Tuesday, November 20, 2018

The Lonely Guitar










Sitting alone in an empty house
a lonely guitar and smoky voice
takes my hand and leads me down forbidden paths,
shows me an album of memories
pulled out of yesterday into today,
it’s no dream, it’s a real as the goosebumps on my skin,
and it’s hot, your touch commanding,
I’m enslaved to this moment,
to these visions neither time nor distance can eradicate.






6 comments:

  1. Amazing visual your prose (and talent) creates, once again. Have a terrific weekend Ms. V

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  2. Music is a blessing for and from the Soul ~ lovely photography and post ~

    Happy Thanksgiving to you,
    A ShutterBug Explores,
    aka (A Creative Harbor)

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  3. I have 2 lonely guitars (6 string and 12 string) gathering dust in my house, friend Shadow and 3 lonely flutes doing the same (c and b and transverse)… Haven't touched them in 34 years after Jenny's death I turned silent/ violently tearful … which ever comes first ... Son Paul is my reincarnation … You promised to send your son's musical aspirations … Am patiently waiting … smiles … Much love, cat.

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  4. When one has that album of memories, every touch can be hot and commanding.

    This brings back my memories, too.

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  5. Charlee: "We could sing along with you!"
    Chaplin: "We don't have smoky voices, though."
    Charlee: "Maybe you don't, but Dada says I have kind of a raspy voice."
    Chaplin: "Like Demi Meower?"
    Charlee: "Who?"
    Chaplin: "Never mind."

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  6. those are some really lovely and painful words. The pain of longing is very well described :)

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