Archive for April, 2012

“for children and for generations”

hail to the chief
for iron thrones were made
and the hats of tradition have been hung
placed on the heads of jesters
with fear and loathing
they call upon the races of men
to scale the icy walls of this earth
to find a lofty perch
for colored banners yet wave
and when the rockets glare no longer red
we may all fade to black
but this is not another song of war
but only homage to the fantasies of greatness
there among the crumbling aqueducts they feasted
on women and wine
and spoke the tales victory
even as the choking vines tightened
even as the great coin faces found homely pockets to fill
the written fire of words found walls to collect
dissidents to rouse
and people to clutch the roots of change
why does this vicious cycle spin
like wheels on a brickyard sunday
why do the learned not see
for even a veil so thin should cast a weary gaze
so will we find ourselves amongst the rubble
knowing not of the coming storm
or will we reach to stay the pillars that weaken
will we bring home the banners of glory
to find them resting with each and every soul
together lifted to reasonable aspirations
find yourself pondering the choice i give you
and let the weight of such things be upon your mind
for in the darkening hour
the strong light of reason may yet find the cracks
and when you lift foot to pavement
seeking out your day’s reform
think not of gold and silver
but of the children starving
for yes they live
and yes they die
not so very far from the door of your home

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/26/12

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“violence”

what face of change darkens the thin light
sculpting out the wet glass of stormy sand
a forced feeling of damp anxiety
leaving the lungs in a warm breath
i have torn the limbs from the dying tree
and sown the seeds of perpetual motion
filling out the atmosphere in strange designs
i will shift the shape of time honored tradition
to embark on dawn light cruises
that lash out at eternity
and in these words i craft the miles green
born of the slow flow wasting
a plastic ocean surge
from the steps of the tibetan highlands
to the low arching valley of death
a satellite searching the deep, dark web
flush with the screams of distant life
powdered for the dance of nations
and in the rank and file
and in the time of tradition honored
we mark the faceless souls of men
to brand them as bloodless enemies
for we look not within
at the dark mirrored shiftings
casting only outward
to the shallow depths of mortar
and we walk along the crumbling
of stones so lofty once
and swallow the dust of sadness
the burning throng of lust

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/23/12

“the gorge”

come from the scored out hills of hazard
on a windy black flake day
scenes of dilapidated sheds occurring
like a roadside history of what never was
twisted scores of metal and rust
and mountain rhyming accents
all in a day’s journey called work
a “best of” playlist sifting from within
oh how familiar comes the sense of song
and driving to return
a requiem for the soul
the smell of days remembered
and trips to these once known hills
the feel of sandstone in my boots
and the taste of sweat upon my tongue
climbing the old indian stairway
and views from a cloud splitter
a warm piece of bread and cheese
a delicacy in those days
the burning hand of a 100 foot rope
and the quick drop into a bed of cooling rhododendron
the smell of fire in the evening
when the wine and whiskey starts to flow
out there…
away from the repetitive crackle of television
only voices and stories to keep the mind
in the river red gorge
i once did dream
the folly of youth
and found myself bounding
on the arches of stone
crossing the bridge natural
and always…
always wanting to return

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/1/12

“the lips of strangers”

catch and release
the slow flow away
from the pollen soaked lashes
and the dandelion tears
the storm has come
and with it the blue tide
and the arching orbs
the rush of cool filled air
the way it whips and turns
finding the corners of hidden places
like a spring hidden beneath
a flux of gears and boulders
to form the path of secret whispers
to break the dust of lonely days
wake your eyes to the smell of green
and shades a thousand strong
uncover the bow and the tie that binds
make for the safety of higher ground
for there you will breathe freely
of scented air and scented shoulders
on blankets old with scars
and girls young with lofty aspirations
these are the times before the taking
when sweat drips from the tips of noses
to release a salty kiss
forever upon the lips of strangers
never to be known again!

Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/6/12

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