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Best Zhian Mostofi Poems

Below are the all-time best Zhian Mostofi poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Zhian Mostofi Poems

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem

Living in A Glass House


The volume of a certain something

does not by any means determine its levity over any given situation

or its brevity by relation

Once you strike a chord,

It's moment of breath

Shatters through it's glass-painted interstellar conquest

Where the fine line between an arrow and a target success

is evident in the lack of evidence

Which provides you, the Reader, better access to the verity in absence

You're an ancient old trick

but if I am watching, you'll have no where to rest your well-traveled head

But in my seductive grin

I am too an old trick

But I stand closest to the cauldron

Stirring green the ocean

To make way for that final moment

When the flame burns cold in the winter frozen solstice;

The waves come crashing to the coasts

Coming for my broken souls

With a gleaming smile for all their sorrows

Taking off into tomorrow

With a calmed, relieved breath

Reliving the scenes on an endless landscape

Now, in compassionate presence

Because after all,

Can't have nothing without 'how'

How: being everything that has ever been conceived of.

So, what have You left out?

You've become ignorant of your own shining features

Forgotten feathers from a bow

Lost your inner voice in the mirror glow

All along Zephyr without, you've lived as a pestilence to others and yourself...

And now, its time for show

Up close and personal

Bath in all the choices ever dreamed of; and burn with a rosy glow

Opened-close a shut case

Without remorse or concern or thirst,

Because all this, will soon be Unearthed

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2013

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem

Sacrificial Ritual

All answers want to be given unto you
As swiftly as you can illustrate them
Point to their essence, serenade them
Aboard this passing ship, my view casts not a glare, nor reflection, nor stare,
Roaming freely as the Earth through the timeless air

My outer shell is my greatest inception
Yet as time comes to a crashing halt,
The faintest glimpse of the Strange and the Familiar approach together 
As the rime of my belt

A horticulturist’s dream says I 
The blackened period that wallows alive
Deprived, sanctioned and walking the line
As our guest is herded out
And suddenly the animal turns its other side

Now in your stomach I wait
Leaving a silent trail of breadcrumbs
Leading to the foothills of the gates
Who, discovery alluded, hadn’t a face

I am after all a sarcastic utterance
Which after years fade into the gloaming of dawn,
Reveals itself a mutterance undone

A muse, a choice, a song
A faro stow-away,
A shy allurement enclosed in a darker response
Building expeditiously my patient getaway car
Holding stead readily around the block

and clocks fall off their "ATTENTION!"
to the approaching sound of
 someone else's Hum-drumm

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem

Rolling Passed Your Speaker System

We all want a few things to do
just once in a while
We want to kill that special something that falls through our fingertips
Like last moments of a kiss; the break tears off a gasp of your facade
Leaving skins spoken into yet louder spins
Whatever it takes to leave a hand or footprint 
over these chapters, over these pages
An ink blot or two on their unknowing faces,
all those many you's 
that at times used to confuse you,
remove you, reduce and prove -- You!
Oh You used to be so underground then.....wouldn't even have noticed me even if I could write a wild song with my pen
 "'the pen is always mightier than the sword', they say"
Well, was this even supposed to happen?
Nein Mann, there was no first state to seek out no matter how you ranged it

In the blank shoulder-space view that you just can't see whatever you do
chronic stress races past the quickest laugh --
wish it off
wish it after!!
take the next ride out
take the next sarcastic utterance
~ how Easily we forget our skins...
hast thou forgotten the true spell of nothingness?
...it wasn't a memory you might have had, or a future command 
...it is you now
you how....
and when

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem


The mouth, 
It enters with a crisp tongue and a spinning pendulum
Like a stick-shift on 4 pivots
Making its way through a flourishing garden
Delicious sounds wisp as smoke through pardons
Painting destructive criticism with delicate regard and
Proceeding as moth with flame, eyre in eyre
and skein in skein
Somewhere in the reigns, meaning becomes tangled in the wings
As it writes a story of friction
The diction of the beginning, end and enduring ambience
As was, is, and needn't admit 
It grips the listening agents and moves to the foregrounds of their lips
Roses blush from the insatiable pits of their stomachs
Breathing new life its first sentence
From the humbling utterances of syntactic structures
Modeled as people
Steepled in last years words
Mumbled and tumbled
Before you
The word

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem


Social awareness springs life in all its many forms of fault
On a thin, blank film of ring which encircles the audience seated,
Wherein precursive images befall the sight of sovereign role-gazers
Who seek after the preservation of authority in place of the refinement of the very sprite itself
For in this gleaming presence, numerous reflections of the seated alighten in passing
Which would bear witness a good fortune on its observers if it will be known
For the dispelling of delusion lies in contribution
As traits of individuals accommodate new affiliations
Through the hallways of the houses they build
A social excuse, vestiture for the chimera that simmer around the echoes that call a friend
A nasal contraction, whispers of ballet along with congenial manic fractures
A pigeons’ hall work as J.  Farnsworth transfuses into moll work
Regaling distraction, appalling as adolescent prances conceive a hidden dimension
To decisions made on behalf of
An unknowing few
Surely your indecision wouldn’t assume
We’d all forget the Who

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem

Culture Loom

The roaming minutes encircle my thoughts
As I delve romantically into the possibility of falling
My associations, they tend for the lift
When my vicarious aberrations cause a pigs tail in their midst
Yet their overworn malicious grin tends to me a harrowing mystique dealt subsequent
Therein, in lieu of stirring a stew in such autonomous disparity, as of late,
I wave the waiter over for the check
and leave breadcrumbs sticking to my plate

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem

Synonyms as People

Its a strange habit
To the muse of my delusions, I set traps for myself
Walk straight without any intention of looking back
I envision a dream and emulate the living presence which entices me
With words, with slurs, I appreciate and deliver my division again and again
And you’re convinced that there is a part of me missing from the frame
But this painter has yet another idea of a living safe
I will tell you what it means to become engulfed in risk and loose face
It's a simple thing when it's broken down
We’re all thoughts tripping the gates here as flesh on the ground

So what I do is
Leave a note on speed dial, repeat wild
Center my focus and release hold control of my emotions
I’m in need of a spoken bunch
To feed me off a lunch, with the simple hunch 
That I’m a brushstroke in someone else’s mirror reflection, deception
It’s all there
Just like you, to understand myself I must walk through the shadow of death
And realize that there’s nothing left,
That can’t get me...

I’m a slave to an ocean rollercoaster role model
Who shows that with every whiff of the salty air the most prevalent presence is the one that’s not theirs
My surrounding perspectives, astoundingly pensive, 
Nonetheless regrettably neglictant of my tidal introspective
Which is written in the fabric of the walls within which I reside

I, a walking-talk feel most alive
In the doubt which claims to be my mind 
A few pencil marks, a couple dropping clocks
and a bookshelf that persists in its resistance- 
Picking the phone off the wall,
Calling it off, calling the cops, because it just can't understand what it watches 

And as dust trails after the pages which are caught in free-fall 
in the air of this room,
Sum-one always seas the mUSic flood through

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem


What the artist seeks to incite is a shadow of insight
Drawn out of the circumstance of desperation and regicide,
He becomes a spokesman for an intelligent design iterating itself into the human mind
He articulates the livelihood of the presence which confounds his nights, 
Tearing seepage in his imaginative unconscious 
Yielding unto the downpour of new words as unfamiliar feelings emerge  
Xenophobic he cannot linger, for in the twilight of his contortion
The strange uniforms with hypnosis,
To the knowledge that approaching is the ferryboat that is meant to take him
The manifold of novelty unbounded in telling
Would he surpass the mirage of his peers’ regrets for his sanity,
The man will bring forth a new reality

What is worn
Is spoken as a token of return
To what is felt beyond
Worn to transcend the alarm  

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem


silver is to dust
as love is to obstacles

written is to rust
as roaming comes to us

plausible and perceived,
as likely as me,
a room full of people
and an idea perceiving

cut 'er a stir and role in the dust!
there's a mighty shy snack waiting for us!

like tops on a tickle
whose minions are so fickle
that the roof caves in
as the concave plays in

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Zhian Mostofi Poem


Many eyes saw me pass, as I rode by
My reasons have fallen, like a brick house with nobody inside
Myself, I am nothing, a mere echoing of You
Yet I insist tis’ our first meeting and that you’ve left me clue

So again we return to this
This Being that incessantly persists
Where no words reach, yet all language subsists
As a hand, silent as the wind gently kissing passed leaves
She journeys through our myst
Convening the plenum as we breath

At night she rests in her natural state,
Yet we upon this rock have gone amiss
Saturated, once again within her tears, 
Our purpose her bliss
And life sings its song across the cosmic ocean
For I to witness
Oh if the air could speak...

Copyright © Zhian Mostofi | Year Posted 2012