Sleep

An ox plows a hillside field
A farmer harvests wheat
A shepherd leads his sheep
And your ghost haunts my sleep.

Disconnected I

One I was born, raised, in Tehran.  So long ago.
Another I resides here in Vancouver, haunts
the woods and taverns, coffee shops and seasides, wants
to know
the scent of scentless tulips, sounds of dusty streets, the taste of fumes
that shroud Tehran—the foreign smoke that covers crowds and cars.
To know the empty rooms
that one assumes
perhaps contain some hints.  What was
or could become, I'll never know,
but it is time something connects—something resumes. 

An Old Man on a Swing

An old man on a swing?   

I used to think 
that's nothing much to write
a verse about.
Until I saw a mural, one

by Goya.  Gazing at the man,
it seems as if
he's lurching forward, leaping off 
the wall,
exploding through the shattered plane.


Or maybe just

detached

and dangling, hanging on for life.


He's out of breath.
The frenzied eyes, elated.  Or

just maybe full

of horrors caged,

or Furies' rage,

The savaged sunken head atop the arms and legs belonging to a human twice his size,
cadavers or
a beast perhaps.

The mouth distends beyond all human bounds....I fear
that evil leer,
that spreads below the hollow holes, the ghosts inside, possessed....
Some say a self-portrait! 

I hope some day, some poem I create
in black and white, below my name,

can haunt you just the same.