Shoot

Great are Twilight and darkness,

They help us to think and create.

Blackness, shadows, shades,

Parented the dread and fear.

Thanks to the dictators, 

We have learned survival,

To mimic the chameleons. 

The thick chains and shackles,

And the bombs and rockets,

With nooses, and gallows,

Showed us to camouflage.

They have and do tell us:

“Cautiously walk forward,

Be too short, yet concise!”

Twilight with darkness

Told us how to create,

Ambiguous, ambiguous.

If I were an artist,

With brush and canvas,

I would take the pencil,

And drew the contours,

Of very tall mountains,

Sun rising behind them.

Would get lost in colors,

And many, many shades,

Silver, pink, too deep red.

Then I would squat,

And stare at the sun,

Adore it’s coming up.

This would do if I were,

Master of the colors.

But I am a poet,

And with words, I play.

We play hide and seek,

School friends are in me.

I see words like comets,

Scare on arrival, 

Then, fade and go away. 

The Mountain

If compared with the Earth,

Is one dot…

In writing the letters,

Of many, many tongues,

There are dots.

With a dot misplaced,

Everything faces change.

A simple example,

The Tar, Bar,

And the par, 

And the Nar,

In Farsi, or Persian,

All, are of two letters,

Every dot causes change.

Too many books are there,

They speak of Spain,

Through seas and mountains:

“Victorious, conqueror.”

The writers were rulers,

And many religious,

And some in business.

If not all, most of them,

Lied and lied in excess.

Guaman Poma of Andes,

An unknown, until then,

Was a dot discovered,

With him came the changes,

On Incas and Spain…

Washington, USA,

Killed, stole, and hid the, 

Bells of the Balangiga Church, 

Bodies of Bin Laden, and El Che. 

Many write of Arabs,

And many, of Islam.

History has it wrong,

Neither one, neither one.

Their success has a root,

Injustice, injustice, injustice.

The Romans, Persians,

And others at that time,

Faced rulers and leaders,

That did wrong, injustice.

The people were tired:

“God, please send others.”

Clear was the case,

“Change, change, change,”

Not the “Who?” “From where?”

The message from a cave,

Was sweet, sounded well,

No one thought of the seif,

And the nomads on horses,

For killings and murders.

We witness very same, 

Injustice, injustice, injustice…

Everywhere is the same,

In Iran, and U. S.

In Russia, and Ukraine,

Asia and Europe…

Young and old, all genders,

All cultures, continents,

We are bored and tired,

Of false laws and bad faiths,

Must be one, rise for change, 

World needs peace and justice.

This is for a Totem in B.C.!

All seekers of power,

Repeated, Said the same:

“Make your world far better.”

The tellers wore garments,

Of soldiers, and the faiths.

And they lied,

All of them!!!

By looking at the Tsars,

Kings, Queens, and Royals,

Emperors, and their kind,

Popes, bishops, Rabbis,

And the Muftis, mullahs.

One can see,

They, all, lie!!!

“Scorch,” the truth,

A mother leaves her Will, 

For the son and daughter:

“Find father, brother…”

And we see how bitter, 

Are the rape and torture,

Abuse of child soldiers.

After years, a century,

A totem in B.C.,

Left museum, is returned,

To owners (First Nations.)

The chief says:

“Museums are like residential schools.”

I agree and approve,

What about the children?

And the bones exported?

(Boiled to lose fat, flesh!!!)

Hearing USA, Soviet, 

Reminds me of that Fair, 

And the Eagle and the Bear. 

Encountered a woman,

When I went to attend, 

To enjoy my weekend.

I with my classmates

In Lackland AF Base,

Studied, were settled. 

I, unlike most of them,

Wished to go discover,

Lifestyles, and people.

Somehow went to the Fair,

Threw balls at the bottles,

Was amused and played.

Heard a woman behind me,

She whispered like whining:

“You are dumb and crazy!!!”

Turning around I saw her,

Young, she was pregnant,

Targeted, addressed me!!!

When we talked, my anger,

Easily, was replaced,

With calm and eagerness.

Spoke of her father:

“The U.S.-Soviets 

Behave like two eagles!” 

I felt child with a nanny,

Listened to her stories:

“The eagles lay two eggs,

After hatch, one of them,

For living, kills the other!”

I was a young cadet,

Too new to States,

Suspicious and afraid.

Dignified, confident,

She spoke, I, silent,

Lipstick was her pen,

And tissue, her paper.

Got me to her address,

Soon, the door was open,

She smiled, and I entered. 

She was poor, and furniture,

Was handmade and wooden, 

White covers, with cushions.

Am glad, feel lucky,

A teacher showed me the

Ugly sides of U.S.

Filthy rich are many,

And simple, plenty.

The journals, media,

Are liars and corrupt,

They polish the news,

To fool and brainwash.

Look at Buch Cassidy,

And walking in the rain.

See sales of armament,

Made by the murderers,

Vampires drink blood,

Of Ukraine, and Russia.

They were, both, Soviet,

Thrown out of the nest,

Are injured and in pain,

Then arrives Joe Biden,

For fanning war’s flame!

Living life in own shell,

May decrease problems,

Sure, with less pleasure.

Attractive is a garden, 

With varied flowers,

Free birds break shells.

In Turkey, an earthquake

Killed thousands of people,

And those of Damascus

Felt almost the same pain…

But blind was papers,

And those of newscast.

Ignored poor, the News,

But next door, Israel,

Sent a bomb to kill more.

Oh, yellow journalists!?

Study Cuba, Manila,

Also, Maine and Spain,

They show and explain,

The games of journalists! 

Oh, yellow journalists!?

Newborn, a baby USA,

Was against big Spain,

As the killer dictators.

Had opposed Britain,

Now, stood to Spain.

And yellow journalists?

Dreamland was just born,

People had consciousness,

Many were hard workers.

With news, politicians,

Ideas were not the same!

Study Cuba, Manila,

Also, Maine and Spain,

They show and explain,

The games of journalists! 

Lena is a friend,

Her blood, of Ukraine.

She called me,

Asked for help.

I replied and answered:

“For sure am available.”

Then arrived a text message,

From Maya, her friend.

After a while, I found out, 

Her husband disappeared,

Was wounded in the front!

Now, the wife of a soldier,

The missing in the action.

And I wrote to Maya:

“I respect our Lena.”

Borderless I am and,

Have friends in Russia,

And Europe, Asia…

What can I do or say,

If she is full of hate?

How can I listen to,

Her if insults, curses?

I must act like oceans,

Spacious with patience.

Does she know and accept?

What if she rejects them?

It is hard, yet love-filled,

To have deep friendships,

With many, borderless… 

Jose Rizal says:

They bid me strike the lyre
so long now mute and broken,
but not a note can I waken
nor will my muse inspire!

And I see, 

Gun in hands,

Maybe swords,

Nooses, or ropes.

I see the shadows obeying:

“Shooting, pulling to hang!”

And I hear the trigger!

Some are dead,

I know…

Who and why?

Whose order?

I am not in the cage,

No walls, nor in cells, 

No borders,

No flag, no anthem,

No color, no gender,

No history, nor culture.

All are my siblings,

My sisters, brothers,

Children, or parents.

No more words can I awaken,

No more words can I awaken, 

No more words can I awaken.

Why one cheats the other?

Why one kills another?

What right is in the order?

Why one pulls the trigger?

We, people of Iran,

Including Afghans,

Must clean up our minds,

From word of Islam,

That is tongue of mullahs!

They proved who they are,

Vampires, suck blood.

Wonder if the birds too,

Use the words for chirping,

Or lyrics when singing???

What about dogs and wolves?

Do they have words to bark?

What is the howling tongue?

I, always, keep thinking,

About words, when using.

We, people of Iran,

Including Afghans,

Must clean up our minds,

From word of Islam,

That is tongue of mullahs!

They proved who they are,

Vampires, suck blood.

Wonder if the birds too,

Use the words for chirping,

Or lyrics when singing???

What about dogs and wolves?

Do they have words to bark?

What is the howling tongue?

I, always, keep thinking,

About words, when using.

Once I faced a drop

Just born of the clouds.

Speaking as friends

We talked of right and left.

Soon, we shared our dreams,

Birth to death, ways to live.

Neither knew of long past

The molecules, and atoms

That formed us as a whole.

And we were similar,

And we were similar.

We were, both, hybrids,

With others, relatives.

We, both hated borders

And the walls and the jails.

We, both, loved freedom,

Earthly life, humbleness.

We adored the generous,

Giving more, taking less.

Felt drop’s heart beating,

For running while going

To feed the farms, trees.

“Wait for me,” in my mind,

Meant to say, loud, in shout.

But did not; kept waving:

“Bye, and bye, my friend.”

In the clouds, seas, rivers, 

See that drop and picture,

What went on, on that day.

How I wish I could be

A something, somebody

Well-defined, like a bridge.

But am not, I am like air, 

Deep in a sea, am current,

Or maybe, I am an iceberg

In the plain, hills, mountains!

What is this shapeless shape? 

Am I smug, a cloud, or a fire?

Possibly am Carbon monoxide,

Or maybe sizzling marshmallow!

How I wish that I was

In fashion, wanted Vouge,

And asked for chocolate

To take it with old wine!

My head is a container

And filled with the liquid,

Evidence of Higgs boson!

I feel that Eureka

And the God Particle!

Though nowhere,

I see me

Floating everywhere.

I walk with the engineer

Of the stealth bomber!

His son, my classmate

Stood up, defended

A camel driver.

That was me, 

And remember, I will. 

Reading books on women

I recall what she said:

“Pain of being a woman!”

In schools, church-fathers 

Raped slaves, First Nations

Child workers, poor farmers,

Shipped British Orphans!

“Power bears corruption,”

Was said by Lord Acton:

“Absolute, absolutely!”

Feel phoenix, ash, and flame

In the wind, flake, and rain!

How I wish I were you

With life to fit in a room.

My wishes and dreams

In a bottle, tightly sealed.

But am not, cannot be,

Had opium, survive it!

With my feet on the seabed,

Raise my head to the heavens!

In times, love to escape

But I am tied and nailed

Metal noose grabs neck!

My need is not bread

Neither shirt nor jacket!

I love you and the others,

Regardless of your age,

Your genders, and cultures.

I care for the mammals,

To the worms, ants, snakes, 

And all the creatures

On this Earth, in the oceans. 

Meant to write,

Write about…

The fog in Abbotsford

Of B. C. Canada…

But she sings,

Sings of the past,

And is on the screen.

Oh, my Lord

What are these?

What is the soul?

What are the memories?

What is a thought? A dream?

I am lost in the fog,

Feel as if I am a rock

Am I sands at the beach?

Or dune in the desert wind?

Some write of love, romance,

Some write of the fall and rise,

Some write of their tummies,

Some people write nothing!

Memories on my mind,

Vertigo, I am lost,

In the fog of my thoughts!

And she sings.

And she sings.

And she sings.

With her song I picture

A mean court with blame.

Islamic government 

Left no chance to live there,

Had to consult, then escaped.

Tehran to Chah Bahar,

Poor people in the flood,

Pakistan, then Dubai.

And she sings.

And she sings.

And she sings.

Every word in her song

Stirs my past, gives life

To the days, a long gone.

Reminds me of hiding,

Afraid of being caught

By the Sepah-Pasdaran!

Reminds me of Jamal

Smuggler, he drives…

Reminds me of Shir-Gauz

And how the dam was washed

All the farms, animals…

Reminds me of many encounters,

Mats of palm, and schools without walls.

Reminds me of meeting 

Young and old refugees!

We varied, also shared

A common killing pain.

We were fooled by mullahs,

The Muslims with big lies.

Cherished some encounters,

We gathered as new friends.

In Dubai, met two brothers,

They sold Persian Carpets,

One Mansoor, one Naser,

Polite and quiet was latter.

And she sings.

And she sings.

And she sings.

Like a carved membrane,

Recall what Mansoor said:

“She sang, and I told her…”

Hayedeh is long dead

The same as her sister.

But she sings.

And she sings.

And she sings.

To Mansoor what happened?

The police reported:

“Found car in Umm Al Quwain,

Was damaged and left there!”

What about brothers?

Like the fog? Disappeared?

Naser’s wife came to me,

We chatted for hours.

And she sings.

And she sings.

And she sings.

With each word I hear

Birds fly in the air

I stare at their wings,

Feel drunk with dreams!

Every word from her

Penetrates as a dagger 

In my heart and brain: 

“What happened?

What happened?

What happened?”

Drinking my red wine,

Speak in an old tongue,

And address the sky.

Not with the Abraham

Or Moses, or their God

And neither with Allah,

With Ahura Mazda…

On my cheeks two rivers

And my eyes blood-red,

Under feet have a pond,

Which is filled with tears!

What is man, this evil?

I look at the women,

And the birds, and the wild,

And rivers, caves, farms,

See nothing but man’s wrong!

The worst evil is mankind!!!

Was busy with my love,

Listened to her heart pump

And stared into her eyes.

Her name is Juliet,

It makes me Romeo.

How I wish had a gun

With bullets, silver ones

To let me end my life!

When lovers die in love

Will have the longest life.

How I wish had a gun

With bullets, silver ones

To let me end my life

While lying in her arms!

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!

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.

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?