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. 

What will grow in Aleppo? (a 5-7-5 haiku)

Life born from Tigris,
yellow asphodels, tulips.
Scent of sun-dried blood.

In My Own Bed

Sometimes I want to cry but I’m afraid
if I start I won’t stop until the whole of Earth
is filled and flooded with tears that hurt
the soil with salt that kills all trees and herbs,
daisies and gazanias, tulips and orchids,
and every heavenly stem of baby’s-breath.
So I must defend against destroying the Earth.

But sometimes I’m still more afraid,
petrified of something much much worse,
of shedding hot tears that always dry and fade,
of my choked weeping sounds that go unheard,
of roses that bloom, secrete their heavenly scents
just as before, trees that grow and folks who wed,
while I drown in strange tears alone in my own bed.

American Crow

So near a starved/sick American crow,
And spastic flaps of both her frosty wings— 
Perhaps a sign of life-force in passing—   
Beneath shade, of huddled slouching willows,
(that seemed concerned as if the young bird's folks),  
I stood, my back against the gnarled barks.
Unread are rimes God Almighty's composed.

Awash in flurry here was I at once 
In spry bodiless feathers, iced, rainbowed—
Perhaps those of a violet-green swallow—   
Tender as tulip petals, dewed berry; 
Or voiceless flame long sapped, and sewed long slow 
Into the seam of dark, the graceful corpse; 
by glacial gusts anatomized, unmourned. 

The Emergency Waiting Room

The walls contained a rainbow of brochures, rife 
with photos—peaceful faces, gladly sick.
And sadder, breathing though, the waiting room
contained: abused and injured, worried-wells,
the homesick, lovesick—handful very sick.  
We formed a true ensemble (though bit off),
our moans and coughs, concocting many tunes. 

As arctic poppies turn to sun and light,
our eyes pursued the coats of lustrous white.  
Our ears, like arid soil before the rain,
attuned to rhythms—every uttered name. 
Our tongues so keen to free the muted pains 
that ravage us (like mildew spread on bloom).

The doctors, nurses, come and go, as though 
we're just a senseless garden, sleeping, rows
of drooping tulips, shriveled aloes, scorched
forget-me-nots (below fluorescent lights).
Or weeping willows, bleeding hearts, instead: 
a "bleeding man", and not a "man" who's "bled." 

And then, as phones of ivory snored and bounced, 
and starvers tango-danced the Coke machines, 
while drunkards raised the standards of obscene,
I heard my name—misread but still—pronounced.  
And after hours of wait: So sweet to hear! 

My savior stood—a gardener—scanning fast, 
horizons of our field of yellowed grass.
A prophet—he—my rock; my healer; hope; 
he threw across and down my well a rope, 
to plant me in a vase, my own, at last, 
to make me human newly—healed and whole. 

My leaves uncoiled, my petals straightened out,
I turned to him, towards his light, his sound— 
a myth (though other foot was on the ground). 
He signed towards the circus, yes, the clown: 
No longer was there doubt, I'd seen his eyes 
alight on me: All hail the chosen one!