Best Stringed Poems
Never will I forget that sight-
the strings glistening in the light;
mahogany shining at the base.
I know pure joy beamed on my face.
Beautiful guitar,new-found friend;
to a lonely girl you're a god-send.
Oh, the magic I 'll make with you!
We'll be quite famous before we're through!
I picked it up and gave it a strum-
with emotion I was overcome.
A thousand songs played in my ear
as I held the instrument very near.
This would be my saving grace-
learning to play would give me a place
to paint my feelings into song.
And I would practice all day long.
Now I've had my Martin for forty years.
It helped me overcome my fears;
showed me how to sing of my heart.
It's been a miracle from the start!
The Broken Stringed Guitar
By
Stan Almendro
The melody of my life started when as a baby I was born
No grand piano welcomed me with any music in our home
The blanket they carried me in was old, tattered and torn
Slippers that my dear mom wore had holes, tattered and worn
It was not long and there I was a little naughty growing boy
Yelled and screamed often fought like mad for another’s toy
This was all part of growing up writing lines for my life’s song
Would I be tall, short or fat, weak handsome or very strong?
No knowing what this life held yet I dreamed so much each day
It did not matter what other folks did do or what they tried to say
My life was just as theirs would be if I had a much better start
I had two eyes yes ears and legs and even had a loving heart
Then this life of joy of mine, which belonged to every little child
Lost its oomph and happiness and stopped my childlike smile
The music stopped, melody gone as we all struggled to survive
No food some days, no place to sleep the joy difficult to revive
Then there came a day when all of this was too difficult to bear
I looked at my dear little mom and said a difference I will make
Please do not feel alone in all of this or believe I do not care
I will try my best to change our lot even if my life it wants to take
Our lives seemed like a guitar with an old badly broken string
No melody or tune could be played, our hearts a painful sting
I tried to smile and laugh even tried a favourite song to sing
But all my trying was out of tune because of this broken string
There came a day, almost a dream and things began to change
The joy and peace at first was odd and felt so awfully strange
We had a home and bread to eat also with a joyful happy song
Our weak little legs and heart was now beginning to feel strong
Yes my friend your life might seem like a broken stringed guitar
Your love, peace and happiness seem lost and oh so very far
Do not lose hope and courage and despair for what life brings
The guitar, the broken string when fixed will easily help you sing
Cold rain pelted me as I climbed the stairs
Home, but my key would not open the lock
Anger stabbed me; a knife thrust, unawares
Thunder roared at my plight, as if to mock
Night fell as I sheltered against the wall
My clothing soaked, but little did I care
I felt like a puppet; a limp stringed doll
Drowning in anguish, I said a prayer
Marooned in the stairwell, without a phone
Entry to my home had been forbidden
Never had I felt so lost and alone
Feeling quite helpless, tears came unbidden
To despair and alarm I grew enslaved
Opening the locked door was all I craved
September 21st, 2017
"Stuck" for Sara
The land calls my name, deep inside the bowels
Working the strips of fabric that installs
Patience builds up where wind blows beyond time
Lips tell stories but won’t work in the rhyme
Severed is the black hair off her white skin
Opened her heart, the day’s cool air within
Leaves tumble and shake away from the trees
Clouds play their music with delicate ease
Liquefy my eyes, gone through broken glass
Sifting through the polished sand I won’t pass
First score comes in, playing my eyes digress
Lowered below feelings of some sundress
By love I sit with a stringed mandolin
And life strokes a chord of dandelion
Contest: Any Subject, Any Form - New Poems
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
11/12/2013
They are many voices all around
some can be loud and others clear
distinctive with clarity and truth
one stands in awe feels so dear
The violin is an instrument supreme
it has a craft that delights one's ear
one loves to hear it's a special sound
for it delivers you to another sphere
One can't speak of this musician
for that is what it is a violin
this instrument speaks by its voice
it's sound speaks aloud truly within
Many have been gifted to play on this
before large audiences all the world over
truly skilled their performances show
a masterclass indeed one wants to kiss
My favourites in this are too many to name
but Hilary Hahn and Anne Sophie Mutter are class
being a Scot I must mention Nicols Benedetti
what wonderful music one's ears love to amass
(I have written this poem about the violin, the musical instrument, as it's one of my favourite classical instruments.)
Symphony for stringed Instrument
Grey mist creates a smaller world the eye strains
To see beyond the possible, where only the inner
Vision can see the unseen for which it can´t blink
Close an eye, or turn away from disgusting truths.
Dull miasma dreamy as passing melancholy, turns
Angel white burnoose at dawn, with a hint of rusty
Harp strings, a whiff of green straws, full of tears
That will be handed out to children under five.
Aurora, the Roman Goddess of daybreak, when
Natural light puts night in a sack and throws it down
A well where nights of horror dwell but refuse to
Be still forever trying to escape its own darkness,
Longing to be back in some ones head, pining to
Be formidable and strong, but the day will not let it.
It was just a broken stringed guitar
covered in dust and the wood bearing scars.
Long forgotten it lay in the run-down old bar.
Then one sultry day an old man came looking
he searched till he found his beloved guitar,
when he held it at last there were tears in his eyes.
The old man thought back on his long ago youth
when he and his guitar, they made quite a team.
The patrons were rough and not easy to please
but he and his guitar would soon restore peace.
His woman was Suzy, the love of his life,
her beauty was perfect, he made her his wife.
But his love for the bottle soon drove her away
till one day she left, though he begged her to stay.
The old man came back to the present and smiled
he thought he would sit and just rest for a while
allowing his thoughts to drift far and wide.
They found him at noon, with a smile on his face
His demeanor so peaceful, the men could just gaze.
Then a chill swept the room and their hair stood on end
when the old man appeared, guitar in his hand
and sang about Suzy, the love of his life.
Now these were all tough man, of fear they knew naught
But that day they trembled as they looked down and saw
the guitar on the floor had been fully restored
Always a string threaded
through my memory
can't go a day without
thoughts of you tugging me.
My fringes have to be bad
picking and pulling
healing prolonged
Can't seem to undress you
It's obvious I don't want to
I enjoy wearing thoughts of you
Clothed in your naked truth
Wearing you like an alcoholic
does eighty proof whiskey
I have a problem, I'll admit
when it comes to you
sobriety happens daily
addicted to thoughts of you,
from your heightened truth
down to your hair follicles.
One hundred proof
I'll be in therapy soon.
Daring desire blooms in desert cactus
Sun-gilded mirage allures
Elusive betrayal oasis recedes
Dream dunes collapse.
The actor Bedouin strides on stage
Stringed free will deludes
Puppet’s poignant passion
Dances to the destiny designed rhythm.
A STRINGED INSTRUMENT PLAYER IN HEAVEN
He praised God with stringed instruments and smiled at everyone,
He shared jokes with me often—now a new life he’s begun.
If harps are up in heaven, then he’ll play one there I know,
And with his wife together they’ll bask in heaven’s glow.
It came so sudden to him, and to his family nigh,
So we pray that God’s great comfort will help them when they cry.
Perhaps God will allow them to hear from heaven’s shore
Their loved one play God’s praises and sing with him once more.
I cannot give much comfort in this short poem, I know,
But I know the Holy Spirit can go where I can’t go.
I pray as you remember this man for many things,
The one thing you will treasure is his praise on many strings.
The strings on earth are silent from Cleatis’ talented hands,
But he plays them up in heaven among the angel bands.
And he would like to meet you some day up there above:
Just trust the blessed Savior he played for and he loved.
--Dedicated to the McCoy family in memory of Cleatis McCoy.