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Hazel grey Jul 2020
My finger travels on strings 
Like train on tracks 
Sometimes like a local train 
Stopping at every other fret 
And sometimes like some express
Covering a whole lot of distance 
Before pausing for a moment or two.

My fingers slide 
From one string to another 
From one fret to another 
In turn creating symphonies
Which are sometimes an ethereal bliss
And sometimes an unfathomable chaos 
Like creaky old wooden doors 
On warm humid days 

One hand keeps the strings chained 
While the other sets them free 
Setting into motion 
An oxymoronic event 
And myriad frequencies 
Reinforce on each other 
Forming melodies of utter finesse.

They say all your prized possessions
Leave behind scars
And so my fingertips carry calluses 
From this wine hued acoustic creature
Signifying battle wounds 
Which i'll always be proud of 
Aren't you?
Pauline Morris Jun 2016
I seen her there in that rocking chair
Grey hair flying everywhere
She was rocking as fast as could be
Letting out shrill squeaks of glee

Beneath the wrinkles you could still see
The child she so long ago use to be
In her eyes was a glint
Of a woman hell bent
On squeezing out every once of fun
She knew her time was almost done
But for today she hadn't a care
Let the people stare

I watched the grandkids climb onboard
As Grandma throttled up and the soared
For imagination was her most prized possession
She was leaving it to her grandkids, you could see it in their expression

This lesson from their wild haired grandma that they got
Would never ever be forgot
As that rocking chair flew back and fourth
Leaving the gravity of earth
Headed for an adventure out in the galaxy
Sharing Grandma's fantasy

— The End —