The White Guitar
Strings Break Silence
Fingers follow the muse's guide
like feathers in the soft wind.
Simple motions. Simple gestures.
The guitar is an endless map,
reaching minds of all ages and
hearts of all composition levels.
Notes thrown into the music pond.
Times just a tune is caught.
Times a melody is captured.
He sees himself in black and white
until he plays where the guitar releases
his heart under the rainbow of rhythm.
In his hands he holds his chariot.
His bond of opening a new book
to create a chapter for the ear.
Some say his guitar is his only friend.
Others want silence to listen to him play.
April 23 1992
Copyright © Chantelle Cooke | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment