A Death In The Sun

Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,

and picks up your body where 

butterflies of newspapers circle above you.

 

The yellow sun is in your hair,  the darkened color 

of tamed waters.

The warm yellow sun—

The quiet yellow sun—

 

Your death rides a black van;

Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock, 

in a wedding tuxedo.

The Old Man In His Wheel Chair

The old man in his wheel chair tries to push the red button

that starts the chair 

and climbs over the threshold of his house. 

He is quite bent and hands shake slightly,

the bite-mark of arthritis is clear.

 

I lift his chair a bit and help him inside his house,

(how light he is!)

the frame of the chair is ice-cold.

He mumbles something like a “xie’xie” and keeps 

pushing the red button.

The chair moves now, rattling harshly

with the sound of crashing glass.

 

No one is at home, no one.

 

As I turn around and ready to leave, 

I see death wheel him toward another pitch-black door

inside which many a new life were born decades ago.

On The Death Of A Gay Boy In Tehran

The cafe right across the Shanghai opera house,

where everyday the rich gather and talk and talk 

about big little news of the world ,

looking for sensational details to share among all.

 

The rope they put around your neck was too tight!

You fell heavy into the air, and the teeth of gravity 

tearing at your feet; No sound from you ,

for far beneath the Tehran sky it was too tight!

 

The coffee is warm and autumn has been too cool.

It’s an early morning to meet and gossip about 

another early meeting of another day,

The weather will be fine and the opera house is divine,

Then comes a careless voice: LIFE iS GOOD.

 

It was too tight.

The wintry stream was frozen beneath their feet,

the bloated sun looked away,

the stones they cast roared like fire and landed like ice

on your boyish body – it hanged there , like a dark wind bell.

 

It’s a happy bourgeois life,

there across the Shanghai opera house life has been too good,

perfumed men and women, full of smiles towards the advent 

of each new day;

C’est la vie, Das ist Leben for you and me. GUTEN TAG.

 

Your feet dangled beneath the Tehran sky,

The rope was too tight , the tree where they hanged you

was strong like your father while your father stood faraway;

Your father was like a silent tree, watching.

 

It’s a happy bourgeois life, 

While tragedy is the high art on a stage,

People come for the catharsis in the Shanghai opera house ,

A tear for the sad painted face they see, and a jolly mood 

for being humane.

 

Far beneath the Tehran sky ! Your Dangling feet ! Too Tight!

 

The red faced monsieur , the spirit of tragedy , too fine .

 

Epitaph

Here lies the boy who was wronged

and executed for he loved truly

another man, while we ,

cozy in the cocoon of self-indulgence

are sipping coffee.

 

-written 2015 to a piece of news of a Tehran boy hanged by his folks for being gay , I was sipping morning coffee.

I Gather Ashes of Yesterday for A Verse

I gather ashes of yesterday for a verse ,

Oh the dead time , gone with thirty years of me,

thirty years of unnoticed actions trying to survive

oblivion – thought I could live in words.

But I’m different than what I wrote,

Do we all have to fake to cheat death?

Maybe it matters not, really,

to read poems to understand me,

like sowing on an arid land,

I’ve torn my most intimate me into hundreds

and scatter in poems;  each read brings back part of me telling

a different story.

but one thing remains true – that I’m dying

and I’m gathering ashes of yesterday for a verse.

That’s my past, that’s my now and future – or I’d be lost.