Wednesday, September 18, 2013

since we spoke....

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


Kevin Mackey said...

Glad to hear your music again, Karen. Its lack left a hole in the world.

Welcome back. :)

Lauren Carpenter said...

Oh, this gives me chills. So much energy - and pain - in the second half of the poem. Powerful.
Love you!

Anonymous said...

I think we all feel this way sometimes, love your use of a guitar in here! <3

Anonymous said...

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 :)

ganymeder said...

Yay! Glad to see you posting again! Great poem!

shannon said...

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!