Mateo
Mateo sat on a rusty bench
outside his local bar
and polished his old guitar
with a crumpled up tissue
he’d pulled from the pocket
of his faded jeans
while Sophie watched
through the balcony rails
as he breathed
his whisky haws
onto the scratched wood
shining it
until his reflection
shook them by the throat
and his fingers
started to pluck and weave
their life through the strings
The music played off key
but his arthritic hands
were too tired and sore
to tune the old guitar
like her
he felt a comfort
in the imperfection
of the sounds
and the grainy melody
that filled the spaces
in the day’s drizzle
Mateo didn’t see her
but she knew he felt her
in his pulse
and he played her
in his strings
and she tried to run from clichés
but she couldn’t
her heart bled
poem by Sheila Knowles
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Related quotes
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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Strumming The Strings Of My Heart
I watch you play,
Making a beautiful tune
The strings of the guitar shaking
As you sit in the light of the moon
Your plucking the strings
With great ease
Making a flowing melody
A pretty song, just for me
I continue to watch
You playing your guitar
Making me love you
While your strumming the strings of my heart
These strings will never be touched
By anyone but you
You go where no one else can
Leaving a mark, like a tattoo,
Saying I LOVE YOU
poem by Katniss Everdeen
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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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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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All gut strings. That's just the first kind of guitar I played, it was a nylon string guitar. And to me, it's the purest form of guitar making, and I just enjoy doing it.
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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A Musical Identity Crisis
It was a fine guitar.
My dearest possession.
The tool to escape my life,
The life without any prominence or distinction;
The life, a mere proof of an existing biological function.
The only sense was from the music I understood.
The sounds created by those strings over the wood.
The notes would drown me to that world of imagination.
This was all I had for a fascination.
But it was not long that I lost my only passion.
The afternoon still survives in my memory,
The door bangs open, my uncle standing with a face
That gave away his fury,
His red eyes, the smell of his presence
Corroborated our doubts of his untimely alcoholic indulgence.
My mother screamed out Vociferous,
But the guitar did not stop.
I still don’t know-
If the attempt was prosperous
Or the musical protest was a flop?
The reek came closer,
The fingers played louder and faster.
The dipsomaniac spoke-
My price was settled by the dealer.
Enough to meet the addict’s expenditure.
The Music stopped for the last time.
The guitar was snatched and there ended
The play of notes, so sublime.
My mother would not let me go.
The dirty hands pushed her on the floor.
The sight made the anger in me grow
The addict had to be thrown out of the door.
He walked to my mother and kicked her to cry.
I lifted my guitar to give it a different try.
The guitar played a sound again
But this time it was for no musical gain.
The smash to his head made him fall on my feet.
The blood on the floor did not make me feel guilty any bit.
The Music had ended long back,
Now me and my guitar searched the identity rack.
It was not a weapon to kill,
But an instrument to feel.
And I was teased by everybody as Dumb Bill.
But not a boy of murderous skill.
poem by Saptarshi Banerjee
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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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Song of the waterfalls
As I hold this guitar of mine
while looking up the waterfalls,
I noticed
that the splashing water to the lichened stones
were attuned to the melodic lore
like I never heard before.
As the air moved slowly
and as the tune grew gradually,
my keen ear noticed something
which in effect fascinating.
The water jumped like notes
filled with gladness.
Slowly, gently and eagerly
my fingers pluck the strings
of my guitar and followed the tunes.
Those were melodies of love,
those were sent by the heaven above,
to conquer your heart
for a brand new start.
poem by Winston Soldevilla
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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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When I got my first guitar my fingers wouldn't go to the sixth string so I took off the big E and played with just five strings. I was only 6 or 7.
Play For Me My Beloved Guitar
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Love Song for my Dearest whose heart is filled with hurt;
With your strings of gold
Pluck out all her troubles from old
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Ballad for my Son whose life is full of uncertainties;
With your tunes so mellow
To a straight path let him follow
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Lullaby for my Daughter whose life is full of struggles;
With your sound so sweet
Into life's hurdles let her succeed
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Sonnet for my Brothers whose lives seem to be so hard;
With your timbre so soft
Into difficulties let them keep up
Play for me my beloved guitar
A Gospel for the World full of hatred and war;
With your resonance so pleasant
Chaos and crimes be gone
Play for me my beloved guitar
An Ode for My Soul full of burdens of the above;
With your lovely tunes and my dexterous fingers
Healing, inspiring, uplifting, motivating and peaceful songs, we will play together.
10/16/10(17: 27) -GYO Iraq
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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Lay Down Your Weary Tune
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweeds wove its strands.
The crashin waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new loves breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.
I gazed down in the rivers mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Guitar
Neglected now is the old guitar
And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver star
In its silent lips to-day.
The keys hold only nerveless strings--
The sinews of brave old airs
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings
So closely here declares
A sad regret in its ravelings
And the faded hue it wears.
But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,
Has cherished a smile for me;
And its features hint of a fairer face
That comes with a memory
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place
And a moonlit balcony.
Music sweeter than words confess,
Or the minstrel's powers invent,
Thrilled here once at the light caress
Of the fairy hands that lent
This excuse for the kiss I press
On the dear old instrument.
The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem
Still blooms; and the tiny sets
In the circle all are here; the gem
In the keys, and the silver frets;
But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them--
Alas for the heart's regrets!--
Alas for the loosened strings to-day,
And the wounds of rift and scar
On a worn old heart, with its roundelay
Enthralled with a stronger bar
That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay
Like that of the old guitar!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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There Are a Lot of People in the World Called Jack
There’s an old man singing
Out on his front porch
Strumming his guitar
Like it’s 1954.
It may have been a while
But he remembers every chord
And although it doesn’t look like much
It’s all he could afford.
Yes, the paint is peeling
And the strings are wearing thin
And it’s still sporting the logo
Of the band he once was in
But every cent he ever earned
Bought him that guitar
He should have known that green ambition
Never gets you far.
His fingers pace the tired strings.
Performing through the days
Mister-Money-Buys-You-Talent
So-I’m-Al ways-Going-To-Pay.
Stupid to the audience
Who stand around and stare
He closes his eyes and flutters back
Forgets his silver hair.
When he carried solos
With the music in his arms
Failure was not a choice
Nothing could do him harm.
As the final bar echoes
A chord dies in his hands
He falls down hard onto his porch,
And ceases the painful sound.
His weary face stares from his hands
The audience just smile,
Walk from the man and his guitar
Always in denial.
poem by Victoria Annette Bailey
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Guitar
Made up of six strings.
Has neck and body.
Just like a human being.
Sounds of the strings makes me smile.
Playing it and singing makes me more satisfy.
Whenever I see my guitar.
It makes me think of sitars.
Both are musical instruments.
Played by the musicians.
One time or two time.
Doesn't matter how many times...
poem by Yash Pradhan
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Eternal Circle
I sang the song slowly
As she stood in the shadows
She stepped to the light
As my silver strings spun
She called with her eyes
To the tune is a-playin
But the song it was long
And Id only begun
Through a bullet of light
Her face was reflectin
The fast fading words
That rolled from my tongue
With a long-distance look
Her eyes was on fire
But the song it was long
And there was more to be sung.
My eyes danced a circle
Across her clear outline
With her head tilted sideways
She called me again
As the tune drifted out
She breathed hard through the echo
But the song it was long
And it was far to the end
I glanced at my guitar
And played it pretendin
That of all the eyes out there
I could see none
As her thoughts pounded hard
Like the pierce of an arrow
But the song it was long
And it had to get done
As the tune finally folded
I laid down the guitar
Then looked for the girl
Whod stayed for so long
But her shadow was missin
For all of my searchin
So I picked up my guitar
And began the next song
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Strings Of Freedom
walk with me..
you and me, not separate
our poem is totality
and our poetry,
is all months,
from january..
to december.
walk with me..
where to decide
the strings of poetry
mixed with both,
the guitar's strings
and the strings..
of all seasons.
walk with me..
it's me, who guides
to all strings,
which said no
and refused to sleep
but refused not..
to dream.
walk with me..
i'm still to wait
for all strings,
walking in time
and resisting,
being jailed..
in the guitar.
poem by Ahmed Khaled
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