If at once we were something, we were a song
A glowing tarantella bouncing around,
Blazing tambourines grasped with gypsy fingers
Without dismay,
Free to see the world
The way God created it
With all its great beauty
And all the great cracks in the Earth,
We dance we dance to crack the Earth
Our song did touch the core.

If now we are something, we are lingering,
We drowned in our tears trapped in an hourglass,
The sand sapping away any life and now
Hardened black mud,
The hopelessness stuck
Along with the grains and tears
Trapped much like a gypsy
And like the gypsy we may dance
But its sloppy and stiff, no life,
Our song did touch before.

Now our song and dance vanished
Settling in a nice grave,
We lay in our hourglass
Still in our bridal garments
Staring at each other from the other side
Wondering who will drown first.

From Hand to Mouth, A Man Gives Birth


Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.

So
When you hear the poet-man exclaim,
I live hand to mouth!

Weep joy by, for and with him,
For his true meaning now clarified,
An ode to joy has
Been birthed this day,
A child for the people.

the blade was not dull
& the blood's already
started to flow.

ladies & gentlemen,
enjoy the show

because this is
what you created.

A basketball game is like a well conducted, beautifully written symphony. The tip off, a conductor raises his/her hands to motion the beginning of sound. As fingers reach for the orange ball and slam it in a favored direction, music takes flight and volume rises, the crowd roars as a basket is taken by the home team. Rapid pace movement of the squeaking shoes are multiple violin’s strings and bows at work, consistently changing and controlling the tune. The blare of the brass section, the scream of the fans come together in perfect unison, adding texture to the piece. The slam against the backboard, the bass drum sounds off, the dribble of the ball, a high hat’s tap-ity, tap, tap. Music is created in every pass, jump, shot, foul, score, and aspect of this game…from the smallest move to the loudest upset, from the softest flute to the biggest percussion instrument…music is present here and now.

You are not a Kid.
Anything but

but once you were,
to me...at least.

Before I knew
knew the truth.
the meaning.
the being

being that you became.
that I created.

but I never knew your being.
just mine.
the one I created.
the one which adores my mind and haunts my hopes and dreams

me,
it haunts me.
you haunt me.
I haunt me.

My Frankenstein devours me.
It is not fit for me. Yet it is me.
In me.
My soul
My body
My mind.

Ah, such an unreality, writing poems,
" tell that strange boy to go home."
Ah, such a non profit, being the poet,
only enterprising cursive, blades of grass
before I mow it.
and back in a classroom, with stone walls,
I stared out a window, tho no windows at'all.
so they hauled me to the cellar with four mates,
cold block wall that defied the teacher's tape,
she missed the breeze-- not stone--knocking posters down.
so I created windows for our lost and found,
she was so elated, and one grade I was propelled,
and a gold plaque on that stone held.
and if I cite her, " Oh, you can be a doctor or lawyer,..."
with no mention of 'writer.'

ah, no profit to be a poet under those halls,
but revivifying that teacher, and re-animating those walls.

A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word
First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to
Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing
Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beckoning that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that
Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out
From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is
awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for
Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by
it not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can
go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel
sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many
ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created
over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again
on the great southern soil

“I don’t hear your words because my thoughts are to much and the blood rushing through my veins has come to a stop. I’m still as time moves in slow motion and people around me are causing commotion and though people are moving they are all so silent and I can’t hear anything anyone says. And in moments like these my clogged veins make my body tremble and all that’s left are the rain drops that fall from my eyes. I have created my own storm inside me that no one can see but they all have caused. So in the pause I think what is left for me? Nothing.”

He is ancient steadfast
I am sure he was here when the world was created
I am sure he will be here when it ends
His gentle face carved with hard lines
He poured forth knowledge in his native Persian tongue
He called me Shohre
I learned it was his sister's name
He looked at me like a granddaughter and treated me just as sweet

“Ghabl az enghalab...”
Before the revolution...
After which would follow painful reminiscing of
The days before the current regime
When wine bubbled out from Shiraz
Men and women danced late into the night
And soft voices wove love songs in street cafes

“Ghabl az enghalab moalem dar daneshgah boodam.”
Before the revolution I was a university professor.
“Yeki az daneshjooyanam Ahmedinejad bood.”
One of my students was Ahmedinejad.
And in English, clear as hate,
“He was a bastard.”

One night I stayed back for extra lessons
We ate cherries from Costco and
Read excerpts from his autobiography
Pages crafted from right to left, vignettes of
His military service in Mashhad
And consequent teaching career

“Ba'ad az enghalab...”
After the revolution...
Was always followed with war stories
Political dissidents lost to Evin prison
Sharia law imposed on moderate minds
Escaping Iran by night with a phony visa

“Ba'ad az enghalab dar ketabkhane bayad kar konam”
After the revolution I had to work in the library.
“Khoastam yad bedahm, pas man o zanam be Amrika raftim.”
I wanted to teach, so my wife and I came to America.
He has not been home since 1981.

On December third of 2009 he walked smugly into the classroom
Setting a tape player happily on a desk.
He opened a folder from right to left
Produced a well-worn cassette
And played Happy Birthday, in Persian, for me.
He smiled at me with hands folded throughout the song
As I’d imagine he had smiled at
All the other special women in his life named Shohre.

He never played Happy Birthday for any of the other students.
Or gave them cherries,
Or went to their weddings,
Or held them while they cried when their grandfather died.
I do not know what he saw in me
But in each other we found family years and miles away from home.