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?
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.”
We adored dirt and mud:
“Be natural, not asphalt
As it was in terrains…”
I pictured the trees
Saw a few birds nesting,
To lay eggs, to have chicks.
Have never liked cities
Not the malls and shopping.
In the bed, I prayed
And crossed my fingers
To see bears face to face
And to meet coyotes.
Prefer wilderness
And the roar of cougar.
Guess that we, children
That grew in the village
Were freer, luckier,
Eagles were our teachers
As were insects, beetles,
One taught math, another…
Do not know about why
Nor do know of the how.
Was sitting over there
Leaning at the cement
Wall of the single cell.
I, still, remember
Motions of my brain,
Recall that with shivers.
Forcefully, was confined,
Solitary, underground…
Set hands, head on my chest
Buddha-like, I sat there,
Like in a yoga class.
Closed eyes
Let time pass,
But how long?
Under my skull’s bones
Felt my brain became a web,
The web of spiders
On a thin branch, in the rain.
Then and there, remembered
That woman when answered.
In a lone cell, could picture
Handcuffs on me and her
In the Evin prison,
Did she wear blinds too?
I heard all the questions
From an interrogator.
Fell in love with the answers:
“I followed my husband!”
She was too clever,
Obviously brave.
“As a wife did the must
According to Islam,
I listened, and obeyed…”
I felt that the man who
Ran the show, in his heart
Wished to have such a wife.
But to her this man was
No more than a bore, wild,
Or a slave, hunting dog.
The court man was angered
Raised his voice and shouted.
Silent and against the wall
I listened, boiled inside.
Wished to see their faces,
Both the man and woman
Of the game, justice play.
She knew what happened
To her love, her husband,
He was killed by a bullet
Of the mean government.
The two were team members,
She chose to put the blames
On the deceased, hero, brave.
Now, away, refuged,
I hear of the changes!
For running their circus,
New songs are written
For the school children,
I recall our trip to Sochi,
Brezhnev-Shah meeting:
“Yes, to the commander,”
Imagine Moon, Sunlight,
Then, kids and grown-ups.
Think of a topless woman
Appears among males.
An audience of old age
And partly youngsters,
Teenagers to infants…
Each look is different
As are in the politics,
Depends on awareness.
Recently read about Iran
making drone Inside Tajikistan.
Some crawl on the surface
Marathon on pages
I remove past years’ veils.
I flew Hercules
Once, went to Lesotho,
Nairobi and Cairo.
Then, Iran did the same
Together with the US,
And NATO alliance.
Neither a topless woman
In the Cannes, Montreal,
Nor the reports on Iran,
To me, are new or strange.
What they want is simple,
They shout for attention
To what is important
To them and their circle,
As correct or righteous,
They spew their inners!
Sadly, then I was there,
He brought his prey.
Proudly, stood there
Near the exact same
Gun that our people
Praised it as sacred.
Having been children
My parents remembered
That a hunter scared
The bandits and looters.
Had climbed the hillside
All the way to the top
And had aimed at party
Of the thieves and bandits.
Accurately shot the pot
Boiling with lamb inside.
Guns’ power Corrupted,
Therefore, this hunter
Was no more for people,
This virus was a microbe.
There, stood, proudly,
A cheetah he had killed.
And I saw the poor thing,
Saw a corpse unskinned,
The skin was hay-filled…
Emptied are mountains
Of cheetah that is rare!
In search, I traced them,
Felt happy when I heard
In the zoo, in some cage
One female had triplets,
But abandoned infants!
I, the boy from the village,
See me as some kernel,
On the farm of wheat-hay
In the heat of summer.
I notice the partridges,
They fly, run, escape.
Close are the farmers
Everyone has a sickle.
I observe the donkeys
Coming in caravans,
Carrying load saddles.
Mule pulls the blades,
Parallels, circular,
Sharp as if a razor blade
For shaving the straws,
Turning them to thin hay.
Holding a bridle, a driver
Sound as if singing a song
To the mule in the blind.
Few men with the rakes
Pull and shift the stacks,
Flatten to pave the way
For very sharp blades
To crush like a hammer.
Little me, now orphaned
Hug friends, embrace
My cousins, poor kernels.
We end up in the bags,
Woven by men, women
And head for the storage,
Or silo, for winter,
Then milled to flour,
For the bakers, bread.
Glued are my thumb and index
Thanks to the concrete of a pen.
The pen is not a bridge,
As was meant to be.
The tongue cannot be connected
To my heart, mind, and feelings.
Lean back, hope that memories
Vanish as do the fog in the sun.
They do not,
They roam,
Make a halo!
On the altar of
Nothingness
Beg the mouse.
That too is powerless
As is the keyboard…
Something must be wrong,
I am sure…have no doubt!
Keep questioning,
Music is on,
The man sings,
I listen to the lyrics:
“Search Inside the empty bowl,
Memories are remnants of the actions Hidden in the cave of the silence…”
Is that me?
Am I that?
Yes, maybe,
Not so sure,
“Act on it,”
Is whispered.
Fanatics? Dictators?
Neither see nor figure
The laws on abortion
In the United States!!!
I recall my boyhood,
Daddy was the trainer:
“Be a man with respect.”
Insisted on working,
Also, took me shopping.
In return he gave me
Few things to carry.
Smiled and looked at me:
“A great man, you will be.”
With pride I handled
Part of what he purchased
All the way to mother.
Can picture parents’ love,
It shined like rays of the sun
Full of warmth, was bright.
We hardly misbehaved,
Acted bad, improper,
Since mother threatened:
“I will tell your father!”
And daddy always said:
“Don’t ever come near
If you hurt your mother!”
I was taught and trained
That man is some friend,
He respects both parents,
He supports his sisters
Cause they are equals.
Stood, watched flowers
Dead, fallen on bushes,
And the tree branches…
Carcasses on canvas
Were painted in colors.
Deeply wished one casket,
To look, be, exact same.
Dreamed that I was dead,
My petals carpeted
The face of a pavement.
On me walked the angels,
Guests from the heavens.
Chicken can be chicken
If ever breaks the shell
To hatch and breathe air
From the atmosphere…
Did you get the message?
Depart the comfort zone
And mingle with others,
Enjoy being the particle.
Vinieron. ellos tenían la Biblia
y nosotros la tierra
y dijeron: cierren los ojos
y re[c]en y cuando abrimos los ojos,
ellos tenían la tierra
y nosotros la puta Biblia!
Graffiti, seen in Costa Rica Oct. 2006,
Today, I read two articles,
The CBCs, and Julia Roth’s.
West in a perilous world,
And colonialism in the Occident.
I kept laughing
When encountered:
“Canada and the USA
Are looking for
Friendly partners.”
I felt being a buffalo corpse,
Skinned and abandoned,
In the prairies, in the desert.
“Here I am…”
I said, very loud, and clear:
“It is me that you are looking for,
Look at me, I, your old victim!”
I added:
“You taught your children
That I am of no use
And replaced me with the cattle.”
“We had our ways, were prosperous,
But you called us Barbarians,
And butchered us to extinction…”
“Here I am…”
I said this very loud, and clear:
“It is me that you are looking for.”
And wonder if the blind can hear!
He, a sort of friend
Asked me for a favor:
“Go, visit my ex-girl.”
They had met in Khojand
Then became worlds apart.
He went back to Tehran,
She returned to Kazan.
We had met in Khojand
City of old Persia,
That is now Tajikistan,
Central Asia…
The why of being there
Is a tale by itself.
He wanted stones, rocks
And I read between the lines.
He, Michal Angelo
I, Khayyam, vase, and wine.
I read books, noting down
The heroes, their rise, fall.
He went back to Iran,
I headed for Russia.
He had found a girlfriend
With the blood of Tatar.
I found that the past wealth
Showed rulers causing pain.
Having left the mullahs
In Iran, and Afghans
I had a long beard
Decided not to shave
Till I am out of there.
Did not know its dangers
Though warned me a leader.
Rahmonov, communist
Won his seat with tricks!
He shook hands with Noori
Then opened gates of jails
And freed the criminals!
The latter attacked, robbed
And marched with slogans.
Kremlin of Moscow
Sent support for Rahman:
“Tighten the noose around
The necks of the liberals.”
I swam in the depths
To find the well trained,
He spent time with a girl,
She, Tatar, was a trickster.
Months after we had left
He called with a request:
“Can you go to Kazan?”
His ex-girl had written
Of having given birth
To a son, they had made.
I hurried, bought a ticket,
Got me a seat on the train.
With me was Irina,
Aware of that area.
Changed train in Moscow
And headed for Kazan…
Being an extrovert,
I joined a team of men.
Lovely are the Russians
While drinking vodka.
Look at this proverb,
Explains their culture:
“There is no ugly girl,
Vodka bears the blame,
Not enough, it is little!”
The team was a mixture
Of the old and younger
Men from everywhere.
One marine officer
Talked about soviets
In times of presidents
Before the Gorbachev:
“We went to the USA!”
Retired officer
Hated the president:
“This chicken is a shame.”
Soon there was a chorus
Made from the soldiers,
They missed old Soviets.
Saw Putin as chicken
And as mole, tumor!
They adored Stalin,
Khrushchev, Brezhnev,
Saw Putin, instead,
As a hated worthless.
We made it to Kazan,
Half sober, half-drunk,
In the city went around.
Used bullets on the water,
Went and house of the girl
And asked her to see the son.
What we heard from her
Was nothing but fictions.
She told us of the boy
Having gone to school.
I told her how I would
Support the little kid
If he comes, I can see.
With her words entangled,
Irina, my guide girl
Looked at her with anger.
Now, after twenty years
And the war in Ukraine
I picture the gone days,
Of Kazan and the train.
Yes, Putin is too mean,
But for reasons I see,
He became what he is,
The source of bloodshed
And a criminal, murderer!
Politicians, media,
Are either dumb or lie
To grow hate in us.
Sure, Putin is Evil
With Biden as a twin.
Joe planned and tried
To regain position
Of the NATO leader
To add to the arms sales.
Open books of exports
Managed by Washington
Mulled by the Pentagon.
Find leeches, vampire!!!
Of course, have encountered
Women and abortion.
Memories are piled
As high as a mountain.
The first that started
Was about Fatima.
I, a child in the village
Heard from my mother
Surely, was less than six.
“Her uncle had a guest
She went in with a tray,”
It is my mom’s whisper.
Backbiting in secret
Is disease, everywhere.
Was she right, I wonder!
Fatima could somehow
Be related to us.
One of Dad’s cousins,
Was the closest to him.
That cousin had married
Mother of Fatima,
And later?
I know not, nor questioned!
Fatima was impaired,
Was huge in the middle,
Could have had tumors!
I, a child with manners
Had to be obedient
And listen to the elders:
“A good child is ears.”
She had been pregnant
But, impaired, had never
Learned or talked about it!
In the room, with a tray,
Recall what mother said:
“Delivered with no pain.”
Was she the rape victim?
By mullah of the village?
I feel like, after years
See mullahs as devils.
Mean is religious,
Judaists, Christians,
To Hindus and Muslims,
And almost all the others!
But simple, innocent,
A victim of the rape,
Was seen as the devil,
By the men in Masjed.
It could be different
If we were free, fair,
Genders were equal.
A fetus in the current
Was the next abortion
For my eyes to observe.
The baby was perfect,
I saw, was entangled,
Floated in the water!
I, was young, under ten,
Found the scene, strange,
And was full of questions:
“Why thrown as garbage?
Why was it unwanted?
From rape? An incest?”
When thirteen or fourteen
I worked in a pharmacy.
Women came secretly
Asking boss to help in
Their crime, aborting!
And I learned a lot then
Injections, among them,
In arms, butts, and veins.
I look back, after years,
See embers and fires,
And laugh at corruption.
Let people be free
And support the logic.
Let us go, out and shout
At lawyers, all judges,
They make the criminals
From the poor, backward.
Who are they?
You may ask…
Sit, relax, I tell you:
“Those without food, school
And without a home and roof,
And without parenthood…”
You, in the courts, houses,
Are governing agents,
You who write laws-orders
Are deaf-dumb to the pains.
We, the normal people,
Go to work, each morning,
In your shops, companies,
We add to your money
And you use the job’s knife
To murder, butcher us.
Yes, please stop the
Ignorant law setting
With greed, cruelty,
Put end to demanding:
“Follow laws blindly
For fetus in the belly!”
See us as the soldiers
In shooting the friend
Or an injured comrade
To save him from pain.
We who were your slaves
Have seen, or experienced
How you use legal terms,
Or the chains of experts.
Your laws work as bullets
Handicap the nation.
Yes, we care for the fetus,
And love them no question.
We know of bars, cages
Of the hardship, burden,
So, use the abortion
For saving fetuses.
Knowing you, your cages
And your law enforcement.
With deep love, devotion
We hear our conscious
To fight the law-setters,
These meanest vampires:
"Save them by abortion.”
Enough is fooling us
Using Jesus, churches,
Or Moses, or Masjed,
Hit the road, go away
To get lost, no return.
Once again, after years
I shared life with my Ex.
In the dream, all the same,
She was just a mother
And mastered the kitchen.
To her, books, decisions,
Were left to the husband.
Came to me, complained
About our good daughter.
“I fear for her health,
Is a machine without rest,
For helping the orphans.”
I chose a Persian name,
That lovely wife of then.
Liked, agreed, accepted:
“The Unique, Special.”
I, father, with daughter,
Sat, spoke in detail.
I agreed with her deeds
And gave her promise:
“Count on me to the end.”
In silence, she auctioned
The antiques and items
To raise funds, give away.
She asked me if I could
Visit the mosques, churches,
Their Imams, preachers, prayers.
In the final moments,
Whispered in my ear:
“They are houses for God,
Must be clean, in and out.”
When dead are you and me
The room is full of “We.”
She can cover, include
All pebbles on the hills
And the rocks of cliffs
Of ravines and valleys.
“We” will be Moby Dick
And mountains, and trees,
And the Moons, galaxies.
“We” will be the giraffe,
Camelidae, and zebras.
We will be elephants
And edges of deserts
Or the fords in rivers
Or the path in a cave.
Let the “We” be chickens
And eagles, bats, pigeons,
To peacocks, foxes, jackals.
Let the “We” grow tall
And cross the skies,
To mother a moon, Sun.
In the “We” must exist
Mixing wild, domestic.
Allow her majesty
To be the king and Queen
For homeless, poor, and rich.
Let her be the hybrid
Of deer, goats, and sheep.
Let us welcome the “We’
That will be if you, me,
Kill ego in ourselves.
Feed the Wolf or a Bear,
By mixing Vodka, beer
To make them obnoxious,
Then arrest and cage them.
And kill their freedom…
Choose the same prophet
The mean and dictators.
Of Europe’s bedridden
Or the priests, and pirates,
Atlantic keeps secrets.
Poisonous, together,
Made shadow of a snake
In the Bible, Eve, Adam,
And raised a false claim:
“A Land is discovered.”
In the nests of condors
Multiplied Caucasians
By using bullets, guns,
And killing the Incas!
Used the Bible as a ladder,
With Mezon for the Devil:
“They are a lower race!”
In the books of Europe
Appear the Pentagon’s:
“Scatter wrong rumors
To grab, choke, murder!”
McCarthy’s example
Attacks the Soviets
As a beast or the Bear
With claws, fang to tear.
Earn from the arms sale.
Earn from the arms sale.
Earn from the arms sale.
Born and raised in Iran
Joined the Sufi, later
Fell in love with people.
My mentor, Maulana
Or Rumi, for outside.
I witnessed from depths,
Arms dealing business.
Rose against warmongers
And opposed all weapons
Both Russian and Western.
I could not like Saddam,
Nor Mullahs, nor Reagan,
My feelings went viral
And made me leave Iran.
An officer I had been
In Air Force and Army
Knew the guns and bombs
That purchased Iran’s Shah.
Mostly, arms suppliers
Were U.K., USA,
If not them, their friends.
Those Yankees in Kiev
To Ukraine want to sell.
The talk’s core is to fight,
Not on the peaceful life.
Thanks to the Pentagon
Billions of Dollars,
Is headed for Ukraine,
Not to heal the injured
But for more bloodshed,
The arms and armaments
Help to kill, be murdered!
She sat and the barber
Started cutting hair…
Soon after, as always,
Began norm,
Backbiting and whisper!
Centered on wives, husbands,
Meeting of boys with girls,
Gatherings on said dates,
Drinking, hangovers…
“Such a man!”
“Such a girl!”
Suddenly changed subject
As if fell tent’s column
That covered every guest.
They honed on the garden
With the known gardener:
“He and you do the same,”
Mentioned the customer.
“We, barbers, and farmers
Are same as the gardeners
Make and are designers!”
Emphasized the barber.
“But poor are your victims,”
Mentioned whining woman.
“Our victims?”
Surprised, asked master.
“The flowers, and my hair
That you cut like garbage!”
Overheard all clients
Gazing into the mirror
To see their behaviors.
Prepared birdhouses,
Nailed them to branches
Of the tree, near the fence.
Happily, poured the seeds
On the ground, in feeders.
For taking good photos
I chose the right lenses,
The tripod and a shutter.
Followed the proverb:
“Two birds with a stone.”
In the morning went to work,
Late in the day, returned home.
Everything was mangled,
Trees cut and fallen,
Scattered the birdhouses.
Keep thinking of my birds,
Have they found a place?
Did they join the homeless?
Do not see them jumping
Off branch to pick seeds!
Where can be my lovers?
Dream of them singing!
Did they find somewhere else?
Or did they join the homeless?
Feel being Romeo
Without my Juliet!
I am deeply concerned,
I am deeply concerned,
Am mourning in anger,
Am mourning in anger!
Poet is an artist, a writer,
Takes the fact; enlarges.
I, too, got a degree
In York U, Toronto,
Of the Stong College,
To be a Creative Writer.
Can never sit idle,
Go around to observe
And note them on paper,
Then manage my garden.
Blackberry, in New West,
On the stone was written
Louise, a heart was painted,
And the paragraph had a date.
Mother Mary stood there
Holding lamb on her chest.
With those signs,
I drew sketches
And became an artist
To go and perfect them.
Was sure that a mother
Had suffered abortion
And buried her infant…
Went to jungles, buildings,
Checked house of elderlies.
Found the Lady-Doris
After my long research.
She had made a garden,
With pieces of timber,
Then, later, planted
Appletree to grow
On cremated ashes!
Read the Koran, Bible,
Both New, and Ancient,
Abrahamic Religions,
Judaists and Muslims
All sharing one founder.
With him came religions
To hammer poor women.
His world is just for men
To shepherd herds, women!
For many, many years
Concubines had to serve
Paying a debt from shame.
Blamed were the women
For the wrong of Adam!
No effort, nor justice
To seek cause or reason!
Aaron’s son, descendants,
The priests and teachers,
Fooled women, repeated:
“Galaxies and mountains,
To Sun, Moon, and rivers,
See the shame of females!”
Recall when the women
Were shattered, broken,
Were devoted, prayed,
Asking for forgiveness!
United, roared women
Till as dead lost power
Patriarchs in churches.
Be brave, confident,
Go around like deer,
Yet remain lionesses.
Driving on highway
I heard Tomson Highway!
An artist, and writer,
Piano player,
Sounded like a joker!
As the wind underwing
Flew and followed him.
I lent him eyes, ears,
Was careful to listen.
He mentioned the Greeks
Theology and their Myths:
“Wonder why God is he!”
Said that God of here:
“The great superpower,
Is female, The Nature.”
Theology, as he said
Is divine, explains
God and its relations.
Myth as he explained
Is of God and people.
To him, faith, any kind
Is a myth to have fun.
I was born in Iran
You can read or stop.
In the army had a job
But was not satisfied.
By changing uniforms
I worked in the Air Force.
Being born in the village
Meant living as a shepherd.
Or could have farmer’s life,
It was changed, due to the time.
Poverty and pride
Led me to risk my life.
I borrowed books that read
And worked hard, no secret.
Did not follow parents,
Loving them was endless.
To me they were simple
Religious, and Muslims.
I selected friends
Of many varied faiths.
Saw movies of all kinds Hindi,
Rock, to River Kwai.
For each book and movie
I found some company.
Each of them had a thought
I listened, then shared mine.
They, to me, were candles,
Like torches lit the tunnels.
My friends were teachers
And we had shared teachers.
After ended schools
Everyone went his way.
I wished to join college
To add to my knowledge.
No support, money rare,
Wished was in fifth grade
When she, master, teacher
Took my hand, what a help.
She chose this village boy
And favored, as her own.
When schools were over
Found no guide, supporter
Like that in the fifth grade,
Felt as if was orphaned.
Had money, just little
To attend a single term,
Paid the fee, prepared
To take the college test.
Went broke, moneyless
To afford the next term.
Through films, stories
Had observed and noticed
How spies and the police
Forged papers and writings.
I took some potato
Made a stamp with a half
For forging a card to pass,
Feel the guilt’s sediment.
Saw how poor, handicapped,
Is forced to become wax.
There, heard of a college:
“Is free, they will pay…”
I found their location,
Was misled, misguided,
Told me lies as answers.
Had success with the test,
In no time, I joined them
And became a cadet.
Now was in uniform,
In Military College
To become an officer.
Said nothing to parents,
Unaware, knowledgeless
Could not be consultants.
Soon after felt was jailed,
Pretenders were masons,
Their bricks were liars!
Said Commander, Major,
No permit to leave them,
He frowned, threatened:
“First you must pay the debt,
And then be sent to the jail,
After that become a soldier
To serve a forced two years,”
And went on, on and on.
In fear, I became
Some clay for a potter.
Unwilling, unwanted
I had to stay there.
Meant to leave, run away,
Hitting roads and channels.
Had lost me to myself,
Wore clothes of soldiers.
Felt very sad, in chains
Till arrived miracles.
Came pilots on the stage
And spoke of success.
We, all, were invited,
The hosts were lecturers:
“You can be like ourselves.”
It served me to escape
The house of corruption.
There the guns sat on the rack
While cheaters gave commands.
Once came down with a rappel,
Shah saw me and questioned:
“Did you tell their parents?”
“Of course, your Majesty,
Parents watch their TVs,”
Wanted to inform shah:
“No, no, no, he tells lies!”
My parents were Muslims,
TV meant gate to hell…”
Passing tests, joined Airforce
Wore blue uniforms.
One day and after years
Talked to me, my father:
“Saw a change in color.”
Had noticed by sudden
Uniforms changed color.
He was the best father
Free, open-minded,
Never asked of reason
Or of what had happened.
Poverty and efforts
As well as varied friends
Impacted with influence
To make me different
From rest, brothers.
They were far closer
To Islam of parents,
But I seemed a pagan.
Moving to the Airforce
Was a jump to changes
But still felt in chains.
Having need for income
Was a cause to work hard,
Among things I had done
Was selling some booklet.
The course “Step by step”
Helped to learn English,
I sold to earn money
And read it freely.
I was called to speak
And the booklet helped me.
Took test of English,
I passed it, was easy.
Destined for the USA
Rome, Montreal, and later
Headed for New York,
San Anton of Texas…
In Lackland took courses
Also, found some friends
Learned to talk English.
Like clay and the wax
In the palms of artists,
Learned about politics.
Like the air in a balloon,
Squeezed, I felt pushed!
Decrees were clear:
“Officers must listen
And obey the orders.”
That was not, is not me!
That was not, is not me!
That was not, is not me!
I needed freedom
And for it had to burst.
Could not be a dumb, deaf
To the needs of people
Could not kill and murder.
That was not, is not me!
That was not, is not me!
That was not, is not me!
High rankers around Shah
Never learned of our hearts,
Poor Shah counted on us...
No one said these people
Are gathered by mistake
Or are forced and afraid!
They saw us as the dolls
And blind horses, cows,
To fetch like hunter dog.
Shah counted on planes
And the tanks, frigates.
Khamenei and friends,
Sepah is, can be same!
Nation needs freedom
Not a mass of soldiers.
He, a first lieutenant,
Was ranked, an officer.
Early in the morning
Practiced the routine
Of waking and shaving,
Got ready for leaving.
Kissed his wife, departed,
She saw his goodbye wave.
Was sure that at the gate
Would encounter soldier.
And he was surprised
Nothing was as it was.
The soldier over there
Sat still, motionless,
As idle as idols.
Lieutenant called sergeant
To talk of disrespect
That sergeant did not care.
Surprised of changes
Went to the commander.
A coup had happened,
The lower decided
Not to bow to higher.
Look at the life, these days
That oppressed is aware
Of the men and women
Of any land, culture
Are the same, equal.
Open eyes and stand
To oppose dictators,
If leach or vampire.
Sun was out
Stones shined
Tina bent
She took one:
“Contains gold.”
“Give it to Ilya,
Geologist knows it all,”
I said to withdraw.
“Is pyrite…”
Said in a short answer,
And later explained:
“Gold is heavy and
Pyrites are very light.”
Unaware, dumbfounded,
I lent them eyes, ears.
Andy, a photographer
Knew all, was aware.
Tina who started
Threw a few words
All garble and nonsense.
Andy talked once again,
We and rocks were compared:
“These stones and ourselves
Will soon be particles.”
Later, in private
With a smile, Andy said:
“The Fools call Pyrite, Gold.”
I enjoyed his comment,
Poetic, and great,
Landed in my ears,
It sounds like a choir,
A canary, nightingale:
“Remember particles.”
Was a first-year cadet,
We drilled in action.
Were briefed of ground,
Obstacles, and attacks.
Enemy had come and
Plan was resistance
Till arrived our support.
I became team’s scout,
Had to run in secret,
Check, report the front.
Left and right, I zigzagged
To some hill in distance.
Threw me to one side,
It was hard as if rock.
Felt the pain in my chest
And flew my helmet…
Looking back at that year
I smile at myself…
Laugh at me like joker
That cared, was devoted.
Near farms, I stand
A paddle in my hand.
Look around and observe
Animals and farmers.
Wonder what I would say
If was sheep or cattle.
What if was kept in cage,
Carried by tractor?
What if mad driver
Took me to a butcher?
Drowned in my thoughts,
I Forget all about job!
Do not like to serve men,
Mankind is brutal!
Kills nature, animals,
As fungus and a wild.
Steps on Natives’ neck
As savage and pagan.
Prefer to get lost
Or depart, go to hide.
I, a veteran, in the dictionaries,
Have been in three wars, at least,
Have carried soldiers and logistics,
Took alive and fresh, though worried,
And brought back dead and injured,
In the bags, caskets, on the stretchers.
I have seen those who lost eyes, hands,
Feet, legs, parts of face, and far beyond.
I have seen the waiting finances losing hope, Have seen wives leaving the injured to help
Other patients, more injured, sympathy?
No, I do not say that I have seen it all,
But have seen enough of civilians caught Between the guns and gunners, fallen
By the stray bullets of non-professionals
Or impatient, tired, careless professionals.
Now, want to blow all the air in my lungs
To shout: “Veteran is the ugliest word ever!”
Kill me and turn me to ashes,
Compost me and mix with manure
But do not call me a veteran.
Veterans are greyhounds of the
Meanest creatures with claims
Of being good, but evil, devil,
The politicians, warmongers…
The victims’ list is too long…
I suffice with the recent ones,
Include the Japanese in China,
Bomb the Vietcong in Vietnam,
Cruelty of Israelites in Palestine,
Falkland, Cuba, and Venezuela,
Then Yemen, Libya, and Syria
To the burning Sudan, Ethiopia,
To Iraq, and Iran…now Ukraine!
Every time I am called
I recall my ex, wife,
Her love filled all my heart.
Nassy is the short form
To scape Nasrollah.
Nassy Fesharaki
https://www.instagram.com/nassy.fesharaki/
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