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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

drowsy eyed glances in the evening
lead to martini olive smiles
dry gin fizzes sparkle and fire away
sweet elegant mistresses ply the wounded crowd
seeking vulnerable openings
introductions are made by closely guarded tongues
lips touch ears and smiles erupt
games go flirting all about the crystal hung maze
the ghost of old fitzgerald roaming these halls
playing piano under the flush
while young starlet flappers drag and scoot
old car horns signal the arrival
more mad hatters have come
clever young school girls sneak a peek
at models and men
couples clutch bottles
to take the night air
looking for a lonely spot
out beyond the garden topiary
if the animals were alive
surely they would bite
for they too are ghosts
born in classic times
they cast ominous stares
that burn emerald bright
remembering places in time
oh how wild they seemed
but we haven’t changed so much
not a yard, not a mile
and when i look back
on the romancing of days
i look for the sparkle of diamonds
and the queen’s weary gaze
it haunts me in silence
like a memory not found
alone in the darkness
in the shadow of sin
surrounded by phantoms
that prod from within
so i drop down the needle
on the old phonograph
and make like a mustached gentleman
still dancing
in the afterlife…

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/10/12

our world is born about a skeleton of dark matter
invisible to the giant eyes that seek out discovery
it passes through our very bodies
unnoticed
what mysteries abound in this life
dimensions grow beyond the three
time is misunderstood
oh how we like to be neatly organized
all things in boxes
labeled, counted and defined
but these are the mighty chains that bind us
they turn us from the great discoveries within
souls and spirits passing without notice
venturing to realms unseen
stars and galaxies spin in numbered light
washed in a glow of billion year old death light
energy bursts across the cosmos like science fiction
a host of heavenly objects hidden from sight
what illusory visions may come
shrouded in the burning expanse
we must all become the great explorer
seeking the fortune of knowledge
or return to the earth in sadness
our potential never known

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/10/12

mountains grow in cycles that defy comprehension
making great redwoods seem as infants
ever so slowly they reach for less oxygen
their movements unperceived
tattered prayer flags blow in the waste
the proud remains of a sherpa’s soul
we watch from safe distances
as bone and breath rattle in the freezing dust
down below such trivial pursuits
our lives remain much the same
for mountains stay
but we are lost to the firmament
hours and minutes define our days
tribes forage and wander
kingdoms devour and conquer
children grow and dream
the separation of space
expands and retracts in heart-like rhythms
these are the days of ponder
a wind-swept ocean of wonder surrounds
theatres foster great imitations
actors bring tears from jolted eyes
the artist and the camera man shoot stills
capturing the collective consciousness
and i wonder…
what it would be
to feel the slow birth of the weighty mountain
rising through time immemorial
recording love and loss
with sand and stone

in and out of rooms
a fixture of life-lines
and sullen window views
the inorganic machinery of ticking time
we push toward the dimming monitors of light
the swollen heart of humanity
trading their mortal coil for a feast on the other side
we nurse those fading morphine visions
with soft voices that flow like warm milk
over the rough edges of sentiment
a basket of blood orange kisses
shared on the outdoor stages of flickering light
the heart pounds and swoons
we breathe in notes and symphonies
we find the buttery flame
it sends you on your way
and guides you on to distant shores
to find the verse and the sweet siren singing
so look deep into the chest of secrets
or know not what you lost
for there in the bewitching wilderness of dawn
you find the one you love
you carry her on fast-wings to safety
swearing never to fall from her again
but you are thwarted
by the unfeeling agents of change
now back amongst the whispers and the wires
you are trembling in the air
falling through captured spaces
wounded once again
and when the cycle starts
all over it begins
you find that it is you
alone
in the end…

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 1/27/12

from southern sand-blown beaches
a family of youth and strength arose
weekends were filled with picnic baskets
on wind cracked tables near the shore
how lovely it is to remember the warm salted-water waves
that would rush and tumble about our feet
coconut husks littered the playground
to birth tall bending palms in years to come
but we would be gone from that low-land
never to see those baby palms reach for the heavens
to kiss the sweet sun light of our youth
we stole away in the deep darkness of night
as the season changed we felt the fear of those high jelico mountains
but something unexpected happened
the sweet hills of kentucky became our home
how strange it was to move farther north
and yet there among the bluegrass
we found the sweetness of the true south
the identity of hard times and good people
there we loved and grew a shared life of promise
but as time shall have it
the winds of change came about
forced from our perch like a hummingbird
seeking out the sparkling nectar of a violet blossom
we drifted across the country in small cars with small items
the trinkets we needed to feel safe
a brother carried on to pilgrim lands
a sister daydreaming on the california mountainsides
but the holy bind of a mother has kept us strong
through tear storms and wailing
through smiles canyon wide
and love
true and undying love
no matter where we are
we all reach for a taste of that cotton candy sky
our passion for each other
brought on by our long lost father
keeps us daydreaming together
even in the widening distance

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 1/27/12