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fires rise from the ocean swell
like the dust of marble columns
drenched in roman sweat
turquoise robes flow from windowed villas
swords lie rusting in the broken ground

and i wonder…

what ancient lyrics will be heard
as they roll across distant valleys
like windswept snow in a shattered globe

where will the sirens sing
as they stride across the wheated plain
like thistles in the marshy brush

so many muted hours
so many lonesome strangers

they carry words in billfold pockets
always knowing of the past
growing like an illusion
driven across the swirling blacktop heat
and in the deserts
where the nomads sleep
animals make curious noises
just outside the tented walls
like a great-winged migration
spanning distances that groan with heartache
for we are all here
taking steps and sweetly moving slowly
our footfalls echoing in time
and when the fire dies
and the ashes have come to rest
we will settle in for the evening
like so many others
in the warmth of our mother’s nest

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 5/14/13

birthdays come like mist in the morning
they are warmed by the afternoon sun
like the years, they come and go
holding only bittersweet memories
that rest like so many treasured volumes on your shelf
and when you sleep…
you browse the dusty stacks
forming webs of intricate design
while eyes flutter under lids so tight
and when you awake
to a day of reincarnation
there will be thoughts of past lives
and of birthdays gone
forever lost…
in the shadows of the moon
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 5/14/13

wild little whispers run
they hide and they seek
stowed away like laughter in a can
and voices on a wire
calling out to the maddening crowd
and to the slack lines on the pier
like a santa barbara daydream
honesty is a high-water balancing act
just one slip above the black, pooling ocean
they take their places
and they paint their faces
while the ferris wheel spins in the honey-combed distance
funnel cakes perfume the air
soothing splintered boardwalk feet
sand castles rise like a day soaked memory
and then gently dissolve into the foamy bliss
kitten whisker kisses tickle small children
as they skip to the beach
radio flyers in tow
baskets bursting from within
tools at the ready
they will dig
and they will bury
and when mother calls them
to home and for dinner
they shuffle away
feeling only just slightly bitter
for they have known of such joy
covered as they are
in the sound of the sand
with the colors of the water
and perhaps if they are lucky
if only father sees fit
they will feel themselves glistening
with salt in their hair
dashing through the waves
searching once more
and perhaps they will find
in a castle near the shore
the dreams of their childhood
before they are swept away
to the deep of the ocean floor

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 5/7/13