Zombie guitarist will show up for Halloween.
It is the only day of the year that he can be seen.
He cannot be seen on the Day of the Dead?
I had to question my wise Great Uncle Ed.
Not in the USA, Uncle Ed promptly said.
He is always in Mexico during day of the dead.
he is here on October thirty-first, I qualified.
The next day in Mexico, does he have to hitch a ride?
Not sure how it works, said my Great Uncle Ed.
If I turn into a zombie, I’ll come back and tell you, Ned.
I did not tell him that Ned has never been my name.
Since he developed dementia, he has not been the same.
The searing sun has long been a revolving revelation of angst,
repelling songs of the skies, sung by the strings of the wings.
Pallid, poised only by muscle memory - a compositional backdrop,
past the point of revival, yet something inside me still ticks.
A trembling truth that never drifts,
these broken blues: a silent shadow with loud hues.
The bones of me, tunelessly picked out,
until I'm the aching hollow of unamplified sound.
Where do breathing colors of me sleep,
when deadly nights of the air eclipse upon the web once woven by whispers?
Death just a dropped chin and averted eye,
the slow slump of a sinner's stagnant dirge plays out.
Let those cobalt stones cease writings from vicious veins,
where wilting roses dip their thorns in starry puddles with no name.
Now begging for exsanguination of my pain,
the measure of a man captured, still, in expired offerings of disdain.
The famous guitarist Segovia
Was able to strum high and lowvya
With acclaim; so he did
Till his death in Madrid—
And his records continue to moveya.
July 18, 2019
He played on the guitar like a pizzicato
Who frequented one too many bars
Always demonstrating
A wonderful amount of restraint
Even during the main feature
At the local drive in
In the end
He came to realize
How much he loved pizza
And at the end of the day
Even if he couldn’t play
He could always eat it
A cocoon of loneliness wraps around him,
his music now quiet, all shards of hope gone
with the last dying notes discordant and off-key,
the soundtrack of his life broken.
Anguish waits at the edge of a silent concert,
solitary harmonics a floating mute mirage,
pure as the music of the spheres
only he can hear and remember.
The air around him sighs,
expecting a thunderous applause,
the excited murmur of an audience.
Guitar strains for one final touch of his fingers.
It is a glorious moment to finish the grieving.
The thrumming thrumming thrumming
can seem so very near
as fingers strumming strumming
make magic that I hear.
Your fine guitar - passionate -
What longing it can bring!
As you stroke the strings of it,
my heart is quivering!
I wait for that resplendence -
melodious and low -
I know will soon commence.
Your sweet words soon will flow.
Your voice which hums, lilts and croons
(forever gorgeously)
a plethora of love tunes,
keeps on bewitching me.
I can’t know just who you are,
but I can feel your glow
as your music with guitar
spills from my radio.
be her/him a
rhythm or lead player,
the guitarist may have
an ego the size of
the greatest known
planet, especially if they
are the primary song
writer, for from every
chord they play, every
single note,
comes that first spark
of something that may
never see the light of
day or possibly the next
song which will go
down in the history of
our human melodies
here in this 21st century,
that is until the machine
takes over 100% & can
generate all the remaining
music of the world by
itself, blurting out the
need for us humans
altogether---the guitarist
has it easy in the city,
slinging their axe in a
bag over their back or
carrying easy in a Gator
case & bearing an
acoustic they can pop it
out at any time & pluck away
for the flowing masses
at rush hour for a couple of
pity bucks & then onto the
eve on the stage with the
bright lights bearing down
upon them the possibility of
greatness which secretly they
all seek when coming to the
concrete jungle.
Some run smoothly
Up her neck to play
The most wonderful
Sounding notes of joy
While others struggle
With their dexterity
And memory as the
Notes come few and
So far between
Yet, the struggling
Artist who lives for
The pleasure of her
And personal feelings
Will always play
Melodically, as the heart
Desires effort and
Improvement
Thereby allowing
Her lover
To always be
The absolute best.
Therefore it is not
The sounds resonating
From the amp
But it is the music
Resonating from
The heart that
One should listen for.
Some run smoothly
Up her neck to play
The most wonderful
Sounding notes of joy
While others struggle
With their dexterity
And memory as the
Notes come few and
So far between
Yet, the struggling
Artist who lives for
The pleasure of her
And personal feelings
Will always play
Melodically, as the heart
Desires effort and
Improvement
Thereby allowing
Her lover
To always be
The absolute best.
Therefore it is not
The sounds resonating
From the amp
But it is the music
Resonating from
The heart that
One should listen for.
You perch on a low stool
of my presence unmindful,
guitar cradled on your lap,
fingers each string loving.
While you delicately pluck,
mesmerizing, hypnotizing,
with slow, flowing arpeggio,
my heartstring you touch.
Who are you to affect me so,
just what kind of magic spell
you put me helplessly under?
'Moonlight Sonata' on tremolo,
'Gone With The Wind', play!
'Chariots of Fire' galloping
right deep inside my brain.
As the night comes to a close
you make me desire for more -
seduced, intrigued and raised
to the clouds to stay right there.
A guitar you turn into a slave
to touch a chord in the soul.
(Inspired by Liona Boyd)
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