the way his fingers glide down the fret board
making the slightest whistle like
hearing the troubadour take a breath
between phrasing in his tale of love
we both know he is adept enough
not to make this sound, but he purposefully
strokes the strings of my heart
encased in pearl inlays
the resonance from the yawning hole in the brazilian rosewood
echoes out from partial capos
the baritone voice telling deep stories in perfect
time and pitch mixed with open tunings in cross keys
talking of old affections, addictions, climbing high hills
these are the soundtracks for many lives
an unheralded afficionado unheard of by
most who listen to dumbed-down mass produced drivel
which is more than fine for us who
don't wish to share our diamond
only hoping deserved accolades would
fall like leafy notes from his well traveled strings
No comments:
Post a Comment