poems365dotcom Just another WordPress.com site

catch and release
the slow flow away
from the pollen soaked lashes
and the dandelion tears
the storm has come
and with it the blue tide
and the arching orbs
the rush of cool filled air
the way it whips and turns
finding the corners of hidden places
like a spring hidden beneath
a flux of gears and boulders
to form the path of secret whispers
to break the dust of lonely days
wake your eyes to the smell of green
and shades a thousand strong
uncover the bow and the tie that binds
make for the safety of higher ground
for there you will breathe freely
of scented air and scented shoulders
on blankets old with scars
and girls young with lofty aspirations
these are the times before the taking
when sweat drips from the tips of noses
to release a salty kiss
forever upon the lips of strangers
never to be known again!

Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/6/12

stolen from the arc of spring
to field the questioning ones
petals bursting forth from latent slumber
only to fall from grace
what beautiful pink decay
that lays upon the prickling strands of grass
a bed of sweet scents to come
to raise the brow of gazing eyes
to cross the airy landscape
and fill the lonely drive
now we rest near the cracking asphalt
a hammock softened by winter’s form
gazing at the broken limbs of the season
i call you now to wake
from the tempest of your daze
and seek the cup of strangers
to fill your racing heart
for in the weeks to follow
horse and man will run
and by the cooling shadows
shade will be reformed

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 3/20/12

you have thrown up your city walls
for scaling thoughts to climb
your towers guarding hearts
for loving arrows to find
and when the sound of oceans
split and fill the air
you come forth from your gates
to greet the ones that stare
they have come to know and wonder
at the vision you produce
to see your hair to falling
in curls about your waist
and the length and breadth
and the blue eyed tearing twinkle
that grows upon your mind
for this story has no ending
only the beginning they do seek
they knew of you in past lives
reincarnated as divine
to come now they have combed
the sprawling hillside shadows
orbiting orchards round your throne
to find the mighty witness
and the strangeness from which was born
this blushful youth of stardom
and her flowing vision view
to give the gift of wonder
granted only to the chosen few

when snow comes
eyes wonder
and trees glisten in maddening light
a winter without such beauty
finally finds absolution
cheerful wet boots lay in foyers
and fireplaces strike up one last time
the season speaks of unfinished business
while children are at play
it will be a short life
for the sun works quickly
dissolving mysterious matter
even so, we feel a sense of calm
as nature gives the expected
there will be talk of weather
men at morning coffee
mothers bundling up their babies
this is what we expect
a final sort of cleansing
ablutions for a pure entrance
to greet the days of spring and warmth
and as we look out
from upper window views
we see the trails of footsteps
weaving dimpled paths
for the snow was once our future
but quickly becomes our past
and in the days of summer
when we long for the cooling blast
we will look at the eyes of sunshine
as they scatter forth in rays
and dream of distant winter
the nostalgia of this display
it will bring us forth from slumber
out of beds to join the day

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 3/5/12

the coming of storms and rainbows
the distant boom of white-hot thunder
it shakes your heart
and rattles your cage
the winds of change following earthen curves
whipping winter wastings through the air
to announce the coming equinox
and the growing days of light
to carry us from our gentle slumber
and wake us from cold snowy dreams
they bathe us in radiant shine
smooth victories to be born
of springtime and rain
of puddles and splashing
what new language will they speak
for the sounding out of passion
to break the spell of seasons
bringing forth all shades of green
and wondering red sparkles
born out of warming beds
to make my mood a song
and sing of days to come
for in the hot white solstice
fruit will grow to life
and all the sadness of heartaches
shall no longer be felt

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 3/2/12

a red tide of monks rising
alms bowls held to the sky
upside down to invoke protest
burmese oppression stifles
like sticky jungle heat
their red robes folding out
to penetrate the streets
the poor and hurting shout from rooftops
thousands are gathering in discontent
but brainwashed soldiers
in their olive drab
bar the way to freedom
gassy tears stream from faces
chocking lungs and dreams
the peace of Buddha met with raging violence
those thin souls of promise
beaten and caged
the iron fists of generals to win the day
and what is left?
a dead body so holy
face down in the muddied creek
but there have been witnesses
atrocities caught by the camera’s eye
and the world sees
and the world knows what has happened
now the strong will rise
and defend the helpless
surely they will not sit idle
but they do not raise a hand
as the helpless die in vane
soon shall all be forgotten
but those starving
those dead and languishing prisoners
they will not forget
the cage they live in
a country or a prison…
should we not answer?
those wretched cries so loud
or simply sit and watch
while the iron bars of poverty
jail the souls of men

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/27/12

think of needle and thread
the way it winds yarn and silk
creating warm fabric sheets
that shore us against the breaking wind
and the beautiful fingers that clutch and pull
like a song-running pathway
pacing over folds and buttons
the method carried on
generation after generation
from ancient grandmother
to fresh, sweet daughters
they come in quilted ways
to hang in tapestry halls
swaddling infant sons
they are keepsakes from our past
we dream of the warmth
shared by families of old
and conjure up fanciful stories
that are never seldom told
for history is in the making
and the working hands of men
they come home to their mothers
to confess their brand of sin
i wonder if they know
how we think of them again
how we read the patchwork story
from the dusty attic within
and if we should ever meet
in this world or the next
will the stories we have shared
fade with mortal light
or will we still see
the song of fingers falling
bound by thread and stitching
to remember what once was
the mother and the daughter
and the son that never came

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/22/12

a dervish whirling
in a cloud of midnight blue
the tumble of resting sounds
that roll across the dunes
appearing as golden mountains
sold unto the eternal sea

the bells of ritual ring tight
they are clutched in vibrant hands
furiously dispersing elements of tone
to the hills and to the valleys
rising out of medieval forests
near the desert’s edge below
branches hang and shatter
burdened by the weight of shadow
and of sifted fallin snow

graceful words of promise
come from wooden mouths
that feed like so many moths
to inflame the kindred souls
walking from desolation
to the warming lake of salt

they float on time
to the ripple of pebbles tossed
embellishing the landscape
from edge to maddening edge

the shore now they regain
to bleed the milk of palm
quenching odious thirst
to mend the voice of reason
crossing to and from
far from distant highways
and the formless hedging rows

the dervish halting slowly
to falter amongst the piling robes
resting near the edge of safety
the white-hot charcoal glows
he has come for the song of promise
and to drink the tea of spirits
a wildly inward flow

now a call from the minaret resounding
the voice of prayer disintegrates
a rush of deep emotions
dip into the cavernous well
stirring up the images
the playful have to tell

and when bright morning comes
alone in sweet repair
it will heal the ones who danced there
or drifted listlessly in the air

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/21/12