Posts Tagged ‘poetry writer’

“simple, scattered lines”

it’s a yellow submarine morning

colder than the eyes of some forbidden danger

a spark of light by the curtains glow


red balloons across the sky

they have come to take me on


no more black birds singing in the darkest night

we have come to another day in the life


thinking back, i remember just now

our fires burning such a deepest cavern in the snow

our conversations like journeys flown


i hear now what percolates

in yonder distant rooms

filled with wives and children

with cereal and spoons


and to a desk with pen and ink

to strike the sounds of thought

to ponder and to think


i become the soul of time

crafting a digital word-spun rhyme


and as i look upon these lines

and across the clutter that has grown like vines

i think of drawers and shelves and pockets

placing such secrets softly

on a page of light and time


and perhaps one year from now

when the cold and white does shine

i will remember why i wrote these

such simple, scattered lines


then they will bring me back

to a moment, place and time

and I will think of winter

so beautiful, so cruel

so measured, so divine

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 1/6/18



cold words fall like a drafty afterthought

the dream catcher leaves have arrived

our woods retain sudden memories of warmth

there is a new kind of music that swirls in our driveways

and a familiar sort of dance

it is one for the trees


and for their dearly departed souls

they crumble and drift

they rattle and hum

a trillion cells immortal

gone to live beneath our feet


and oh how we breathe

our hearts in repose

we have sanctioned their coming

though such memories are but on loan

they have triggered our senses

those first to be found

now surrendering forever

for in the winter they will have gone


but i shall be your ghosted firefly

your remnants of summer

and in the evening your pumpkins

so lovingly carved out of light


i will smile from doorways open

and walk your sugary streets

for i have been in such worlds

i have tasted those treats


but while we are here

in a place…

so strangely familiar

perhaps we should ask…


what words have you seen falling?

are you such a catcher of dreams?

we must ponder how they answer

those warm wooden trees

it is not enough to simply listen

to hear their songs in the night

we must wonder why they tremble

so cold with delight

as if their notes were softly telling

this story of the night


or should we wonder?

have we missed something greater…

perhaps just this season

our earthly prayers bathed in light

or a symbol freshly shattered

a reflective mirror

for those without sight


-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 10/26/16

“tiny home”

we were born of the antique and ancient forms

our stories woven from the fabric of our dyed and twisted yarns

like the wreckage of so many voyages lost and long

those travelers floating over poles

our souls on the battlefields mourned

we are assembled from the glass of mirrors that have passed

from the love of our mothers and our fathers dead and gone

in the comfort of our rituals we are dressed in softly stolen silks

and we think upon those travelers

those many bridges they have crossed

we wonder how their flags are planted

where the mountains meet the sky

and now we live as strangers

our families just so splintered

we are driven and we are torn

the swollen weight of our possessions

the magnificent size of our earthly homes

but what we need is tiny

it fits inside our hearts

a formation of the soul

it cannot be found in store fronts

or in those luminous shopping malls

it lives just near the fire

and in your child’s warm embrace

sometimes driving madly

but always in the end

our only true possession

perhaps a wife or son or daughter

it may just be a lover or a dream that never ends

and perhaps…

even just a friend

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 12/10/14


“carved in whispers”

our doors lie open wounded

driven like the dust of papered worlds

a brilliantly tattered totem

so ornately carved in whispers

and on the tips of tongues

upon the tops of pillars

they are but simple prayers

flowing from our lips like vapor

such evidence as we have found

for it was written in the stars

and printed in the papers

it was pressed below our tables

in the hands of mystics and soothsayers

like prisons we possessed them

we trapped their sweetness between layers

and here alone we travel

to our backyard garden swings

the air of smoke so thick and full of dreams

with our hands we try to catch them

so we may discover what remains

but as we hold them in our lungs

they shall take our only breath

for they are faster and they savor

those simple songs that dance in shadow

like broken leaves along the ground

sweetly rustling in the evening

and when our mornings come

we expect to capture them once more

but forever we have lost them

and never again shall they be found

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 11/26/14


“fireflies and sheep”

fireflies swim in their oceans of sky

and warm dandelion breaths cast a cottony snow

their thin waxy stems like sweet summer girls

they dance in my yard and all through the world

here in the draft of some beautiful scent


oh how i wonder

where will they go?

their footsteps in summer

violet toes in the grass


and the trickles of laughter

how they drift like a stream

through my ears like windows open

now un-shuttered to reveal

what those whispering lips

and those cool shaded eyes

once did so guardedly conceal


so now i must choose

shall it be the stars or the lights?


i am breathing the wind

and in the evening while i sleep

in my hammock just woven

i will swing from those branches

the ones just out of reach

there on the moon…

by the fence…

counting sheep


-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 5/2/14


“canopies in the rain”

the cold blue winds of time may shift and carry

but for our friends

in the balance they remain

like a green spring warmth

our canopies in the rain


-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/18/14



on the road

and in the ridges

where rain crackles on windshields wide

the dreams of youth form wicked ideas

they are wild and numerous

and they stretch

all in a breath

from sea to shining sea


how are those golden maps

those spinning compass needles

like four corners in the hot new mexican dust


all the fusion and the willful frustrations

all the winters and their warm summer cousins

just a small, delightful sip of wonder

tinged with a taste of pine and smoke


on our beds

and out the windows

a conspiracy of whispers

that so swiftly wander

all through the light

from the deepest wood to the highest mountain top


where are they now?

those slender wristed girls

like magic on a bedroom stage


and all their curls

in their skin so porcelain

just the only thing

simply… the purest thing

that we ever really wanted


-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari

%d bloggers like this: