Holly Jahangiri
Holly Jahangiri is a technical communicator with over thirty years of experience in technical writing, freelancing, and editing. Now, in retirement, she has returned to her roots and her first loves: fiction and poetry. On a good writing day, she claims (tongue-in-cheek) to be channeling the spirits of Edgar Allan Poe, Erma Bombeck, and O. Henry. Holly is the author of three children's books: Trockle; A Puppy, Not a Guppy; and A New Leaf for Lyle. She is one of the editors of the poetry anthology, Walking the Earth: Life's Perspective in Poetry.
Holly draws inspiration from her family, from her own childhood adventures (some of which only happened in her overactive imagination), and from readers both young and young at heart. She lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband, J.J., whose love and encouragement make writing books twice the fun.
Holly's website, A More Positive Perspective, can be found at https://jahangiri.us/2020.
Holly draws inspiration from her family, from her own childhood adventures (some of which only happened in her overactive imagination), and from readers both young and young at heart. She lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband, J.J., whose love and encouragement make writing books twice the fun.
Holly's website, A More Positive Perspective, can be found at https://jahangiri.us/2020.
A Golden Shovel poem based on a line by my friend Bob Jasper in his poem, "Joyful Meditation":
https://medium.com/illumination/joyful-meditation-60eebe95028c
When I Am Nothing
When I am nothing,
And morning, nothing brings,
I burrow deep within; silence blankets me.
I can ask no more
Than another moment’s peace
From dreams, interrupted. No longer than
The dead space, between breaths — a
Small rebellion, fearless walk,
A path: oblivion on one side, and me in
The middle. Vibrant, imagined possibilities the
Promise, darting through tangled woods
Unseen, unknown, unknowable — unless
Through dark, or waking dreams: It
IS.
https://medium.com/illumination/joyful-meditation-60eebe95028c
When I Am Nothing
When I am nothing,
And morning, nothing brings,
I burrow deep within; silence blankets me.
I can ask no more
Than another moment’s peace
From dreams, interrupted. No longer than
The dead space, between breaths — a
Small rebellion, fearless walk,
A path: oblivion on one side, and me in
The middle. Vibrant, imagined possibilities the
Promise, darting through tangled woods
Unseen, unknown, unknowable — unless
Through dark, or waking dreams: It
IS.
Night's Uncanny Silence Rages
night’s uncanny silence rages even
over sirens’ wailing; no
joke: it’s Justice, dead or fast asleep,
unseeing, oblivious — give her a nudge.
stray paper bits and bullet casings — a
ticket here, a taser there, civics for a cynic.
it’s deafening, deadening, that silence.
can you hear it running, breathing, throbbing like a tomb
electrified with bitter ghosts, an ideal
nation’s spectral hopes, mewling thoughts, a sea
of grieving mothers’ tears, atomic
prayers, despair. To be Black --
estranged from MLK’s prophetic dream — cruel,
asking people to wait ten lifetimes. i
can’t bear this leitmotiv -
eternal sirens’ drowning dying justice -
saying, “it will be okay” (it won’t)
mothers casting pearls
at swine will never be “okay.”
that’s just too high a price
to pay. unjust. and yet, the dream itself burns on --
eternal roar, that fire in the soul that cries,
righteous, above the silence:
“no justice, no peace.”
Tears of a Mother (a Trilogy)
I. A Mother Weeps
With hungry eyes and fearful glance
Her child squats with dirty feet
in crumbling doorways -
Wonders why angry men
Burn flags, feed each other bullets.
Nurtured in ignorance, fed on hate
He plays at dangerous games
And shouts, “I am a man!”
No food today, and yet
His belly’s rounded, full of faith
And dynamite.
A mother weeps.
II. A Daughter Comes of Age
At half past six, she sits alone,
With a week-old crust
of tadig and a pan
of rusty, dusty water
and the memory of angry words -
words they never
read from the Koran.
At seven, she crawls inside
The hated veil,
Shroud of mystery,
Mother’s womb,
Just to see what it feels like,
To be a woman.
At half past eight, she brushes off the flies.
Looks into the lifeless eyes
of the one who gave her birth.
To be a woman?
She knows now, what Death feels like.
III. Growing Up: Just Pennies a Day“
Clean your plate,
or it’ll rain! Don’t you know
there are children starving in Africa?”
Bangladesh,
Colombia, Peru, Philadelphia,
Miami, Australia, Los Angeles, New York…
You knew. You knew
I wanted to scrape clean my plate,
scrape clean my soul,
tie it all up with brown twine,
mail it off, care of Unicef…
If they’re so hungry, maybe they’d appreciate
cold liver and onions.
But I am saved,
for just 42 cents — pennies — a day,
courtesy of the land
waaaaay over there,
where children are fed,
palaces raised -
and absolution is bought
For the price of your morning coffee!
I. A Mother Weeps
With hungry eyes and fearful glance
Her child squats with dirty feet
in crumbling doorways -
Wonders why angry men
Burn flags, feed each other bullets.
Nurtured in ignorance, fed on hate
He plays at dangerous games
And shouts, “I am a man!”
No food today, and yet
His belly’s rounded, full of faith
And dynamite.
A mother weeps.
II. A Daughter Comes of Age
At half past six, she sits alone,
With a week-old crust
of tadig and a pan
of rusty, dusty water
and the memory of angry words -
words they never
read from the Koran.
At seven, she crawls inside
The hated veil,
Shroud of mystery,
Mother’s womb,
Just to see what it feels like,
To be a woman.
At half past eight, she brushes off the flies.
Looks into the lifeless eyes
of the one who gave her birth.
To be a woman?
She knows now, what Death feels like.
III. Growing Up: Just Pennies a Day“
Clean your plate,
or it’ll rain! Don’t you know
there are children starving in Africa?”
Bangladesh,
Colombia, Peru, Philadelphia,
Miami, Australia, Los Angeles, New York…
You knew. You knew
I wanted to scrape clean my plate,
scrape clean my soul,
tie it all up with brown twine,
mail it off, care of Unicef…
If they’re so hungry, maybe they’d appreciate
cold liver and onions.
But I am saved,
for just 42 cents — pennies — a day,
courtesy of the land
waaaaay over there,
where children are fed,
palaces raised -
and absolution is bought
For the price of your morning coffee!
Devil’s Tower National Monument, Wyoming
Bear Lodge — sacred space,
Prayer ties waving in the breeze --
No devil lives here.
Mount Rushmore National Memorial, South Dakota
Expressions, stone-faced--
What would they think, now,
Looking down, on us?
Bear Lodge — sacred space,
Prayer ties waving in the breeze --
No devil lives here.
Mount Rushmore National Memorial, South Dakota
Expressions, stone-faced--
What would they think, now,
Looking down, on us?
