Archive for February, 2012


a red tide of monks rising
alms bowls held to the sky
upside down to invoke protest
burmese oppression stifles
like sticky jungle heat
their red robes folding out
to penetrate the streets
the poor and hurting shout from rooftops
thousands are gathering in discontent
but brainwashed soldiers
in their olive drab
bar the way to freedom
gassy tears stream from faces
chocking lungs and dreams
the peace of Buddha met with raging violence
those thin souls of promise
beaten and caged
the iron fists of generals to win the day
and what is left?
a dead body so holy
face down in the muddied creek
but there have been witnesses
atrocities caught by the camera’s eye
and the world sees
and the world knows what has happened
now the strong will rise
and defend the helpless
surely they will not sit idle
but they do not raise a hand
as the helpless die in vane
soon shall all be forgotten
but those starving
those dead and languishing prisoners
they will not forget
the cage they live in
a country or a prison…
should we not answer?
those wretched cries so loud
or simply sit and watch
while the iron bars of poverty
jail the souls of men

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/27/12


This is important! You should check it out!

Poetry is and will always be the main focus of my blog but from time to time I feel obligated to share and post information that I believe needs to be shared with all so Check out my Uncle’s website if you are interested in an actual, workable, economic solution that would save the middle class and help make the United States the kind of country that we all can be proud of living in! If you are sick of the rich getting richer and the disapprearence of the middle class than you will enjoy learning about what he calls a Carefree economy.

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari
Zero-Cost Economy – A blueprint to create general economic security in a Carefree economy
A blueprint to create general economic security in a Carefree economy


think of needle and thread
the way it winds yarn and silk
creating warm fabric sheets
that shore us against the breaking wind
and the beautiful fingers that clutch and pull
like a song-running pathway
pacing over folds and buttons
the method carried on
generation after generation
from ancient grandmother
to fresh, sweet daughters
they come in quilted ways
to hang in tapestry halls
swaddling infant sons
they are keepsakes from our past
we dream of the warmth
shared by families of old
and conjure up fanciful stories
that are never seldom told
for history is in the making
and the working hands of men
they come home to their mothers
to confess their brand of sin
i wonder if they know
how we think of them again
how we read the patchwork story
from the dusty attic within
and if we should ever meet
in this world or the next
will the stories we have shared
fade with mortal light
or will we still see
the song of fingers falling
bound by thread and stitching
to remember what once was
the mother and the daughter
and the son that never came

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/22/12


“the dervish”

a dervish whirling
in a cloud of midnight blue
the tumble of resting sounds
that roll across the dunes
appearing as golden mountains
sold unto the eternal sea

the bells of ritual ring tight
they are clutched in vibrant hands
furiously dispersing elements of tone
to the hills and to the valleys
rising out of medieval forests
near the desert’s edge below
branches hang and shatter
burdened by the weight of shadow
and of sifted fallin snow

graceful words of promise
come from wooden mouths
that feed like so many moths
to inflame the kindred souls
walking from desolation
to the warming lake of salt

they float on time
to the ripple of pebbles tossed
embellishing the landscape
from edge to maddening edge

the shore now they regain
to bleed the milk of palm
quenching odious thirst
to mend the voice of reason
crossing to and from
far from distant highways
and the formless hedging rows

the dervish halting slowly
to falter amongst the piling robes
resting near the edge of safety
the white-hot charcoal glows
he has come for the song of promise
and to drink the tea of spirits
a wildly inward flow

now a call from the minaret resounding
the voice of prayer disintegrates
a rush of deep emotions
dip into the cavernous well
stirring up the images
the playful have to tell

and when bright morning comes
alone in sweet repair
it will heal the ones who danced there
or drifted listlessly in the air

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/21/12


“the sword and the soul”

oh sweet rapier
born of victory and defeat
see the sentiment of man
housed in rusty scabbard
above the mantle piece
how once your mighty thrust cut the air
pointing to the yellow iron moon
sleep gently now upon your brickish throne
picture frame families gathered round
they shall be your entourage now
an army of light-shadow souls
carrying the crest of peace to distant kingdoms

on these thoughts i ponder the wondering way
all the while scarlet fevers spark and drift
they circle and fade like twin destinies
one in this life, one in another
billion year old light exits far and away
only to return from origin
a cage of geometric shapes yet unknown
but home to all…
pulled by dark, sightless strength
and unimaginable heat

what place is this now
where here we find ourselves
vessels bound by a trick of science
gentle, vulnerable and weeping
but these are tears of solace
let anguish not be known
for in the righteous
or in the weak
the pulse of truth sparking embers are born

so come unhinged
and see the flux of mirrored light
it warms you with a gentle caress
in the way of peerless morning’s magic
and follows you long erring
the distant path alone
binding you to home and hearth
a cradle for your infancy
the melody of transient souls
unencumbered by the legend
and the wasting days of old

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/21/12


“the painter”

make your color from oil and ash
wash the grey from sullen landscapes
for we are born of radiant hue
marking our faces for war and dance
homes and cliff sides find our visions
we make ready for the changing of days
lovers quarrel and make up
all in the span of rightful time
and these things too must be felt
in the way the chill touches morning air
creating soft motions that ripple the spine
old photographs reveal and weather
filling leather-bound diaries with smoke
placing sepia-toned faces just so carefully
in their places and voided spaces
what is the sum of all these parts
a great story seldom told
built from the dancing color of waters
sparkling at shore’s end
what a blessing to be alive
and washed in brilliant sheen
for in this moment of pleasure
cloaked and bathed in steam
we shout from distant rooftops
longing for the places we’ve never been

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/17/12


“we know not the setting sun”

what is rare in this life?
two hundred thousand bodies dancing in unison
effecting random number counters that log the power of human emotion
the souls of dead presidents that still walk the earth
speaking softly and carrying a big stick
to explore the poles of your imagination
finding magnetic zero and laughing all the way
what dark sounds rise in the canopies
what hot air shames breath to exit
are we searching for diamonds again
buried as they are in south african soil
coated with the blood of child soldiers
staining the pendant chests of central park queens
or is it the gold of south america
laid out in mayan smallpox graves
or some other precious stone
value determined in death
some would say it is the canvas
on which we tell our story
born out through the ages
like so many colored shades of grass
swaying in the wind
they leave their imprint
the fossils of what once was
they cry for what we have lost
never to be returned
and so,
on sad days come sad words
that some may choose to overlook
but sadness is the north
and proves the opposite
happiness to be unknown without
i turn you now
toward the pendulum that swings
and i ask of you again
what is rare in this life?
the beginnings of a baby’s smile
first attempts at laughter
and the joy it brings
birds of paradise rejoicing
on south pacific shores
unseen as of yet by men
and the ancient mariner aloft
looking down from his mast at sea
three hundred and sixty degrees of separation
he knows you and you know me
and in the end
what will we become
a handful of memories
soon to be forgotten
but not by mother and not by son
and the circle will not be broken
it cannot be undone
for in the time of loving
we know not the setting sun

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/16/12

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