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Lawren Jun 2012
My brain is a finely tuned A string
Plucking and picking itself out of tune
And though out of tune itself
Molds and bends to be in tune
Relative to others.

My skin like a mahogany fingerboard
Is constantly pressed
And squeezed and slapped
—Abused by my own hand.

My mouth and tongue are f-holes
Through which my inner vibrations
Are released into the air.

My heart is a bridge
Keeping my thoughts
In their rightful place
But also connecting
My body and mind.

My bones make up my sound-post
Holding me together
And providing the structure
Necessary to speak.

My feet are an endpin
Grounding me
And connecting me
To my surroundings.

Occasionally a bow comes along
Forcing me to do or say
The opposite of my desires
Moving me
And playing me
Like an instrument,
A toy.

I am a cello
Here to say what I want
How I want.
Though my strings need occasional tuning,
I decide how they sound
And when they sound.
Although I am sometimes used by others
For their gain
I am always in control of my expression.
Jai Rho Mar 2014
“Good afternoon, Mr. Leitch.  Have you had a busy day?”

     Grey eyes peered over wireframe spectacles and gazed upon a vision that lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Yes, quite.  Thank you for asking.  So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

     As she entered the tailor’s shop and lithely traced her fingers across yards of brightly colored silk, and muted finely woven wool, her companion quietly assembled outside the entrance door.  He had selected a prime location adjacent to the neighboring baker’s store.  At that hour, the wafting mixed aromas of warm cookies, cakes, baguettes and shepherd’s bread would lure workers of the day from their homeward paths for just a bit of something to fill their evening meals, or add a little nuance to the setting of the sun.

     “And you as well, kind Sir.  I do adore observing the mastery in the magic of your finery.”

     “Well now, what a lovely thing to say.  And I adore listening to you as well.  But no more of that ‘Sir’ business.  You must call me ‘Arthur,’ as I have said before.”

     “Ah, then no more of that ‘dear’ business.  You must call me ‘Kathy,’ and we shall both listen to more lovely sounds that will soon fill this room.”

     At that moment, when the tailor’s eyes began to sparkle, Kathy’s companion began to strum a well-seasoned lute as he sang a refrain from an old Yorkshire ballad:

          Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Remember me to one who lives there
          For once she was a true love of mine

Then slowly, a crowd began to gather, one-by-one and in twos and threes, of those emerging from the bakery or simply passing by, as lamplights began to glow against the evening sky.    

          Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Without a seam or needlework
          Then she shall be a true love of mine

Entwined within the strumming, individual notes came alive and danced their way across the frets and fingerboard to leap and float about the crowd.  In time with the rhythm and the melody, pence and schillings soon found their way into the instrument’s open case, sounding light percussive accompaniment and applause.

     And then as though entranced, Kathy twirled about the tailor’s shop and took the tailor’s hand, to lead him out into the square and join the merry band.  She smiled a wondrous look, with eyes closed to the scene around her, as she gazed upon the vision within her, and her sweet voice shared its verse:

          Tell him to find me an acre of land
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Between the salt water and the sea sand
          Then he shall be a true love of mine

Then Kathy gave a laugh or two, and raised her arms to the incandescent night, as a blackbird perched itself atop the crescent moon, resting in the palms of her hands.
Julia Feb 2013
You used to make such beautiful music --
both with your voice and your violin.
Your long, spindly fingers knew just where to press down
onto the fingerboard,
creating the perfect pitch. . .
People were always drawn to you,
despite your lies and deceitful heart
just beneath the surface.

I can't imagine being your mother,
having to bear the sheer embarrassment of
birthing such a vindictive child into the world.
I've seen your mother's pained expression
every time she looks at you--
tight lips, pressed firmly together, and
a face devoid of all
color,
life,
and love,
with deeply sunken, disdain filled eyes.

Do you feel safe around her?
I know I wouldn't.
The title may seem disconnected, but in my head, it works.
Maryanne M Jan 2013
My art
My passion awakes
My fingertips
From your tailpiece
Your tailpiece
To your neck

Pulsating change
Change of pitch
Rigorous vibrato
My fingers
On your strings
In an extreme tremolo

My hands
Are bewitched
By your slender auburn corpo
Your firm belly
Twitched
In a perfect falsetto

I pluck
You whisper
Bisbigliando
Your fingerboard
Wildly opens
In stile concitato

I play your chord
Your nakedness
In a gentle adagio
You whimper in a rich
Sonorous
Pianissimo

In my warmth
You arouse
In intense crescendo
Swollen, overwhelmed
By our wonderful
Concerto

You rest
Satisfied
In a climactic finale
Crafted
In good music
By an ******* play

My little secret
My little piece
A jewel on my chest
You are my cello
I am your
Cellist
Del Maximo Mar 2012
bought me a woman off my bucket list
inexpensive as they go
she's so ****** pretty
she's got me giddy with excitement
a smooth, shiny, orange brown, maplewood body
with an hourglass figure
a long-necked rosewood fingerboard
a brazilwood bow with ebony frog
she wears her hair in a top knot scroll
held together by large ebony pegs
standing only on one leg
she’s tall for a stringed instrument
tune her up and rough up your rosin
hold her between your knees
hug her from behind
stroke her as she moans her mellow melodies
didn’t know if it would work out
but I love her so much I had to try
I’ve always loved her
but now I know
although I would hold her close
she sings her song for others
turning her face from me
so I can’t hear her voice
I have to let her go
let her make someone else happy
she was mine for a night
but there are no switches or dials
I can’t set my heart on temporary
maybe I’ll try again later
you can’t give up on love
perhaps an electric model with headphones
then she’ll sing her songs only for me
© March 24, 2012
Aishath Hana Dec 2024
The mahogany guitar
Still hanging on the wall.
Right where you left it.
Strings rusted, fingerboard cracked.
It’s been ages since your loving hands slipped out of mine.
But it seems like it was yesterday.
A sweet reminder of the phenomenal life we had.
You gently strumming the guitar
Filling our little world with the sweet strums.
Humming along
Twirling around.
The notes you played
Had every colour in it.
You left , but the sweet memories of you still haunts me!
Strumming my pain with your fingers
Singing my life with your words

Strums
A.H

— The End —