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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Vote! | Copy!
My Guitar And A Penutbutter Jar
I sit and play my guitar all day
as my fingers lay on the strings so tight
strumming it lightly
make sounds of pain
my fingers are bleeding but i dont care
the pain i feel inside is much stronger
why am i still alive?
can i take this any longer?
his voice tells me to keep playing on
my hearts want to die after my last song
i reach for the jar of penutbutter
they say there is happyness at the bottom
but they lie
the only thing i have left
is my guitar and an empty penutbutter jar
scrapping at the bottom as it keeps me busy
my hearts are screaming PICK UP THE BLADE! !
dont put it down because its the only happeness you will ever know
its hard to stop some times i give in and do it
the blood flowing from my wrist to my guitar
my tears mixing in
so maybe there is hapyness in
my self mutilation, my guitar
and at the end of an empty penutbutter jar
poem by Sandy Vanity
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Two Cats Warm
A cat, tabby and tomcat charming
Reclines watchfully on the left
On a desk that once was my daughters but nows
Hides my books and holds
My fan, and frames the window
Black cat crowds me back in my chair
Curving C that never minds
The taby after a spit and spat
In the middle is Artificial Means
By Christine Lavin tapped out
On Second Monitor waits
And the taby washes himself
As I begin my Sensitive New Age Guys
As one taby foot rests on the arm of my chair
Yellow eyes
Pink tongue
Content, now that Black Cat left
And jumps back, shifting back to the top of my
Novel to be
Printer
Forgiveness.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
One Morning In Labason
at the retreat house
one morning
when the mist are still there
hanging on the trees
they find the priest
dead in his room
his neck rests on the chair
as he is in prayer
he is dead and they begin
to sing the hymns
praising God and
thanking Him for his
lavish love
the nuns come later
all dressed in pure white
inside the
perfumed church
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cowboy From The Bronx
He's got sandy hair and steel blue eyes and
Dressed in black from head to toe and his main
Love is a cowboy show. He's a cowboy from the bronx.
He stands tall and straight and lean
And mean and he sure is a loving machine.
He's a cowboy from the bronx.
He loves rattle snake boots and big stetson hats
And he's sure hell in any spat.
He's a cowboy from the bronx.
He bought a guitar and learned to play,
He practiced hard night and day.
He's a cowboy from the bronx.
It took 10 years to become a star
That Bronx Cowboy and his guitar,
So when you go to a cowboy show and you see a man
In black from head to toe you can bet it's
A cowboy from the bronx.
poem by Dewey Nixon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The tiny Bar behind the junk yard
It's very sad to see
The cemetery of Automobiles
At the Twilight!
Like dead souls
Piled up to the sky.
A Guy comes out of the rickety gate
With an acoustic guitar
And he enters the bar.
It's full of smoke
With dim lights
And here & there
Women & Men dance.
Waiting for him to sing.
He sips a can of beer
And strums the guitar
Then started singing;
'Here's the tiny bar
Behind the junk yard
Once those beautiful cars
Ran like Jets; Yet seemed to be proud
And showed the prestige!
My life's a car
But I cannot go far
When it's not roadworthy
I have to come here
As they say I am not trustworthy!
My life is a car
Though it's roadworthy
Where can I go
If the paths were closed unanimously?
*Humbly to the poetess Vessy in gratitude!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A girl with a guitar
Her curving fingers strum the old guitar
Softly almost shyly she hums a love song
She gazes at the empty space
With watering eyes she finishes her song
The little boy next to her,
Takes a can from his shabby bag
He stretches it to the passengers
Some give him the coins some not
Both now get off from the bus
The girl pats the little boy hair
'Today, brother; ' said she
'It's our last holiday....'
It's Monday morning
Brother and sister get into the bus
They still have worry face
Will tomorrow we still go to school?
Although life gives many choices
But they don't offer anything
The girl with the guitar in the bus
Strums the choice she's never chosen
poem by Nenden Suherni
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Reaction About Breaking
i sit on a chair
and it breaks and i fall
on the floor
but i rise and looks around
with no one
really seeing what happens
just a while ago
and then i touch my bottom
and then alone by myself
i laugh the
hardest.
crazy, but i like the legs
of the chair splitting into
useless limbs.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Those Kept On The Bottom Relate
Those kept on the bottom keep keeping on.
Those kept on the bottom keep keeping on.
Those kept on the bottom keep keeping on.
Those kept on the bottom,
Relate.
Keeping patience for them,
Has a message to send.
'Cause,
People feel more pinned in.
'Cause,
Struggles for them don't end.
'Cause,
Promises don't pay the rent.
Or decisions not to eat,
Because they wish to look thin.
Those kept on the bottom relate.
Those kept on the bottom relate.
Those kept on the bottom relate.
Those kept on the bottom,
Relate.
Those kept on the bottom keep keeping on.
Those kept on the bottom keep keeping on.
Those kept on the bottom keep keeping on.
Those kept on the bottom,
Relate.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sucker In A 3 Piece
Shes so fine
How about a 9 on a 10 scale
With long legs straight on up to her lunch pail
Sweet little wishbone, oh yeah
Dont wanna break her in half
Lick up one side and down the other
Always makes her laugh
She take me down, down, down to the bottom
I got everything you wanted
Give you everything you need
Still you want that sugar daddy over me
She want a sucker, sucker in a 3 piece
A sucker all dressed up in a 3 piece suit
Im on fire with just one look
Got me a brand new number
In my little black book
But she dont like the way I dress
She dont like the way I wear my hair
But when I roll you over baby, you dont care
Just take me down, down, down, down to the bottom
Give me everything I want
Give me everything I want
You dont want that sugar daddy, not over me
She want a sucker, sucker in a 3 piece
A sucker all dressed up in a 3 piece suit
Oh say it isnt so, baby
You wanna sucker
He just a sucker
He just a sucker
Look at all that money, baby
Ya know your sugar daddy
Youre a sugar mama
Youre both a bunch of suckers
Oh how he got a big ole belly
A stone bald head
Now, listen here, honey
That aint down your alley, no
Hes just a sucker in a 3 piece
Sucker in a 3 piece suit
Sucker.
Stone cold, sugar daddy
Sucker all dressed up in a 3 piece suit
song performed by by Van Halen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Cogitation
if this chair does not exist
will i, this, chair, me, who asks,
if this chair, exists at all,
can i, exist, too? will i be dependent
on the thought of a chair
a thought of me that i think i
can touch, that i think thoughts
touching this thought of a chair
does the chair think about me,
i ask, looking for that therefore
beside the chair that i thought
is a chair, that i thought is I,
am, therefore, a chair, thinking
chair, on four feet?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At the bottom of the Stairs
They found her in the darkness
at the bottom of the stairs
She had, for some time, lived alone
-three days she had lain there.
Her skin was clammy to the touch,
pulse irregular and weak.
In and out of consciousness
She’d drift, but could not speak.
The nine eleven call was made
And the paramedics. arrived
Hours later we got the call:
Granny Jo had not survived.
I’m staying at her house now
As we sort things out for sale.
I’ve kept busy painting rooms.
and I’ve installed a new hand rail.
Some strange things have been happening;
my cat hissing at unseen specters.
of whom I'm unaware.
a door that opens of itself
a slowly rocking chair.
At night this old house whispers and moans,
Pipes bang and stair treads creak.
Especially on a rainy night
I find it hard to sleep.
Staying here at night alone
There’s one place I won’t go.
I avoid the basement steps.
where Dad found Granny Jo.
Sometime when I pass that door
I hear faint muttering there
Evil waits in the darkness
at the bottom of the stairs….
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Mere Infidel
Life must be lonely for a mere infidel
One who does not believe in a heaven or a hell
On a god or a satan he does not believe
Yet he laugh and he smile and for lost love he grieve.
The religious zealots dismiss him as bad
Their thinking all wrong for them one must feel sad
The god that they worship and kneel to and pray
Has to be far more understanding than they.
Not part of a church group but at the local bar
He belts out a song as he strums on his guitar
With dark brown shoulder length hair and a dark brown beard
He does not look at all as one to be feared.
Some religious zealots dismiss him offhand
The true meaning of humanity they do not understand
He minds his own business and he does his own thing
And at the local he plays his guitar as he sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Why, oh Why? !
You're dressed in Black!
With a gun in your hand;
And, with a motorcycle! !
Not forgetting your Black mask.
Going a´round and killing people withoutn any reason;
Because, you are like a robot and, Satan is in control of you.
Yes, Satan has the remote control to turn you on and off!
And, the only thing in your mind is to kill people without any reason.
Yes, you've built up your mind with, hatred in your heart! !
You do ride your motorcycle around with a gun in your hand;
And, you are dressed in Black with a Black mask on.
Why, oh why? !
Why do you go against race, religion and language?
Why these killings?
Black mask,
Black outfit,
Black Motorcycle;
Why, oh why?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old Chair
We look at an old chair and wonder
whose bottom once sat there.
Was it someone Royal
or someone posh
with lots and lots of dosh,
or was it someone poor
that treasured a comfortable seat.
No matter whom it was,
just look and wonder
at the history of that old chair,
then just sit on it
and put more history there.
29 January 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!