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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

i think of minarets
and how they douse the earth with fire
while you swing from crooked branches
ever sweet
in your marshmallow-white attire
so calm is your brightly scented vision
a hint of licorice lingering
just beyond your emerald gaze
as you travel through the market
seeking out the gathering
passing moments of ephemeral joy
while the little girls
in their little dresses
place morning flowers in your hair
they bend and sway
like young poplars in the sun
but just as quickly they are gone
back to homes and mothers
and as they vanish freely
like a hungry broken heartache
you wonder how they live
how their courtyard waters flow
and you imagine yourself with them
reading stories by the lamplight
but this is not to be
for your destiny lies elsewhere
though so far it does elude you
like a fairytale casting strangers
you hope to meet with your desire
before the moonbeams burst and fire
and though i cannot tell you
who sings out from that spire
i simply must inform you
there is a man amongst the shadows
he is made of broken light
and even now he is searching wildly
wishing nothing more than to catch your sight
for he too is a dreamer
wondering long into the night
and one day he will find you
and in his arms will hold you tight

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/30/13

lines in the driving rain
like so many clutching hands
in a blue world of faithful clouds
and the shapes that they make
and the atmosphere they create
tunneling through this brushing light
wiping away the heavy mist
from furrowed brows
and dimpled smiles
so delicate are they
these little women
gone and found resting
together they sit upon the scarring plain
like chess-carved pieces
living as they do
on this board of worlds found
calculating genuine movements
in their dull and brown hand-me-downs
tension like lightning in the breast
heads swooning to a fever pitch
they wait for love’s invasion
an army of distant souls
beyond some nearing hill
waiting they must be
and in their lonesome cunning
an embrace will be found warming
in that certain calming way
such that only lovers know
and when the union comes
when hands touch pulsing wrists
they will walk and talk for hours
never knowing of the risk
but for others that have found it
forever in their envy shall it remain
like secrets buried deep
in the shadows of the moon
until the story plays again
until the women they are found
deep in the hidden clearing
just beneath the stars
like the flowers dead and gone
the faded colors shifting sweetly
here in this windswept place
known to most as only
the lonely loving ground

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/29/13