not who you thought I was he
not him and her she was but anything I had dreamed
it was but a dream
an uneducated scientifically wild *** guess
that supposition
that predisposition
to make my mind think rationally
put it in the box file it away
categorically
make it seem
like everyday
when it was not Tuesday or
the day I had thought
it was leap day
I leapt to a conclusion
about it her him and
paid nary a **** bit of
thought to the
consequences
or how I might feel were
the supposition on
the other way
suppose I put
my two feet in a boot
you walk in
I consider
the other hand left right uncovered
a slap on

God has a heart too
I want my red heart
My necklace has a heart

...خدا هم قلب دارد
من قلب قرمز رنگم را می خواهم
گردن بند من قلب دارد

Jawahar Gupta :
Why are you so sad, Yasaman Johari ?

Yasaman Johari : i don't know my kind grandfather,,,,your heart is so beautiful

Norma McCorvey has died today
In assisted living in a Texas town.
She was Jane Roe in Seventy Three
when the court struck all restrictions down.
She was used by lawyers for their cause
Used by men and women both.
Once a Lesbian then a Christian
Her fame the thing she hated most.
The times have changed and many have died
Because of what that court decided.
Her child still lives; she was adopted.
Its Sad how we have become hard hearted;
Divided we are, now as then.
We never met, nor were we friends;
Goodbye Norma (Jane) McCorvey
May you rest in Peace at journey’s end.

In autumn
I try to imagine
That cooling nights
Are only Spring
Returning.

I imagine
Planting the garden
Again,
But old Frost
Reminds me
That second childhood
Is only the precursor
Of winter's death.

I heard my mother's song,
Sounds of breakfast,the kitchen radio,
Smell of bacon on the rattling stove,
Heard the slapping wood and wire screen door.

Window open to the sounds of birds:
Liquid flute-songs of meadowlarks,
Chirruping robins on the lawn,
Raucous coughing calls of crows,
The rooster bragging out his strutting call.

Breezes lifted the wet scent of sod,
The ever present smells of earth fresh tilled,
And musty odors of last year's hay.
Life on the farm moving twilight to day...
Everything conspiring to call me to play.