capitalists, Westerners, 

In surface talk of help, 

To turn Marx into ashes

By killing the Soviets…

No one talks of borders,

New flags and anthems,

Ukraine is an exception.

Media, governments

Are the vicious vultures, 

Their hands are extended

For taxes, donations, 

To shed the blood of others 

In the distanced borders,

And hide facts, sweep them

Right beneath the carpet.

As a friend to victims

I try to help them

To fight these disasters.

Media, governments,

Expand on the angles

That keeps us blinded.

Among the examples

Have Soroush, a poet.

He was born on a border,

Of the Tajiks, and Uzbeks.

The flags and the anthems

Took his home and father.

Such were the stabbers!

Grandma, great Earth, 

Forgive me, am guilty.

Yesterday, tied a knot

On a bag, in it cobs,

Corn skin and greens.

Grandma, I know well,

Was your food, I waisted,

Threw them in the garbage.

Feel like two brothers,

Cornered, raised in a Reserve.

Men stabbed and murdered,

Embarrassed their nations!

Of nations says, Russel:

“The cultures were murdered 

When tepees were lowered, 

And the poles made ashes!”

 On roads with slogans,

We spoke, fists were high

All were young, very sure:

“We revolve and are right…”

And we were,

In some mirrors,

Dream-likes…

Emblem, Lion-Sun,

On passports of Iran

Stood firm and proud.

Traveled near, far, 

Both inland and abroad.

Visited the Yankees,

Europeans, Japanese.

Adored their governments 

And the laws they obeyed: 

“Live free, equal.”

Our laws were in reverse:

“Must obey the leader

With closed eyes, ears,

And ankles in shackles.” 

On roads, our slogans

Were bullets from hearts,

Shouted with our fists high.

Like snakes and reptiles

We crept, went forward,

By mistake said yes to

An old, exiled mullah…

Met a man, elderly,

Quiet and polite.

To me, he was Khayyam

Lit the torch in the dark:

“Great is boiling pot

And smells very nice

Till removed is its lid.” 

The news explains:

“Alone, on the veranda.”

Possibly, praised God

Of his faith, his Allah,

Grateful for his life.

Far away, very far,

A person flew a drone. 

And Biden, President,

Did the same as Trump:

“Killing is justified!”

Study the history

Of the US armies

Reminds me of school.

The page of a textbook

Had a poem in Farsi,

It spoke of Jesus…

He observed a murder,

Kept biting his finger,

Politely, he questioned

The fallen, recent dead:

“Why committed murder?” 

We listened to the teacher

Recited that poem.

The poem was our lesson:

“The crimes are like chains, 

Murderers are murdered!”

Hiroshima, Korea,

Vietnam, Cuba,

Then Afghan to Iraq!

U. S. A. kills worldwide

I question Jesus-like??? 

All three are comets,

Respected as God sent…

Inti and Manitou, are Allah

But varied are the tongues. 

They, all, mean the builder,

First maker, Creator…

All three, do somehow

Talk about mankind’s thoughts.

Right from being born

Until leaving this world

Eagerly we question,

Hoping to find an answer!

Comets of the skies

Have a lot to tell us:

“Study, open minds.”

We, dream, want to know

Intihuatana, Manitou Asinîy,  

Black Stone is Kaaba 

To help know how and why.

I was born, raised Muslim,

Dad and I were friends,

His single request:

“Go for the pilgrimage.”

I loved dad and miss him,

With his death, am happy,

Now, can ignore Hejaz

And Adam-Eve altar.

Black Stone, all comets

Arrived hot and bright, 

Lost the heat to the time, 

Changed color chemicals,

Not sins that mullah saya.

Many of those my age

Sit back, lean, and lecture:

“I have seen, know better.”

I remain a student

Listen to my teachers

Their claim is simple:

“Vary age and knowledge.”

Thanks to their experience:

“Even donkeys, camels,

If walking the same trails,

Recognize, rough, softness.”

Question them about flights

Using wings, and or glides:

“Did you use a bird’s eye?

Did you look at every side?”

Most of them were stuck!

With fuzzy and white hair

They sit and rock the chair 

Aimlessly, roaming around 

Like the wind in mountains,

Keep whining, exclaims…

I look at heights, crests,

And see most governments

Corrupted with stench…!

Ukraine is in the blood

To ensure selling arms

And Putin, and Beijing

Fan the fires, egoists!

On a tree by the pond,

I see deer mesmerized.

It fears the crocodile

But hunts it jaguar.

Yes, I know the hunger

And know of children

And bread and butter.

I know well

I know well

I know well

I, also, know smiths

And metals, and cooper.

Know about the horseshoe

And sabers and daggers

As well as guns, gunners,

And drones, air fighters…

Luck is with unaware

Ignorant has bliss…

You go, work every day

To get rid of hunger,

Must feed your children.

But have you, 

Ever looked?

At your work and others?

What purpose has the nail?

What comes of the horseshoe?

What targets have bombers?

Well, they kill,

Shed blood,

Runs blood

Like water…

Harvests are

Hate, murder,

Hate, murder,

Are harvests!

There are words

That I hate…

Or dislike…

Distance them!

The worst is:

“Trespass!”

What the hell!?

What is this?

On my birth

No one talked

Of borders

Of genders

Of masters

And slaves!

I sure hate the imposed:

“This is mine, that is yours!”

I hate God if he said:

“This is yours, that is theirs!”

Mum was fooled

Took air in

Pushed me out

Came to world

With lies, tales!

Want to leave

On my own

No talk of:

The “Mine, your!”

All are mine

And are yours,

Pee on all the borders

Trespass and genders!

Had heard but after years, 

Finally, I have learned

The Persian proverb:

“The police are able

To catch thieves,

Of the egg, not camel!”

Ebi, my late friend

Think of you with beer

In frozen glass…

Remember the Folsom,

In that shop with pizza

We drank cold beer

In frozen glass…

Remember Lake Tahoe

We swam full naked.

Oh, those days

Oh, those days

With you, now, out of sight

With you, dead, I alone,

Sorry if made mistake,

The mullahs’ murderers’

Bullet went in your head,

In my palm your bran…

Recall the late sixties,

The early seventies

And behaving Hippy,

Opposing Vietnam’s

Washington-Moscow war, 

I followed Joan Baez, 

And many other songs

Like “Give me F, U…K,

And what is the spell?”

To those songs, I listen

But alone, 

Feel the absence

Of the good old friends.

Hitchhiking was normal,

People were very kind, 

Is your world after death

As mean as it is mine?

In less than my fingers 

Will hit the road, travel.  

Plan to go around, 

On the road to see towns.  

Dislike the GPS 

Follow the nose, nature.  

Want to be lost again 

Love being a child again.  

Rendezvoused with a road, 

Crossed legs, we spoke: 

“Let it be like before.”