The Singer.

The deep tones that echo, sonar-like,
Through the green-lit waters, and the
Bass notes that underly the wind.
The slow drawl of words drawn out
By notes that linger and echo and
Wind round the melody.
The rippling guitar that flows so
Softly and strongly over the rocks
Of the echoing lyrics.
All these, and so much more,
Mean that memory does not die.
And the singer makes me cry.


© 2ndwitch, 19/01/16

The Musician.

You walked into the world, all those years ago,
With the promise of a glorious future, success,
Fame and adoration tempting you on and on.
You opened your mouth and sang, and people
Listened, and your voice had the power to entrance.
You ran your fingers over the strings, and
Allowed a molten gold web to be woven, and
Cast it across your audience, and saw them fall in love.
As the years passed, you moved from band to stage
To band, to studio, to band again and again, each time
Choosing a small part of yourself to reveal to
Anyone who was listening.
Slowly the life became harder, the audiences smaller,
The bookings less prestigious, and the appeal of
The things that blanked the mind grew ever stronger,
The beer, the wine, the wacky baccy, and
Late nights and smokes began to take their toll.
And so, eventually, you walked back out of the world,
With the promises not fulfilled, and broken now,
Disheartened, your muse defeated and laid to rest.
But just some of what you did lives on.
Some of your work will never die.

© 2ndwitch, 17/01/16

(My thanks to the owner of the guitar, who probably does not even know I took the photo, for the image.)

Thank you for . . .

In the tone of the voice sits the warmth of the smile,
And the notes that dance on the bow are laughing;
Even when the song is sad, the warmth spreads
Like sinking into a scented bubble bath, and the
Velvet tones caress the senses, and soothe the soul.

In the whispered love-words of those dextrous fingers
And the tautness of the strings, there sings a glory
Of intimate erotica; the song the guitar sings is
For your ears only, all else are voyeurs, and should
Not be listening, nor drowning in sound.

The soft and sensuous marriage of horse hair and
Metal, vibrating in time, creating cadence,
Soaring, eagle-like, over the mundane and everyday
Troubles; here, in stark relief is the condensed
Experience of all human kind.

© 2ndwitch, 14/01/14