The Guitarist

This is a poem about my husband, who is a guitar player.

With  guitar in hand he starts to play

        the melody in his head.

     Each finger, like precision instruments,

        knows its part in the song.

     Faster and faster! the fretboard's like ice

        as the fingers are lightning quick.

     The pick knows, by the hand's mind,

        each string and when to play.

     He makes the sounds from his guitar

        as only he can make.

     The melody flows from within his soul

        as he's transported to a land far away.

 

 

Reviews

[Deborah Leah Krempa]

Well written poem. Music from a guitar is truly a thing of beauty and does have the ability to transport us to a place far away. Thank you for sharing. Debileah