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The Folk Singer

His guitar hangs off of His neck
Like a tire on a rusty rim
Wooden rust, wind and dust
Rusty strings echoing a million voices
A hundred years old and underground
Dance beneath His calloused fingers.
Dance beneath the diamond sky
He is here to save us, though His knees buckle
Under the weight of His guitar
And His conscience.
He moans once,
And hollers at the facists that they are bound to lose,
All you fascists bound to lose
And then He starts strumming hard
Like it is our only salvation

And it might be.

poem by Patrick O'Reilly
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Related quotes

My Guitar

With burdens bearing heavy down a road that's hard and long
My body's bent and weary so I'm reaching for a song;
My sorrows flicker - fading..., faint... - beneath the morning star,
While worried fingers seethe across the strings of my guitar.

Though seagulls fly forever, streaking, striving for the strand,
My troubles ebb, evaporate, with my guitar in hand;
Their turbulency's writhing neath the notes within the air -
And hunted by the haunting beat, they're vanquished everywhere.

With melodies erupting, bursting, splashing night with dawn,
The drifting dancing demons die, as time goes swirling on;
Guitars are roaming randomly across the rusty skies,
While cares have vanished, draped in dust of distant lullabies.

poem by Terry O'Leary
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Rusty Angels

They say you came from heaven but I know thats not the truth,
Cause I dont think an angel could look anything like you,
Your eyes are made from sapphires and your heart is made from stone,
You gotta be the closest thing to hate Ive ever known,
And if I didnt know better Id say you had come alone to the party.
Oh yeah.
The light is always shining, but you swear that its gone black,
The tide is always turning, but youre never looking back,
If I didnt know better Id say times were pretty bad,
Because rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, yeah,
Rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, gonna die.
The gifts you bring are fire, and your dreams they turned to dust,
Your flying days are over, and your wings have turned to rust.
If I didnt know better, Id say all you had is lost,
Because rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, yeah,
Rusty angels they cant fly,
Rusty angels gonna die, gonna die.
If you swallow just a little pride, you might find a little love inside,
Open up and let somebody in, cause if you need somebody,
You know its not a sin.
Rusty angels they cant fly, rusty angels gonna die, yeah,
Rusty angels they cant fly, no, rusty angels gonna die,
Gonna die, yeah, you cant fly, oh no,
Gonna die, oh yeah, you cant fly, oh no.

song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Keep On Strumming The Guitar Strings

my dear
keep on strumming the guitar strings
on this lonely night

where are the stars
are dead and gone

keep on strumming and let me simply
hum a tune for you

keep on strumming until your fingers
bleed until i stop singing until

the two of us become one
breathing soul
in our chosen spot
of silence.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Away From My Moody Attitudes

The strumming of strings,
Heard on...
Your guitar,
Expands my mind with your melodies...
No matter if I'm moody.
Or...
Hard to please.

To witness the dew with mist lifting,
In the early morning dawn...
Comes to deliver a fresh acceptance,
With...
A feeling I can't miss,
To let drift away or go on with a need in me...
Internally I ssek to feed as if feasting.

The strumming of strings heard on your guitar,
Delivers a fresh acceptance with...
A feeling I just can't let,
Escape away.
I am not promised a repeating of these unique days.

The strumming of strings heard on your guitar,
Delivers a fresh acceptance with...
A feeling I just can't let,
Escape away.

Only you can move me,
In the way you do...
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
Away from my moody attitudes.
Only you can move me,
In the way you do...
Away from my moody attitudes.

Only you can move me,
In the way you do.

To give me what's overdue.

Only you can move me,
In the way you do.

To give me what's overdue.

Away from my moody attitudes.
And...
Only you can move me,
To give me what's overdue.
Away from my moody attitudes.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Yellow Guitar

It’s nothing but me now and these strings
There’s nothing holding me in between
I bought this yellow guitar
And now its stole my heart

There’s nothing but your voice echoing in my head
And nothing to complain to
Yeah I bought this yellow guitar
To sing to you

Cause I got all these words circling my mind
Got to many nights I stayed awake to cry

There’s nothing but these strings now to prove who we are
Im left holding this yellow guitar

Cupids arrow has struck me hard
Surprised how much I am in love
With this yellow guitar

poem by Christy Harris
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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
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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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That Old Thing? It's No You

I spent the night twiddling around on my guitar
A night when I should have been talking to her
Sure, she'll listen to me play
But I think she'd listen to anything I have to say
And this guitar will get old and worn
And the strings will rust
And the neck will crack
And the wood will warp
And playing this guitar gives me callus fingertips
But my girl, she's the one that soothed me when I was forlorn
She's the one I can always trust
I think she will always have my back
Even when I know it's not true, she'll tell me I'm always looking sharp
And she's the one of I sing for, when the song comes from my lips

poem by J.M Berger
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Those Few Weeks...

i may be a surprise
you seeing me strumming the strings of an old guitar

and i shall not fail to remember on the first few weeks
after our wedding day
what a guitarist you are
strumming my smooth and glossy guitar

cautiously you made my my ribs sing
as i trembled with all joy

and perhaps you must remember too
how i caressed your hair
like i was finding some lyrics of my own song
for you that night
when the sky was young and the stars
were newly born

they were all flickering like some fireflies
we must remember....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One more dram from Satan's Bar

Dizzy my head and I see beyond colors in the discotheque.
Skeletons dance in nude and it's very hard to recognize them
Either female or a male.
Rusty guitar strings make a noise and a Soprano sings;
'Beware of Puritans civilized World
They call you to a bogus Paradise
Please leave them aside and have one more dram,
Sleep in the hell tonight.
Remember that you are eligible for a free breakfast
With a mug of hot cocoa that really gives you the flavor of life.

* [ 13 th of April @ 7.40 a.m; Scribbled on a Metrolink train while we on a tour to Los Angeles from North Main Corona.]

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Dance

Come on, baby, while the moon is high
Kick up your heels and dance
Dont be nervous, dont be shy
And give yourself a chance
You can dance
Kick off your shoes and lose your blues
Pick em up, lord, put em back down
And around, and around, and around, and around.
Come on, baby, it must be fun
To be dancin in the clear moonlight
Otherwise, would everyone be out on
Such a cold and windy night?
We can dance.
Throw yourself away
Holy month of may
You can dance.
Listen to the music of the steel guitar
Dont it sound good
Hey now, nobody here tonight came to look at you,
No, no, no
Well I bet you five dollars that somebody starts a fire
Back in the woods, hey now
Everybody here tonight came to boogie
Have a good time, too
Come on, baby, while the moon is high
Kick up your heels and dance
Dont be nervous, dont be shy
And give yourself a chance
You can dance
Kick off your shoes and lose your blues
Pick em up, lord, put em back down
And around, and around, and around, and around
If I could lose my mind
If I could throw myself away.

song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Stranded (Lyrics)

Your waves come crashing down
Like a semi-auto trailer
I dive so deep in the sea
To avoid killer whales
A perfect moment here and gone
It has sailed
I'll use a hammerhead to drive
Rusty nail inside

I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me

Imagine if our world was blue and weightless
I never meant to do wrong to you
You're my starfish

You moan a tone so low beyond me
A telepathic sub-sonic frequency
I need a little air for emergency
You have to understand this urgency

I'm feeling the sea beneath me, beneath you
White sand beneath my feet
No brain between my ears
I'm feeling the sea beneath you, beneath me
I know that if I had one
I'd spare us both these years

A sea anemone, you're my enemy

poem by Satan's Sibling
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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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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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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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I Am.... (The Fingers Of Love)

i am the fingers of love...
unlatching the door,
with silent determination.
unbuttoning your blouse,
tracing the line of your neck,
stroking your hidden fire.
playing the strings
of your heart's old guitar,
picking up the pen,
and lighting the match.
digging in the dirt
to plant your dreams,
wiping the tears from
the lines beneath your eyes.
trembling as they tie the bow,
and reach out to touch your casket.
aching with the torrent of passion,
and the years of love's remembrance!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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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 Guitar Hummmmmmssssss Anew

MY GUITAR HUMMMMMMSSSSSS ANEW

melvin Banggollay

My old guitar had been hanging on the wall

for so long since the time I lost my balls

to sing the passion of my loving heart

as I did before my sorrows deeply starts

When I used to sing the sweetest melody

my tender hearts loved to emit and play

while my dear love hummed besides

with loveliness I thought never supsides.

Yes, dust of pains embroidered my guitar

when I had not sung with it like a superstar

and his strings can't even echo a sound

as dust so thick stuck by decades round

but now when I behold a new love's glare

upon a poets charm full of wisdom's clear

I begun to strum my old guitar's to renew

my ardent desire to love someone new.

poem by Melvin Banggollay
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