Posts Tagged ‘soul’

“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

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“falloween”

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

“the dreaming swell”

she has come to me

like a swell of autumnal golden wind

her immense energies run wild through my hair

my sunglassed watery eyes are singing

the scratch and rustle of her myriad refuse

it litters my pathway like a dream cut from a yellowish brown world

and i am stillness in her path

my mindful steps so quietly touch the firmament

i drink the enormity of this boundless energy

and wonder over the former parts of myself

now cast among the stars of a different reality

how now do they mingle?

what sly and clever forms have they taken?

are they the birds that sang to me when I was lost?

are they the clouds that kept the morning sun at bay?

perhaps i should just never know…

and why shall i lament?

for i am the bird that sings upon this morning

and in the evening, the clouds will i become

i will shade you from such burdens

giving flight to lost horizons

and when that kiss of wind

it comes again in spring

my lips will be unfrozen

having awakened from this dream

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari  11/12/15

“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

“the quiver”

words are scattering through a prism

forming colors in the fall air

they bound from lip to ear

cascading down to form glistening pools

soon to be frosted over

trapped and waiting for release

couples are strolling arm in arm

creating patterns in the waning day

they step from house and home

forming lines of chaotic display

soon to be dusty and forgotten

saddened by the coming storm

why come the thoughts of night

intruding with sheer delight

over folds and fires

gleaming in the backyard distant

how come the tears that stream

driven down cheekbones curving

over eyes and lashes

dry now in the salty burn

these little questions run

like deer in the morning meadows

they hide among the splintering grass

alone in the middling heart

tearing at the fabric of civilization

buried deep in the mounding soul

and sometimes comes a woman

a vision sharp as sight

with a voice that sounds of angels

when they cry alone at night

they sing and shine like starlight

bolting arrows with quivering might

and when they reach their target

a piercing so divine

we find that we are no longer strangers

simply born of different times

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 9/19/12

“on the trail of dreams”

all the dust

like little dream makers

softly falling on your skin

you breathe them in

a lung full of memories

yearning in low sweeping passes

touched by the splendor

what arduous journeys now press upon your soul

you search the empty trail

hearing foot falls in the distance glow

the scent of the gathering grows

content now in what you sense

your small feet catching pollen

stripped from the crushed meadow flowers

for this way have you come

never to return the waking hours

never to become the ponderous one

falling from the scorn of golden ages

appearing in doorways

hanging on the arms of innocence

you that travel on sensuous roads

waiting for the tasting of something new

something beyond compare

like sweet lemons plucked from a constellation

stinging red lips

a burning ocean of wind

driven by the soundless fire

making your way

down through the woods

full of strange creatures glancing

you speak to them

you join them

and now you are dancing

so let them partake

of your dreams small and dusty

for when the dawn comes

all things will scatter

and you must regain the trail

and the searching

for this is what matters!

 

Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 8/17/12

“for lauren”

in the falling season
trees scatter their lost children about the ground
they form road-side memorials that dress the streets
there final days spent in shades of blood and turmeric
as winter takes its grip on land and shore
they frost and crumble like morning scones at your bedside
the seasons flow on like some western surveyor
and we feel the chill of northern lights upon us
together we sip pinot in the evening glow of muted lamps
a bundle of threadbare blankets stashed safely in the wardrobe
tales of old are spun like so much yarn on your grandmother’s lap
and together we come to part the sorrows
grey days seem a continuum
darkness falls early and slow slumber awaits
but we welcome her
our spring darling beauty
dressed in alpine meadow colors
and we venture to the sea for relief
the salt spray and southern breezes make us whole again
around the table gathering conversation grows
and leaves are born again to mothering oaks
we raise our glasses high
and scrape the splinters from our fresh broken chop sticks
this evening will bring dinner and talk of travels
summer awaits in all her glory
for we are her progeny
and she
our savior

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 1/26/12

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