Counted On Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Counted on

Dad always counted on my mom when
We had lands, lot of farms, in village

He called men to come and join and help
In that way each brought own shovel

The shovels were narrow, very long
Sharp edges worked as teeth; Trapezoid

Men were of the village
Knew one another
Left footed, right footed

They stood in one line
But still divided
Left footed on one side
Right footed on other

United, their shovels synchronised
Cut through the farmland as if one

This is how they ploughed
Tilled grounds of dad's farms.

Men gave names to the things
Mostly nice, meaningful, logical
(Not always true for the mankind…)
One of such names is "Persian Garden"

Rectangles are pieces of the land
Levelled to narrow parts of flat
Located on slopes of mountains
Make steps as the: "Persian Gardens".

Tractors cannot work in sloped places
Himalaya, Persia and Andes have samples
In the past till recent men and ox did handle
Now, rarely, one may have a tiller

My childhood never saw a tiller
Not even an ox for ploughing

Only men…
Only men…
Only men…

Obvious was custom
Host must feed invited
Very good if not best

Dad followed the culture
If the guests had been hosts
They too, would, be very similar

So mom cooked, prepared
Water and dairy and vegetables
That had bought, or borrowed;
In a way or other, had managed

Then was time for a boy
One of us would be called
Sometimes more…
"Take these to…"

The rest was clear
It had been repeated
And we were well aware
As easy as a note for singer

Water was in the vase of clay
Yogurt and the dairy product in the jars
Same with bowls not many, yet clay
Except for the spoons…were wooden…

The bread was fresh and home made
House was filled with scent of good smells
Of fire and smoke and the food, and bread…

The meat would be purchased
Or dad killed one of our animals
(Used his knife,)
Then blew in the holes that he cut
And butchered to pieces, when skinned
Mom and dad were masters, in their jobs

Mom also did go to check on farms
But rarely used her hand since she was
Rich with wealth and wife of dad;
He loved her with his might
So she had servants and gardeners

But cooking and the food management
Was hers and only her…

She knew what to cook and how much
Her eyes were scale for the portions
Of the meat, spices, beans, crops

Village life…simple, hard…
Was tactful, organized…

They knew the seasons and items
Required for the time and purpose…



But today we are all customers
Dogs in leash and donkeys or horses
Reined tight and wear blinds…

Companies run circus
They decide, are master
To make us dance as bear

They make us go through the fire
Roar but calm, without bites…
"Now you are civilised…"
Elephants, and lions,
Tigers, bears
Jaguars…

We sleep and wake up with clocks
They set them where they want
Once on walls, then on racks
On our wrists, necklaces
To PC, the cellphone
Or laptop…
One morning we hear no alarm
A look at the window and around
Declares what scares us…

"You are late…"
We rush, run without a breakfast…
Traffic, car or bus, underground…

In sweat we arrive
Already "Late you are…"
We are warned, penalised…

Have no call and no text
No email…

We feel like the bull in abettor
Knife has cut the vein but
Head hangs on…

And we roam and we run
Mass of men and women behind us

Journalists take photos
Articles are written
Attentions we have drawn
Since we are "Caricatures…"

We are raised and trained and abide
Rein and leash are no more are
On our hands, necks and legs
They are carved in the mind
We are taught to kiss ass
To get job…

Own cellphone and wear shoes to be cool
Pay more for the pants that are worn, torn
Since they are called fashion as is hair style
Of Hitler and slaves…

Work for them
Get money that we pay
To buy their products and for rent
That makes us look alike and shameless! ! !