are you finally
footloose
and feline
free
out of the
fish bowl,
behind solid
walls where
you can hang
your guitars?
guitars you
stroke, caressing
their satiny
curves
letting the
bitterness seep
out of your
joints , wearing that guitarist
it hurts
so good expression
to wring the
most from the contact
the contact
that makes us human
re-enforces the
certainty that there’s something
bigger; something
to hang on
to
I hope
you’ve found that something
in a space
molded around you
that’s just
for you
was a shock
for me when
my space evaporated
when I got
unstrung
fell off the
edge –
of that
looming precipice
that had
been hovering over my head
hanging
on by fingertips now,
jammed up inside
a too small space
back kinked,
heart pinched
so very tired
and
no place to
stretch out
packed
away--
unhung,
unsung
forgotten
inside a closed case
no fingers
to play me
no hands to
caress my satiny curves
no essential
contact to vibrate the log jam of pain,
loosen it,
let it flow out, low, long and moaning
into the
music of the night
6 comments:
Glad to hear your music again, Karen. Its lack left a hole in the world.
Welcome back. :)
Oh, this gives me chills. So much energy - and pain - in the second half of the poem. Powerful.
Love you!
I think we all feel this way sometimes, love your use of a guitar in here! <3
And Ziggy played guitar.
Your poem brought me right to that melancholy so that I heard strings and echo as much as words. Long slow chords there, I thought, and harmonics that detail the contrasting outcomes. Clever you :)
Yay! Glad to see you posting again! Great poem!
Hello stranger! If only guitars could play themselves, they would never be lonely. :-) Hope your heart is doing well. Physically and metaphorically. Miss your voice!
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