A Guitar At Two In The Morn
Someone strums a guitar, at two in the morn,
Such a melancholy sound.
In the darkest hours before the dawn,
Where only silence does abound.
The body of a woman, weeping in the night,
While somebody strums her strings.
A tortured soul, before first light,
While the guitar gently sings.
poem by Juan Olivarez
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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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Mario Parodi
it is now
mario
with his
parody
again
guitar strings
guitar strums
so
so spanish
my ears
jump
with joy
my ears
have kangaroo
feet
jumping with
joy
to the
skies
to the
hills
mario
parodi
and his
spanish notes
jumping like
fleas
from his
spanish guitar
my mind
has kangaroo
feet and jumps
and jumps
to
a great leap
the
great leap
that
soren
once
had in
norway.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Melody of a Shattered Soul!
If you give him one of these instruments?
Guitar, Bass, Violin
Mandolin,
Viola, Cello, Banjo
Lute, Bouzouki
Ukulele and more!
His fingers could touch every string
And he sings the deep sorrow
Deeper than an Ocean.
There's no stage for him in this cruel World
And he strums his broken Ukulele
in a dark street corner under a starry night.
You can hear the melody of a shattered soul!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Saturday Night At The Local
Saturday night in The Ramble Inn Bar
Johnny the folk singer strums on his guitar
For his entertainment in beer he is paid
Not a hard one to please is Danny McDaid,
Saturday night the night for the sing along
Everyone gets a chance to sing a song
Anyone who sings will get a free beer
Saturday night is the night of good cheer,
Annie she sings and she receives an encore
Drinks her free beer and she sings a few more
Singing and dancing and reciting rhyme
Everyone's having a jolly good time,
Nobody is looking for trouble or fight
Down at the Local on Saturday night.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Fastest Guitar Alive
Orbison/dees
Hey here I go a lucky so and so
Happy cos I know Ive got my fast guitar
Singing pretty songs, knowing I belong
I am first and last, and always a fast guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Rattling strings like a gattling gun
Shaped like a lovely woman
Stay right where you are
My guitar is a fast guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Im rolling on like a rolling stone
Gathering no moss, I play a boss guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Strumming like a battling soldiers drum
Shaped like a lovely woman
Stay right where you are
My guitar is a fast guitar
The fastest guitar alive
Hey here I go a lucky so and so
Happy cos I know Ive got my fast guitar
The fastest guitar
The fastest guitar
The fastest guitar alive
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While My Guitar Gently Weeps
I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps
I don't know why nobody told you how to unfold your love
I don't know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you.
I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps
I don't know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
No one alerted you.
I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Look at you all...
Still my guitar gently weeps.
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Musician.
There is something timeless
about the creak of the chair.
As he rests his bottom there.
Strums his guitar.
Dressed in black.
poem by Bernadette O Reilly
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While My Guitar Gently Weeps...
It's hard to tell how many regrets my heart keeps,
After the scars of my heart I see.
Eyes fall short of tears to cry,
While my guitar gently weeps...
When my present turns back and into the past it peeps,
Delightful memories flood in with a sweet pain.
All the anguish comes out through the strings,
While my guitar gently weeps...
As the nostalgia
on my broken heart creeps,
I curse myself for my blunders.
Nobody can ever hear my heart sob,
While my guitar gently weeps...
It is so unfair that the whole world peacefully sleeps,
And has faithful people to care.
But I have nobody to console me,
While my guitar gently weeps...
-SUJAY.S.P
poem by Sujay Patekar
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Music of the Stars
(to Johnny Alegre)
I heard you first as I walked by
Abelardo Hall
The faint strains of a lead guitar
I just could not ignore
Quietly I entered
the large dim-lit hall
Soon I sat there feeling
What I've never felt before
It was the sound of longing
through the strings of your guitar
A man surrendering his heart
A traveller soul-searching
reaching for the stars
A prayer from the heart
You didn't know me back then
But I can tell you now
The music that possessed you
Took me in its power
For on that day a wayward flame
Touched my very soul
And to this day it haunts me still
A song from long ago
It was the sound of longing
though the strings of your guitar
That echoed the longing in my heart
I know I won't forget
That mystical guitar
That song of timeless distant stars
poem by Sonya Florentino
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Little Things
little things are little hours
they drip and we hear the sound
of waiting. Long hours. Unslept.
little petals beneath my feet
buried memories. Rising.
Apparations of glows.
Tie a ribbon in my ring finger.
I remember. I slew forgetting.
dripping remembrances.
Steady streams of strums
Guitar music from the bedroom.
I am ablazed with desire.
I hear your steps getting inside
my skin. You touch me. Some vines
begin to creep. A flower grows
out of my head. You are the
sun. A morning is done.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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While My Guitar Gently Weeps
I look at you all see the love there thats sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps
I dont know why nobody told you how to unfold your love
I dont know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you.
I look at the world and I notice its turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps
I dont know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I dont know how you were inverted
No one alerted you.
I look at you all see the love there thats sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Look at you all . . .
Still my guitar gently weeps.
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rivera's Place...
there was singing,
the girl with a pigtail has angelic voice
the guy beside her strums the guitar
most of the good guys here
have white hairs
and the women are fat,
no one seems to be sexy
attending
the funeral.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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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Simplicity Of The Music Of The Spirit
attuned
i pluck the strings of guitar
and music
is soothing as usual
my spirit soars
leaving a painful body behind
now it is
the song that plucks the guitar
strings.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Selling the Guitar
The old strings of this guitar
they argue with my fingers
Perhaps the E string
with its proud tone
has better things to do
Maybe one night
this guitar
chose to become a piano
or speak other languages
Someone put the words
Out of tune
It no longer understands me
Now the songs refuse to be heard
Now things don't sound the same
And this guitar, I'm selling-
Perhaps has something against my fingers.
poem by Elvis Lantan
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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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The love For a Nephew
(His smile wide his teeth shining
as he stood with the bright guitar in his hand.)
As he lays in the casket some month later
all fancy and nice, he looks up to the stained glass windows
(The guitar so nice so strong
with its all mesmerizing sound)
the tears from the family friends and children
fall to the ground without a sound
(he looks into his uncles eyes
with joy with pride in his guitar)
the minister stands and reads the script
and he bows his head to the uncle who shall play
(He takes his pick from the case,
and strums the guritar with such grace)
the man with the guitar stands infront,
on stage ready to sing
(As he sits with his uncle
their guitars both in tune)
the man begins to play the song
that was once his nephews dream
(They sit and laugh at faults at trys
as their guitars play side by side)
pick in hand he strums the tune
and looks to the casket tears filling his eyes
(Their laughter filled the room with joy with love,
as the music came together like it was meant to be.)
half way through the tune becomes that afternoon a month ago.
the one with joy and laughter, the one with love.
(As the music slows and is perfected
they set down their guitars and embrace eachother)
The song comes to an end as the church fills with sobs,
with tears of sorrow of longing of loss
(They seperate and look at eachother with joy with faith,
as they sit down face to face)
He stands over his nephews coffin and whispers these soft words: 'I love you so, I love you true and this music will always belong to you'
~this is dedicated to Nightserf(from yahoo answers) whos nephew died of muscular dystrophy about 35 years ago, he wrote a peice of music with his nephew a month before his nephews death, and he played it in the middle of his nephews funeral. I do not know the personally so please don't tell me sorry~
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Guitar Player
in the dusk
of smoke and musk
gathering from floor
a lone player
weaves the room
into his guitar –
a blue light isolates
the stage
shadowing the room
until the world
shrinks into
the mystery of song –
feather light
a voice recalls
its softness on the strings –
listen clear
it’s almost here
the sound that silence sings.
poem by by unknown author
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Learning To Live Alone And Be Happy
in my little Bisayan town
the guitar strings are loose
and the sound
becomes musically challenged
i will be having a hard time
with my lyrics
and choice of pitch
because of this faulty guitar
and this
hardheaded guitarman
one day i decided to sing alone
less the guitar
and the guitarist
and then i learned to live
and sing
without so much fuss
without
any need for a guitar
or any accompaniment
surprisingly
i can sing alone and yet
still be in tune
without things
without so many people
yes, it is this solitude
and the rest becomes mere surplusage
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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