Holly Jahangiri

@jahangiri.us

1326 Followers 1339 Following

Award-winning author and poet who draws inspiration from her family, from her own childhood adventures (some of which only happened in her overactive imagination), and from readers of all ages. President, Poetry Society of Texas Houston, Texas she/her

A visual snapshot of my activity on Bluesky, so far, in 2026, from https://www.madebyolof.com/bluesky-wrapped/
Lush fuschia bloom of a hedgehog cactus.
Author looks through telescope at Lowell Observatory.
A photograph by Holly Jahangiri of sunset taken from atop Mauna Kea.
Kilauea erupts effusively. Black specks of tephra are tossed over 800 feet into the sky.
Red anthurium and ginger
A field full of red flowers on the way to Wiederkehr's vinyards in Arkansas.
Roseate spoonbill on the lake in Kickerillo-Mischer nature preserve
Military Members: What to Do lf You're Ordered to Violate the Constitution War and Peace DoD Inspector General Hotline: 800-424-9098 https://www.dodig.mil/Hotline GI Rights Hotline (Independent & Confidential): 877-447-4487 https://girightshotline.org Army IG (local office lookup) https://ig.army.mil JAG (Military Legal Counsel): Request through your chain of command or base legal office EO / Chaplain (for confidential internal reporting): Check your unit or installation directory
A tiny purple ninja on a purple paper dragon.
Migrant Bluebonnets spread their azure hue, warm Texas breezes give their cue: blooms bow their heads and turn as one to welcome back the morning sun as bees share news and sip the dew. Sweet honey, amber, wildflowers infused with habaneros’ fire - Olympus’ gods would trade their powers, to steal bees’ nectar, risk Queen’s ire, and while away their golden hours. There they lie, in fields of clover, sated now their plundering’s over. Exhausted, too, the Queen of bees finds refuge, shade in nearby trees. Hunger of her hive’s what drove her. Across the meadow, wings in flight beat time and urge them on. The hive hums a dirge. If only they could fight they would, with all their tiny might keep Queen and hive, their home, alive.
Mother knows the truth, the sorrow of the bloody egg now cracked above the open flame, reduced to breakfast, scrambled breath of another's young on the soft, slack, formless maw -- her son scatters corn dreams of war that she may labor to produce another and another and another until they lay her on the block, neck stretched and severed, gently pull the feathers from her tired flesh declare her tenderness a virtue.
Ekphrastic poem, "Ocean Biome," based on artwork of the same name by Caroline Z. Marcos. Within the mermaid's purse there lurks potential: a toothless, embryonic shark, half-formed, the harmless killer sleeps. Microscopic fragments, cork, float free of messages and empty bottles drift, aimless, lacking purpose. Kaleidoscopic mandalas bob deep, still glistening with surface-captured light, warmed by sun- irradiated clouds in fiery shades of tangerine. Lemon-slice reflections, burnished gold, a blazing comet-fish encapsulated in methane bubble - electric blue - streaks left, tail on fire. Translucent, stained-glass blossoms glow deep below the sapphire sea resolved to rise, returning to the barren land— Devoid of us. Indifferent. Invertebrates find growth, feed on peace among strange ornaments in a silent, alien ocean biome.
Revised poem: Progress, They Call It (a Contrapuntal Poem) progress, they call it: slashing, burning, progress— can’t stop the forward motion of a nation! encroaching, elbowing, uprooting the living who would want to thwart the people’s will, or kill the canopy of verdant sunlit trees that once breathed sweet aroma of crisply minted bills enrobed in leather with our exhalations. we breathed theirs until they gasped the faintest whiff of manliness, invoking will, their last, until they fell to saw and ax, bulldozed determination. ancestors’ words forgotten as new money’s burned to make a way for strip malls and wealth, unfettered by past sense, decorum, grows, power lines—such progress don’t go well with pines— it goes to feed the engines of industry that only thrive incinerating cedar selves in swirling smoke coal-fired on the backs of miners, steelworkers, “little people”— their ashes drifting heavenwards and carried those dispensable, extra mouths to feed until on the santa ana winds to add a colored layer the robots shove them off the ledge on the cliffs of palo duro choking out the summer sun.
Screenshot: God liked my post.
A poem: Progress, They Call It (a Contrapuntal Poem - every other line comprises a standalone poem, then the two are woven together) progress, they call it: slashing, burning, progress— can’t stop the forward motion of a nation! encroaching, elbowing, uprooting the living who would want to thwart the people’s will, or kill the canopy of verdant sunlit trees that once breathed sweet aroma of crisply minted bills enrobed in leather with our exhalations. we breathed theirs until they gasped the faintest whiff of manliness, invoking will, their last, until they fell to saw and ax, bulldozed determination. ancestors’ words forgotten as new money’s burned to make a way for strip malls and wealth, unfettered by past sense, decorum, grows, power lines—such progress don’t go well with pines— it goes to feed the engines of industry that only thrive incinerating cedar selves in swirling smoke coal-fired on the backs of miners, steelworkers, “little people”— their ashes drifting heavenwards and carried those dispensable, extra mouths to feed until on the santa ana winds to add a colored layer the robots shove them off a cliff to the cliffs of palo duro choking out the summer sun.
Austerity’s an unfamiliar thing but soon, hard times befall us—frugal skills could be required of us all. But no despairing, now! Do not accept the price! Eggs hardly justify the sacrifice. Four years: we face a famine, starved of hope; grief tries to overshadow all our joys. Here stand courageous, friends—live well and laugh instead – your tears won’t grow a thriving crop. No justice there to harvest, there’s no peace. Know kind compassion, struggle on, survive— live on, to fight another brutal day. May fear subside and warm winds guide as we negotiate the coming change, resist old foes: our apathy towards avarice, pretending “how it’s always been” precludes a quest to build a lock, to lift all boats, return some bounty—builders, dreamers— stay the course. We can, we will, we must together tear down walls between us. Let us work with one another, forge a peace. Victorious, the battle-weary rest; We needn’t “fight” on every clichéd front Except where vengeance and destruction lie a Yearning, yawning chasm; one man’s only zeal. There, fight we must, in self-defense, and win.
Three happy little monsters celebrating the new year. Caption: Happy New Year 2025
Holly Jahangiri (childhood photo) on stage of S. S. United States.
Holly Jahangiri as a child looking back at the S. S. United States in the distance.
Cover image of the children's book, A New Leaf for Lyle, by Holly Jahangiri: a smiling little boy jumping into the air, tossing fall leaves all around. Book description: Lyle's heart is in the right place, but his habit of lying about everything from whether he's brushed his teeth to why he's missed the bus make it hard for people to believe him when he does tell the truth. He doesn't want to be known as "Lyle the Liar." Can Lyle ever regain the trust of family and friends?
Writer meme. Woman points to one of many computer monitors. A man peers over her shoulder. She says, "See? She searched for chloroform, blood sprayer patterns, acid that dissolves bodies, various blunt edged weapons and the difference between the degrees of murder charges. Should I set her as a security risk?" The man replies, "No, look here. She also searched for coffee memes and about three dozen synonyms for the word 'carefully.' It's another damn writer. Move on."
A statue of a man fishing at the Dallas Arboretum.
Fall colors in Southeast Texas. Autumn leaves reflected on a lake just before sunset.
Tiny little me next to a REALLY tall Senegalese palace guard. At least I thought he was really tall - when I was 5!
Two inept robots attempting to frost a chocolate cake but making a horrible mess of the cake, the kitchen, and each other.
Poem, "There Are Worse Things Than Death" by Holly Jahangiri.
Holly, aged 5, sitting on a donkey. Probably in Senegal. Maybe. Who knows where. The donkey is beige and white and wearing red flowers in its hair.
A copy of the cover of "People, Places, and Pets" anthology in a personalized award given to Holly Jahangiri by Pen & Keyboard Writers group, an affiliate of OWFI.org
Poem, "Brighton's Bar & Grill," by Holly Jahangiri Brighton’s Bar & Grill I sip sorrow from a filthy glass. Cheap gin that tastes of disappointment Hides frustration drowned like an olive. Old smoke hangs like a dirty question Over the coiffed heads of shallow blondes-- Amateur lounge lizards' willing prey. My restless, roving eyes search for you, And travelling salesmen from Jersey Think I'm dropping hints, and head my way. Not inclined toward their idle chit-chat, I flash that "unavailable" look, But one's too brash to notice warnings. Eyes that are not yours, filled with longing-- He'll never be your equal in that Unavoidable comparison. But the vestiges of you are drowned In the haze of smoke and cheap cologne. Strange lips take liberties with my mouth. Sipping at his drink instead of mine, We dance the Texas Two-Step, wasted, (Badly) like the mating dance of crows. Slipping under silk stockings, black lace And a table that covers nothing, His hands press between too eager thighs. Not your hands, but near enough to fill Aching voids that lack of you has left, If only for an empty hour. No, I won't be coming here again. The junk in the jukebox fails to charm And the only ones who come here now Come to burn the refuse of their dreams Cinders of a thousand love letters The only light, a dying ember. The nearly dead, and nearly famous Not sawdust on the floor, but ashes-- Just another torch song up in flames Copyright 1989 - 2024 Holly Jahangiri. All rights reserved.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Lone noodle and leaf on a welcome mat. Testing Alt text in a comment.
Cover of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
Don't tell the others, but Sammy is my favorite. Close-up picture of a black cat.
Heron standing in a creek
Poem "Verbum sap sapienti est" by Holly Jahangiri, from Walking the Earth: Life's Perspectives in Poetry.
The moon shining over pines in a bright blue morning sky.
Poem, "Is Cleanliness Next to Godliness?" A humorous poem many mothers can relate to, by Holly Jahangiri, published in Walking the Earth: Life's Perspectives in Poetry. Author's desk covered in books on writing and other knick-knacks.
Poem "Perverse Cat" by Holly Jahangiri, published in Walking The Earth: Life's Perspectives in Poetry (2005).
Black cat, Sammy, poised over LEGO typewriter as if getting ready to type.
A virtual certificate with text "Celebrating 10M users on Bluesky, #882,655, Holly Jahangiri ‪@hollyjahangiri.bsky.social‬, joined on Sep 6, 2023"
A Christmas tree with gifts underneath, fire in the fireplace, candles all around the room. #AI
Dahlias