I wrote my first haiku in honour of #GeorgeFloyd. Inspired by the beautiful poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar & Dr Maya Angelou. Also, the iris plant is named after the goddess of rainbow, referring to the “wide variety of flower colours found among the species.”

#BlackLivesMatter

“Spring irises bloom.
The caged bird no longer sings—
a knee on his throat.”

 

—Kamand Kojouri

“It is a strange time, my dear.
A novel virus haunts our streets.
Days feel like weeks,
weeks like months.
We’re blasted with new news every second—
yes and then no and then yes and no,
feeding our primal panic
to hoard goods and leave shelves
breadless, riceless.
They tell us the pandemic
makes all equal—the poor and very rich—
then why are the poor poorer
and the rich profiting?

It is a strange time, my dear.
Army men are marching our streets.
They force us to stay inside,
threaten and arrest
for a walk in the park.
They wage small wars against us,
but this battle began long ago.
The elite technocrats are crowing
in their silicone valleys
as corporations grow
and small businesses fold
with mountains of debt—
the centre cannot, will not, hold!

It is a strange time, my dear.
Mainstream media reports
the world has never been safer
as they terrorise the chambers
of our minds.
This stress, this anxiety
is killing our immunity.
But we must do it all for the elderly—
or so they say!
When have they ever cared for our elders?
When have they ever cared for our vulnerable?
We go to bed dreaming of toilet paper
while they dismantle the world economy.
Family businesses go bust
all so we can protect the people,
but only the people are suffering!
At the end of this, those retired
will have peanuts for pensions.
They are stripping us of everything
whilst our eyes are fixed on our screens.
And how dare we say it’s a strange time
when
in seven months
we’ll make America
great again.”

―Kamand Kojouri

“I try to envisage the passengers
seated in neat rows.
Everyone knows the real danger
is at take-off and landing,
but after an hour delay,
their plane was soaring. Relieved,
they whispered prayers, dreaming
of families and friends at arrival gates
clutching coffee cups and bouquets.
I like to think it was calm,
the plane blanketed by the dark’s caress.
Cellphones put away,
the cabin lights dimmed,
babies cooing in cots,
and refreshments on their way.
176 hearts beating in one narrow womb.
Closer to the heavens,
I know their journey was short—
earth angels for a while
who were returning home.”

—Kamand Kojouri