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You And Me Making Music Together

i am a violin
play me with the gentleness
of your
disposition

you must hear
the sadness of my music

you are my guitar
i will strum your strings

it will not be sad

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guitarist

Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring

Sealed in its case
Taking up space
I use a pick to play
The guitar, everyday
Playing a chord
Only when I'm bored

Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring

Its base is wood
Its strings are not
When you cannot play
There is nothing to flaunt
Before you play
Tune the sound
Strum on and on
Until a rhythm is found

Strum the strings
From room to room
The sound will ring

I
I have nothing to say
No light to use
No music to play

I'm idle
For I have
No guitar to play

poem by Pete Rivera
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A Lyric to My Son and His Guitar

A Lyric To My Son and His Guitar

strum...
Strum the strings of your brown guitar;
Brings me to the music star lively as you are.

Far in the awful nights in an hour of silence
Plays me a song with ease and delight.

Plays no more a sad song,
Let the people hear only a refrain;
Of the imperial tune.

Strum...
Strum the strings of your brown guitar
Brings the world to the music star lively as you are...

poem by Elvira Marchan
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bloodline ***** LYRIC TO MY BRO AND HIS GUITAR

Strum ….
Strum the strings
Of your brown guitar
Brings with me
To the music star
Lively as you are

Far in the awful nights
In the hour of silence
Plays me a song
With ease and delight

Plays no more
A sad song
Let the people hear
A refrain
Of imperial tune

Strum….
Strum the strings
Of your brown guitar
Brings the world
To the music star
Lively as you are

poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Sad Guitar (In Iraq)

When I play...my sad guitar,
With powered chords...of deep emotion.
I strum the strings...with such devotion,
When I play...my...sad...guitar.

When I play...my sad guitar,
In a bunker, built in the sand.
This war torn country, this desert land,
I miss playing...In a rock and roll band.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.

When I play...my sad guitar,
My memories play,
Deep in my mind,
I try to find-
Our... wedding... day!
When I play...my...sad...guitar.

When I play...my sad guitar,
I think of my Harley...My hot-rod car,
Wishing I was home,
With a beer in a bar.
When I play...my...sad...guitar.

poem by Philip Lore
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The Guitar Man

They call me the guitar man.
Cause I can really bend those strings.
I no longer play in a band,
But I can make my guitar sing.

There ain't nothing I can't play,
I carry music in my soul.
I play better than yesterday,
I can play some solid gold.

My acoustic Alvarez,
Can either sing or cry.
I thank the Lord, that he has blessed,
My guitar and me from on high.

If you're ever down in Texas,
Come and see this guitar man.
I don't look at all like Elvis,
But I do the best I can.

Ask around and you will see.
That I am not so hard to find.
If you hear music, thats where I'll be,
So come on down, if your'e inclined.

9/5/10 Alton Texas

poem by Juan Olivarez
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Solace From Strings

Tune up your strings.
Keep them tight.
Strum me a song
on this painful night.
Play, play
take my pain away.

Tune up your strings.
Let your fingers slide.
Help me forget
how I have cried.
Play, play
take my pain away.

The sound of your strings
make me weep
and as you strum
I can fall asleep.
Play, play
take my pain away.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Magic Music Box

That music box on Grandpa's wall
Was magic to my eyes
I loved to hold and try to play
that guitar, twice my size

One day, I thought of nothing else
So, when the school bell rang
I was off to Grandpa's house
To strum those strings again

I waded thru two babbling brooks
Loving every step I took
Then paused to smell the sweet incense
Of honeysuckles on the fence

They'll miss me home at suppertime
But I think dad knows he can find
His little girl at Grandpa's house
with that guitar across her lap

Then found a guitar, all her own
Would keep his little girl at home
And Happy too!, for I play well
Tho' years have passed, I love it still.

poem by Nita S. Balma
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The Changes In Her Life

SHE used to sing and dance
play the piano and strum the guitar
and fiddle the violin,

NOW, she is changed
she second fiddles with violence.
she drums the guitar, she pays the pianist.
she hates to sing and detests any dance.

AFTER, he was gone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Weeping Guitar

Well I've got this guitar, that usually sings
A couple pills, and some scars
And I gently pluck all the strings
While gazing at the stars

My guitar begins to weep
Each strum echoes my pain
The sharp chords cut so deep
Bitter loneliness is driving me insane

So I strum to free my soul
But not a tune is heard
Unable to fill my empty hole
But I don't say a word

Each strum seems to kill
And I'm living each day with lies
There are too many holes to fill
All I want to do is forever close my eyes.

poem by Chelsea Wallace
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I Can Play (Lyrics) :

He didn't give himself up to fear.
And his voice had a life of its own.
He didn't give himself up for broke.
Just a man who played his guitar.

He said 'I can play the guitar', 'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.

'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.

He didn't give himself up to drinking beer.
His voice still had a life of its own.
And he didn't give himself up for smoke.
Just a man who played his guitar.

He said 'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.

'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.

He didn't give himself up to curcumstance.
Always tried to make it alone.
He didn't give himself up to telling lies.
His honesty was already shown.
Always kept himself up to par.
Just a man who played his guitar.

He said 'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.

'I can play the guitar'.'I can play it clear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'.
'I can play the songs that you want to hear'.
'I can play the guitar'.'I can play'...

Rock Lyric By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1987,2009..
ALL rights reserved..

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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My Lonely Guitar

At a corner my guitar waves her hand
inviting me to pick her up, to strum her
strings, to find out if all her chords
blend in harmony with my fingers.

It is waving her hand before my eyes
as in those birthdays, meetings, teaching,
and parties where her strings were made
busy to play melodies to people around.

Tonight she waves her hand again
calling me to play with her our common
game of songs which others can sing along.
But I just cannot play with my guitar today.

For whatever reason let this lonely night
find out; let me sleep and let sweet melody
sleep with me in my dreams and
let my guitar help me find the right chords
for my lonely song.

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Me and His Guitar

I am his guitar
I brought him music
He tuned me up
Followed whatever
he wanted me to play
He got me high
and got me low
He brought me into a nice shelter
So that I was kept safe!
He cried to me
when he's in deep pain
He loved me tight when
all he had was joy
Now I'm cracked
my skin is crumpled
My edges are broken
And my strings are cut
Strike through them up and down
hear from me my broken sound
I am his guitar
I am lost
Have forgotten the notes...
I play no song anymore
What is music to me after all?

poem by Luningning Minguez
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My Beloved Guitar

The long solid neck,
With flowing, refinded strings.
A base of cherry; finished wood.
Defined in figure, exquisite;
Among other things.
Shaped with a curve,
Set down in my lap.
I picked up my guitar,
And made my fingers tap.
A symphony from,
Those melodic strings.
Part of my hearts amour.
My fingers graze along,
This coppery and bronze decor.
A roughness they slide.
Along the ends;
Roughness on my fingertips.
A sliding; an arry of refreshing sounds.
One that echos into the bottem,
And emerges to astound.
My arm embraces the frame work,
A base of refined finished wood.
Tuned to a sound,
Like a guitar should.
My fingers cradle those melodic stings.
The light strum of my hand,
Makes music;
The guitar sings.
From the mouth of a speaker.
Out comes a tune.
With a cadence strum.
Fingers pressed down,
Out the music comes.
A symphony from,
This rhythmic harmony.
A tone in my soul.
A note that's always been apart of me.
A feeling I once knew.
I recall, a sound in the distance.
A beauty that plays so smooth.
Shaped with a curve,
Set down in my lap;
I picked up my guitar.
It slowly starts to come back.
That feeling, I'll never forget.
I recall, a sound not so far.
I recall, the feeling that day;
The day I picked up my beloved guitar.

poem by Jessie Jett
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Playing The Guitar

Oh what a joy to hear him
play the guitar and sing!
When he sings and
play the guitar,
he puts his heart and
soul into it.
Oh what a voice!
I could hear him all day
all night
and never get tired.
He entranced me by his music.
His music is like
listening to angels
plucking the harp.
That’s how good he is
he doesn’t think so!
I know better!
For I should know! I should know!
He’s my husband.
For I am his number one fan.

poem by Noreen Ann Jenkins
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The Blues

The blues of my life
play through my mind
as I strum my guitar
to the beat of my heart

The notes are the years
the strings are the falls
the songs are the faces
the tears are the places

We've seen it all
these blues and me

poem by Dave Alan Walker
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Come and Play Your Music Well

When the ghost of disease
cripples my fantasies,
I must strum my guitar
and sing a song of peace.

When bright days are haunted
by dark clouds of pain and fears,
I must harmonize my strings
and play the sweetest melodies.

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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My Guitar.

my guitar has six strings,
it gets lonely when nobody sings,
musical and magical,
my pick makes my guitar sound so magical,
and no matter were i go shes right there,
when i play my guitar people always stare,
we sound so good together,
i hope my guitar will stay with me forever,
my guitar has six strings.
but it gets lonely when no one sings,
my guitar is never out of tune,
it doesnt matter who i play it too,
wether you're happy, mad or feeling blue,
just remember my guitar will help you get thru.

1/11/2009
Copyright ©2009 Jose Murguia

poem by Jose Murguia
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I can play rhythm guitar. I know how to hold a guitar and strum it.

quote by Jamie Lee Curtis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bow and Strings

What heavy, dark delirium!
What dim and moonlit heights!
To touch the violin for years
And not to know the strings by light!

Who needs us now? And who lit up
Two hollow, melancholy faces...
And suddenly the bow felt
Someone take them up, unite them.

"How long it's been! Amidst this gloom
Just tell me this: are you still the same?"
The strings caressed the bow,
Rang out, caressed it slightly trembling.

"Is it not true, that we will never more
Be parted. It's enough..."
Yes, replied the violin,
But pain was throbbing in her heart.

The bow discerned it and grew mute,
The echo still continued in the violin...
What was a torture to them both
The people heard as music.

But the violinist didn't snuff
The candles out 'til dawn...The strings sang on...
The sun found them worn out
On the black velvet of their bed.

poem by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky
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Transcendence....

in that pit of sorrow
shall one descend

until his head is seen
no more

what is seen is the plain
a desert if you know

the sun is cruel
as seen on the skulls of goats

and men
but one cannot just descend

forever into the
grief that is so overwhelming

that is not the end
of this matter for soon one who is scarred & scared

with so much sadness
learns so carefully and the heart

that is broken soon shall
heal the strings that snapped

from its guitar body
and one's trembling fingers can still

figure music what just two strings
or even one

down to that grave of darkness
where shadows speak

one day an eye looks for a leak
of light

and finding an opening
wings its way

to the world of light where it
once lived

for it shall remember and rise
once again

as spirit as scent of calmness
and gentleness

the scars listen and the broken limbs
reshape what the spirits

reinvent: you see, you must have
felt it, because

it happens and we are still here
all willing
to speak and listen.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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