“the gorge”

come from the scored out hills of hazard
on a windy black flake day
scenes of dilapidated sheds occurring
like a roadside history of what never was
twisted scores of metal and rust
and mountain rhyming accents
all in a day’s journey called work
a “best of” playlist sifting from within
oh how familiar comes the sense of song
and driving to return
a requiem for the soul
the smell of days remembered
and trips to these once known hills
the feel of sandstone in my boots
and the taste of sweat upon my tongue
climbing the old indian stairway
and views from a cloud splitter
a warm piece of bread and cheese
a delicacy in those days
the burning hand of a 100 foot rope
and the quick drop into a bed of cooling rhododendron
the smell of fire in the evening
when the wine and whiskey starts to flow
out there…
away from the repetitive crackle of television
only voices and stories to keep the mind
in the river red gorge
i once did dream
the folly of youth
and found myself bounding
on the arches of stone
crossing the bridge natural
and always…
always wanting to return

-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/1/12

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