Posts Tagged ‘writing’

“the home and the hearth”

lonely spheres of influence
dance like falling leaves
they crackle in the burning dust
absorbed like memories in the mortar
a tower of bricks and stones
for we are now among the falling season
our warm hands gently slipping
the chilly autumn light abounds
where once our homes stood gripping
tethers and strings are snapping
and in our sleep we dream of mending
the fields where once bright flowers faltered
sweet tea and honey kisses
you have dressed yourself in sunlight
now you smolder and shake
but i am here to save you
such a damsel in distress
i have washed away the winters
those that froze our tiny nest
and in the wind we hear a distant something
like notes parading through the air
but we must reach for them so quickly
holding fast with all our might
for if they change their tune too swiftly
our song no longer will remain
we will be cast amongst the shadows
two lives only lived in vain
but if we hold them tightly
with our hearts and not our hands
they will carry us warm and sweetly
to our homes and hearths and friends

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 10/9/13

“clocks”

minutes flow like the sun
for they come and go
like old roommates they reside in the summer heat
and pass slowly from winter’s memory
they live in wooden boxes
and hang from slender wrists
a gentle, tickling reminder to us all
their arms raised to the edges
pointing outward at the void
and yet they revolve diligently
ever fixed in your mortality
such is the symmetry of life
from such humble beginnings they have grown
and now they glow in blinding illumination
scattered among the desktops and window boxes of this world
there are many places that they call home
folded neatly on display
napping in your bedside table

oh how sweet this sounds
my ode to time
in all its varied pieces
but you too also know
what here I have not said
this is the truth
I only wish
with a longing so profound
to cast them all from my existence
for the seconds that they steal
let me be without them
so that forever i may roam
in this place but not in line
i shall cast away the hours
and the tombs in which they live
born again to freedom
no longer in the grasp of clutching hands

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 8/22/13

“books”

there’s a cascading fall that runs the wild glen
with effortless movement it so captures the eyes
like a soul soothing salve to the enemy within

and there are monsters that roam
in the wild lonely-ness…
though seldom they are seen
for they live in the darkness
like sounds from the distance
their only home found in dreams

down in the valley
the ash rises in heat
over fires that burn like a cold stolen thing

for we are the embers that glow in the night
we are friends with the fireflies
and we love how they dance
in a rhythm chaotic
as if they know something more
something distant, unseen
like words on a page
that disappear from our sight
leaving only traces of the morning
pure, clean and bright

and if only one day i should find them
those lines on a tree
i shall commit them to memory
so they should never be lost

for we owe that much to them
as they conjured our dreams
and they filled our shelves
only asking that sometimes
we blow dust from their covers
and take them to bed
so that once more they may open
a window unto this world
and rest ever gently
in our arms, by our side
longed for and remembered
cherished and clean

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 7/31/13

“rusted silence”

hinges hang in rusted silence
like the arms of wise men
they roam the russian steppe
and there in the distant snowy drift
the sables are warm in their woven dens

beyond distant borders
holy men hang in celestial silence
slowly breathing
warmed by monastic fires
they transcend this earth of stone

and on the rocky paths
strewn with men and trinkets
the animal bells ring with a sweet vibration
like rhythms hung from a noted page

such are the stories of far flung lands
born of cold mirror wishes
dreamt in silent hope

for we all are hanging
by this thread as it were
suspended in this web of sugared powder
calculating the taste of sound
driven to the edge of this glassless sea

and like you
i too was born in that distant storm
and like you
i wait for the rising wind
for in the sour mist
there will come the bitter tidings
forming clouds of steel and clay
and from those sacred elements
our cities will be born
and we will live there safely
among the crowns and thorns

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 7/16/13

“beneath, behind and in between…”

a kaleidoscope of winter petals
glittering in the sky
dashing gently all about
in the grasp of this sideways driving rain
but the pines are simply resting
always… never changing
fires burn in the not so distant future
like a wood-smoke fever dream
sounds spiral down your ears
like fingers that tickle a harp string
little static impulses begin to take hold
the children of the trees ripen in the loamy ground
just below the flight of future summer fireflies
while sweet little creatures arch and yawn
a million smallish toes that dip into the day
these are the words of spring
the notes to sing and say
for they are carved upon the face of secret pages
they stand alone for all to see
and when comes the end
and then another
all that will matter
is what was pressed into your memory
beneath, behind
and in between…

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 3/13/13

“dressed in flowers”

you come for me on modern winds
like the dotted foals of spring
prettier in your emerald blouse
than ever i have seen
livelier than a mountain willow
dressed in flowers
colorful and waiting
here in this water-soaked world
longing for the sweet ring
your head spinning like a top
only a few drops more of this
your tincture of ginseng
falling over your lips
in these hours of sand
your hands reaching through doors
forever revolving
you only know of this night
not the next or its morning
and with your voice soundless
a chattering echo
we brush past each other
on the paths of this hollow

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 3/11/13

“in the darkest wood”

pollen lingers in the air

like the dust of angels

resting on a field of forgotten numbers

born of long division remainders

in a tomb of winter bells

no longer sounding

we are far from frosted white beaches

far from the capes and coves that shelter

here is where the voices mingle

in the windless halls and old theatres

just outside the walls of braided grass

green with envy

alone in the darkest wood

and breathing…

just breathing

 

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 2/22/13

“such strange things we reconcile”

the wind tickles my face

like the fraying strands of yarn

from an old afghan heirloom

distant songs wash over me

they still ring in my ears

like a peaceful muted siren

and the smell of orange zest

lingers fragrant and happy

foot soldiers come out of the light

covered in syrian dust

such strange things we reconcile

as we lay resting

on couches in the afternoon’s golden swoon

they follow

like shadows on the grass

as we pass from our doorways

to the great emptiness outdoors

walking and wondering

with footsteps in time

the cold smell of moisture in the air

and the green rust of sculpted metal

painting pictures in our canvassed memory

further now in cars

as the smells turn from warm apples to smoke

the safety of our homes long forgotten

wheels bouncing along the concrete plain

they bring us through doors

through differing thresholds

and in those rooms of foreign delight

where fire lifts the darkness

we seek warm embrace

to make sense of it all

in the arms of our lovers

 

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 12/6/12

“brothers cry”

toes in the ether

born in the distance

of the breathing deeper

feathers falling through the embers burning

resting in the pillowed leaves

dreams like smoke carried through the trees

here amongst the sadness of the turning

where brothers cry amidst the darkness

alone

far from this side of the yearning

tears caressing cheeks so warmly

arms reaching through the dusty starlight

to clutch the mighty hands that hold you tight

sugary-eyed sparkling mists

coupled in the candy apple wishes

knees bent low

face down to brush the frosty ground

calm now in demeanor

you whisper across the universe

and waiting for the echo

it returns to you in lifetimes

in a world

different from the one that you called home

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 11/30/12

“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