Mehran Hashemi: A Poet’s Journey from Silence to Words  

I was born and raised in Iran, in a neighborhood where dreams often felt out of reach. Financial struggles shaped my childhood, and from an early age, I learned what it meant to fight—not with fists, but with resilience.  

“”blowing bubbles 

takes me back to my childhood

when i was immersed 

in sweet reveries 

dreaming of blooming hope

when the world’s vastness

could be grasped by my little hands 

and i wasn’t burdened 

by the sun that never sets””

As a student, I excelled academically, but beneath my achievements lay an unbearable weight of stress and anxiety. Something inside me whispered that I was different, that I was meant for something greater, yet the world outside wasn’t so kind. Bullying was a constant in my life—first as a child, then as a teenager in high school. My body felt weak, not just because of the torment I endured but also because of my fragile health. Chronic sinusitis and severe allergies kept me in and out of hospitals, making antibiotics a staple in my life. I was a slender, self-conscious boy, struggling with deep insecurities. I attended therapy for over a decade to navigate stress, social anxiety, and panic attacks. But no matter how hard I tried, I felt like I was drowning in a world that refused to understand me.

“”depression is like a dark umbrella 

that doesn’t let me

face the rain””

Then, in 2019, everything changed.  

Scrolling through Instagram, I came across a short, powerful poem. Just a few words, yet they carried an entire universe of meaning. Something about it resonated deeply with me, sparking a desire to create something just as meaningful. I started writing poetry—simple, short verses that captured my emotions, struggles, and hopes. At first, I hesitated to share them, but when I did, people connected with my words in ways I never imagined.  

“”if i am a poet today

it’s because i once gazed at the moon

and she reminded me  

that i carry a sun within””

For the first time, I felt seen. Writing became my sanctuary, a place where my thoughts—homeless for so long—finally found a home. The love and support I received encouraged me to keep writing, first on Instagram and then on other platforms. The more I wrote, the more my audience grew.  

“”when nobody was there

to listen to me 

i noticed the ears of a paper 

silently wanted to hear

so i talked  

then the world listened””

In 2023, I took the leap and published my first poetry book, Light Needs Darkness to Shine. The response was overwhelming. After that, I published Drinking Ink (2024), Caged Hope (2024), and Homeless Thoughts (2025).  

My poetry was also featured in Poets Straight from the Notes App (2024) and Musing Around at Midnight (2024). I later collaborated on My Sad is Sadder Than Yours (2023), an art-graphic poetry book, and Thunderstroke (2025), a poetical memoir.  

After publishing Light Needs Darkness to Shine, I began receiving significant recognition. I was featured in a paperback magazine, interviewed by several online platforms, and had articles written about my journey and my work. The attention and appreciation from readers and fellow creatives fueled my desire to keep writing and sharing my voice.  

Today, I continue to write, not just for myself but for those who feel unseen, unheard. I write for the child who, like me, felt too small for the world, for the dreamer who just needed one sentence to remind them they mattered.  

“”i know life can be ugly 

but remember 

everything has a reason 

like when you’re hopeless 

and your head is down 

you see a beautiful flower

on the ground that you couldn’t find 

through the sky”

Because sometimes, all it takes is a single poem to change a life.

bubblewrap innuendo


prime delivery

my latent desires listed

on the gift receipt


Heidi McIver/Kelly Sauvage Moyer


~


paperclip mudbath


just-finished manuscript

wine stains

camouflage the tears


Heidi McIver/Kelly Sauvage Moyer


~


fate donation


chronic illness

i gift my suffering

to the allopaths


Heidi McIver/Kelly Sauvage Moyer



~


soapstone 


tattered loofah

the jagged edges

of my heart


Heidi McIver/Kelly Sauvage Moyer



~


pheromone subsistence


third anniversary

he expresses 

the cat’s anal glands


Heidi McIver/Kelly Sauvage Moyer


~


every separate pine needle


collective fate

we form a tattered tapestry

atop the forest floor


Heidi McIver/Kelly Sauvage Moyer

G E M B U N [1-3 or 1-4] [pronounced Gem-Boon]

A Gembun is made up of either a one-word first link or anything up to one sentence, to be capped by a haiku of up to four lines.

The Gembun has to include an element of suggestion in either the opening sentence, the haiku or in both. It was created by ai li on the 12th of June 1997, inspired by Larry Kimmel’s TIBUN.

The Heart Needs no Pen or Paper

You are there and I am here
We write to each other every day
It’s second nature now to pick up my pen
but today no new words come to me
I know my heartbeat leads to you
And no doubt that yours beats for me too
Sometimes we need not even speak at all
For what is in the heart needs no lines
It beats without effort as does our love
But you’re still in my every thought
And when I wake, I know you are still mine
If I get no letter from you today, I do not fret
For a letter can’t take the place of what is in your heart
And what is in your heart needs no pen or paper
I can always feel your love, regardless… And I smile. 


Alone…

Loneliness and sadness grew in my heart without you

I tried to find in someone else what I found in you

What I failed to realize is that you can not be replaced

When two hearts are one, none can separate them,

no matter how much I try to move forward..

If he would try to touch my hand, it would chill me

I couldn’t look in his eyes…

Because I couldn’t find my reflection

You hold the key that locks these golden chains around my heart

I need your kiss, your touch, and the love only we share

But I have no answers…

Because though we are apart in distance

our hearts couldn’t be closer

So I will stay alone with your memory

Because I can’t live a life with someone else that was only meant for us

I pray that one day you find your way back to me

You will find me where you left me…. Alone

There You Are

When I read your old letters, my tears always flow

Should I believe the words I now read today?

They used to be so clear with intent

Now I question if you still mean them

Do you think I can no longer feel you?

Circumstances unraveled our relationship

They can not be glued back together

but have been put back together differently

You try hard to pretend we are fine

though I still feel your deep resentment

But good memories still remain here in my heart

as sounds of our laughter peek through at times

And as I drift off to sleep, there you are.

Kristy Raines was born Kristy Rasmussen, in Oakland, California, on April 9, 1957. Kristy is a poet, writer, freelance journalist, and advocate for human rights internationally. She has received many literary awards and humanitarian recognition certificates.

She is most known internationally for her unique style of writing. Kristy has recently launched her first poetry book, titled, “The Passion Within Me”, and is awaiting the launch of  her second self-published book written with respected poet Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai of India, of Epistolary Poems, titled, “I Cross My Heart from East to West, Volume One” on Valentine’s Day on Amazon.  Kristy is also working on her first two fantasy books titled, “Princess and The Lion”, and, “Rings, Things, and Butterfly Wings”.  

Kristy also writes short stories for children and song lyrics.

A drop of water

By Anna Keiko (Shanghai, China)

A drop of water

Dripping day after day

The creek became the sea

A ray of light

Shines year after year

A small seedling becomes a big tree

An encounter

A white sheet alike meets a coloured pen

Drawing a spring full of love.

A Bad Bowl of Oatmeal in Ogden, Utah

for abraham smith

you hand me a coffee mug of grains

& weathered berries floating in water

instant black coffee

like my grandfather made

when he was laid off

by the mill in 1984

while you wait for your girlfriend

to leave her husband

after years of being knocked around

your hands shaking

we’re both left waiting

for the sun to come up

there’s nothing about this morning

that doesn’t feel cold.

Lake Erie Prayer

for ken mikolowski

the best poems

have no money

they white knuckle

the afternoon

balancing the weight

of an empty soup bowl

swimming

in dirty water

because like us

they just

don’t want

to die

in detroit.

David Lynch at Little Pete’s

you sat alone

dipping russian sweet bread

into split pea soup

at 3 in the morning

the waitresses warned everyone

not to approach you

the lights overhead

flickered like a dying firefly

half drunk

when they told me

you’d paid for my hamburger

i watched you walk out

& go around the corner

weirder than any frame of film

ever captured

of a fly drowning

in a bowl of soup.

John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023) and Dead Photographs, (Stubborn Mule Press, 2024). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

In Eleanor Vincent’s latest memoir, she quotes a therapist who describes marriage as a joint project both partners need to look after, like a puppy. The “puppy” becomes a third character in Disconnected. Eleanor and Lars both have individual life stories, but as they interact, the partnership takes on a life of its own.

The story follows her late-in-life relationship: meeting, dating, breaking up with, reconciling with, marrying, and ultimately divorcing Lars. Bits of backstory or asides that inform the present but aren’t quite long or relevant enough for full chapters get combined into “Things I Left Out,” in each of the memoir’s three sections. 

These asides, and short chapters, fill out Vincent’s story and reflect her willingness to do self-analysis and examine her background and her relationship in full. Vincent describes where she lives, a “wealth-adjacent” SF Bay Area suburb, near things she likes: trees, order, quiet. She acknowledges that her surroundings might represent the peace she craved growing up in a high-conflict family with an abusive father and parents married to each other to conceal being LGBTQ. On a smaller scale, we see how her psyche and childhood background give her a need for order inside the home. This helps us understand why staying tidy and organized is important to her, and how it becomes a conflict with Lars and his need to feel secure by holding onto things.

She also does some work to understand Lars by talking with him as much as he will allow and reading up and joining support groups for partners of autistic people. She shares information she has read about how many autistic people think and feel and applies that to her husband. Her efforts to understand his point of view and his preferences give the book depth and fill out the story so it’s the tale of a marriage “puppy” rather than a lonely wife’s monologue. Other societal issues, such as age discrimination, further weaken the fragile “puppy,” as they can no longer afford marriage counseling when Lars gets wrongly fired from work. 

Vincent varies sentence length and starts chapters at points of dramatic tension, then fills in backstory to catch readers up to that point. The whole book isn’t overly long, but covers an entire relationship’s life cycle. It includes bits of humor amid tragedy, usually through witty after-the-fact observations. For example, Lars would go silent or discuss random scientific facts during moments of tension. Once, desperate to be heard, Vincent beat his chest, then brought them both inside her place so that “the neighbors would not see the spectacle of an old woman beating up Bill the Science Guy.” 

Disconnected is one story of one marriage with one autistic person involved. Eleanor and Lars do not represent every mixed-neurotype marriage out there, and Lars is not like every autistic person. While Lars does share some traits with many autistic people, everyone’s experiences will vary. Vincent conveys this through focusing intently on her own life and relationship for the first two-thirds of the book and only bringing in information on autism near the end as part of her desperate journey to understand Lars. This highlights that this is a memoir, not a textbook illustrating the inevitable struggles within all intimate relationships with autistic people.

As Vincent mentions, many experts now say that we should think of autism as a different neurotype with strengths and weaknesses, like a different and equally valid culture, rather than as simply a less able version of the neurotypical brain. And Lars shows some solid strengths: in situations where social expectations are cut and dried, he can navigate a whole room with ease, he is excellent with travel logistics and phone repair, and a gifted zydeco dancer.  

Still, while the neurodiversity model may make sense on a broader cultural basis, and a human rights basis, if a particular person is in a situation where they need to do things to function that are difficult for their neurotype, they (and those close to them) can experience autism as a disability. And Vincent underscores how it’s important to honor people’s personal experiences and struggles without judgment, which would apply to autistic people as well as their neurotypical relatives. 

As Vincent painfully discovers, sometimes love and the desire to make a relationship work is not enough when varying neurotypes present clashing emotional needs. And sometimes there isn’t much one person can do when their partner has already given up and checked out of the relationship. Sometimes people are just better off apart, and it’s best to separate with dignity and let the “puppy” go to a good home elsewhere. 

Eleanor Vincent’s Disconnected is available for order here.

Departures

losing CO2 in the Jet2 queue,
staining Carhartt with heartache, 
barcodes beep & promises pall

between staff & sightseers 
& parents cheering up children 
& new lovers arriving
chinos & eyes empty
into a grey tray, passing 
Saint Peter with an automatic 
& cutting through pictureless clouds
to arrivals, you were waiting,
& you opened your arms, like wings





Villa Diodati

like a leaf, you were ambered,
acquiescent, ambling the grounds – 
gravel crunched with Converse 
& a tableaux daydream: 
Byron sailing, or the Shelleys 
in love – & then, the villa doors 
unveiled untouched antiques
& portraits eyeing every word 
like the porcelain it was spoken over – 
& sobering outside, ringtones 
revealed Omicron will part you,
for months or more, before
the sun left for another city,
& the stars began to emerge
with the shyness of spiders




Geneviève


there you were: star-crossed
                      & stark, nipping the neck
               of Calvinus, flicking Winstons from windowsill, 
                              scribbled MA sonnets 
                        & scrunched love letters smothered
                                                    under feet & frown, 
                                          Twelve Carat Toothache
                                     cutting the silence,
            your rib cage crushing, lungs 
                                   heaving in the June heatwave
               with undiagnosed pneumonia
                                  & pleural effusion, 
                                 coughing blood
                            & wheezing cheater




Light Years

another spin around the sun, & since, I’ve learnt that every mirror needs light: if light is c = 1/(e0m0)1/2 = 2.998 X 108m/s (James Clerk Maxwell, circa. 1864), it’s the magnetism keeping us close – if light is electromagnetic radiation (Wikipedia), it’s the life of moths – if light is a wave, it's scattering most from our hearts of silvered sand & limestone – if light is The Dark Side of the Moon (1973), then it’s you refracting all my colours – & if light is a distance, it’s always between us, because I have realised there is not a greater love poem than a blank piece of paper, or the cursor, blinking for us to begin, reflecting me in the screen where you have been waiting for light years