(Roman Guitar)
stolen strings
found in coffins
of heartbreak
river melody
carries the ache
washes stones
among bones
of dead love
purpled shadows
accompanied
sadly by sighs
serenading the
irony worn by
a fountain gone
silent a balcony
empty forlorn
that a dying a
cold lonesome
lasting cessation
could happen
in this the grand
city eternal the
only voice heard
from this once
happy man is his
weeping guitar
Writer Lynne Sargent
Poetry Puttering by Pax & Company
Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte
"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
no dust here
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I am where the valleys are deep, the mountains are high, and the wind moans through trees...
Poesy plus Polemics 
Weeping guitar … so sad …
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it’s that kind of song
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Now that guy could sing.
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like no one before or since
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And always behind the eyes, behind the smile, behind the vocal brilliance, the sadness of the true Romantic . . .
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I agree
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That last line reminded me of the Beetles song, “I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it need sweeping “
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now that’s a blast from the past
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Beautiful words and the singer ahhh!!! 🙂
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much appreciated
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One of my earliest introductions to the world of operatic singers was watching Hollywood movies featuring Mario Lanza, on a Saturday afternoon with my dad. He was constantly surreptitiously wiping stray tears before he thought I would see them. It let me see a side of my dad that was different from the firm father, a glimpse into the heart and soul, elicited through the sweetness of someone’s voice and music. Your words and the song remind me today of those times. You’re fairly tugging my memories today, Paul and I was, a little earlier, working on a poem about memories. I need to revisit, I think, in light of what I have been reading here, so elegantly captured in all your words, and now by the voice of a man my dad would have wept gallons to.
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dear friend, you move me deeply – what a marvelously tender memory you relate – I’m humbled to think I may have helped its recall – I, too, learned the power of music from my father who never failed to be visibly moved by it – every Sunday in our home was a day long experience of his records played on our Victrola – mostly opera – contemporary popular songs came to us from my mother who played piano
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They’re never entirely forgotten really, I imagine. But our sense have a way of recalling them sharply to us. For me, I think it is mainly music and scents. Totally transported in time with certain ones. Those are lovely memories to hold onto and to be reminded of however it should occur. Today I owe you thanks for that, Paul.
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