"fretboard" poems
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Forgot what I searched for to find heaven.
But I know that at the age of seven
I seized my mother’s phone and found a god.
He led me to an arresting world with strings.
Strings that swept your hair the way the wind does
when your ego would reach the sparkling skies.
They touched your heart no matter how heartless.
I refused to blink because if I did
I would miss a second of his gentle
fingers gliding across the maple fretboard.
And no sane person would want to miss that!
Strings danced back and forth as he played a chord.
Oh, his fingers grew sore, but calluses
helped desensitize them from aches and pain.
The instrument he mastered was waiting
to call him master cause’ guitars love how
he manipulates and makes them his slave.
Strings begged for his touch, for sounds they could make.
My eyes felt heavier than dense gym weights.
I mustn’t stop gazing if I want to
stay lost in heaven. So **** riveting!
“School is tomorrow.” ****** I forgot.”
“Give the phone back. Hmm, what are you watching?”
“Heaven.” “What did you say?” “I said heaven.”
Mom didn’t say anything afterward.
A few hours came, she asked for the phone.
I gave it to her, prepared my backpack.
Maybe in a different universe.
I would have proclaimed, “Don’t take the phone back.”
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 4:34 PM UTC
Your fingers traced the curve of my forearm like an atlas that mapped out the route that would lead you back to your heart, but you knew the journey was a labyrinth as complicated as the waterways of veins beneath my skin, so you removed your hand. Instead, your fingers found their familiar solace upon the sturdy neck and trembling strings of your guitar.
You plucked each one intently, running your hand down the edge of the fretboard and feeling each chord reverberating within the empty space of your every capillary.
I moved my gaze to your eyes, the black holes that have always swallowed me whole with the promise of never regurgitating me into bigger pieces than what I was originally.
I found myself reminiscing to a time whenever your eyes were identical to the ground we laid upon the afternoon we first decided to find versions of ourselves within the shapes of the clouds. But ever since, the innocence has slowly seeped from your expression and a stare as hard and cold as stone has taken resisidence in its place.
I allowed my eyes to slowly drift closed and suddenly I began to feel each strum of your fingers within my rib cage, the notes sketching portraits of a love never experienced upon my internal organs.
When you stopped playing, your hand immediately reached for the long-necked glass bottle resting upon the edge of your night stand. You brought it to your lips and tipped your head back, slowly drinking in every bad decision you have ever made and the after-taste that you had begun to crave. It burned your throat like acid, but each swallow was a reminder of just how hollow you had become.
Your fingers found their place once again and I readjusted beneath the weight of your expectations. I draped my legs over your bed like every profession of love that I have never said that hangs from the brim of my lips. My fingers danced across my thighs to the beat of your song, one not as familiar as the one of your unrequited love, but I still managed to dance the same.
And we seemed to lie like that for an eternity, you focused on every chord that never came out wrong like every word you ever said to me, and me basking in the sound of your unspoken promises and confessions just waiting for the day when they become reality.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.
Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.
Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.
Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.
As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.
We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.
We are gloriously young.
So **** off.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will
But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
As a consequence of my conscious decision to rendevouz with self centering mind
the power of words to create , to compose the unheard symphonies of small time intricacies and fast ride hair raising cold brushing feet failing wing taking heart soaring , bone marrow crushing delectable yet disgusting .... it's a strange place , yet made streamlined still by the number of multi dimensional infinities on the horizon sitting on one window sill one space filled,
known in time,
moment of wondering reason and wondering rhyme
no sordid or morbid tune keeps up to long and even then - feeling is feeling's tune
feeling is feeling undue,
feeling all the while whenst the secret encloses of mind unravel and intertwine
check list.
Fretboard harmonies strike bass line discord to form in own accord relations
and relate to late lives past and on time lives present
always running with time not out of it
in dew dipped grasslands
wild horses run free
dragonflies in hair and silver teeth glimmer against the rising sun
pushing each other to the best we can be , we are just the lost kids, found.
gaping holes in chests that need no name or can't be pinpointed by a single needle
that can't be filled by the love of one
but only a pack
only a tribe
running , 40/40 home .... and this time YOU are my homie , i've already run the distance
made it.
gotta feeling , we are gunna win
all of us, in whatever endeavor we feel - beings of this oh so gracious earth whose abundance is a burning flame within the vast cold depths of spaces in refutable habitat , children who never grow up from the mother earths arms - no need - no need - no need - no need for any more running
we've reached the home
and now ,
it's time to Party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
There’s a body smeared under my finger
Or maybe just dust
Guts pressed into the keyboard
The streetlight across the road is tilted at the top
Wires dangling strangely
They might drop at any moment
And set the neighbour’s flesh on fire
I couldn’t give a ****
Everyone keeps telling me I live in the bourgeois district
There’s a church opposite here
For the past three sundays
I’ve played industrial noise during mass
Hitting my guitar so hard my fingers bleed into the strings
And all along the fretboard
“Sounds like the bowel of a ship”
“Is—is that music?”
Wrists are beginning to collapse in on themselves
Fill the void
Shut shut
Open the windows
Shut shut
Play some Swans
Shut shut
Close the windows
Shut shut
It’s too early
Worthless
It’s too late
Worthless
Look in the mirror
There’s nothing
Look at your father
There’s nothing
Look at your friends
There’s nothing
She’s gone
Far away
She’s gone
Left you
She’s gone
Lost you
She’s gone
Failed you
**** up
Up
Drop out
Out
Take some acid
Acid
Blow your brains out
Out
Emergence:
The philosophy that consciousness arises out of the physical structure of the brain
Scramble it and we’d no longer resemble the same persons
Just vessels hosting multiplicities that alter as they deteriorates
Give me five tabs, then
Spike through the cerebrum
Phineas drunk on the pavement
Gage dead but still walking
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
I love your hands
So beautiful
So strong
The way your fingers dance
upon the fretboard
as you play a song
The tenderness in your fingers
as they caress my cheek
something you always do
before drifting off to sleep
The warmth
of your hand
as I take yours in mine
As we stroll through the bush
birds singing
the weather fine
How gentle they are
As you hold
our grandbaby in your arms
Nurturing
full of love
and always so calm
Playing the guitar
made your hands strong
I love their beautiful shape
your loving fingers long
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
When we're together
It's like escaping to a magical land
Locked in a stuffy room
Our desires reigned recklessly free
Keeping away the harsh realities of our lives
Passionately intertwined as one
In each others own madness
Your fingers are minx like
Dancing across the fretboard with thoughtless grace
Strumming your thoughts through our kisses
With a sharp twinkle in those quiet brown eyes
Every song feels like reliving an old memory
One you plucked fresh from my soul
I love the way cigarettes rest on your lips
A classic addition some would say
But in it I see the self made man you are
The way your fingers elegantly roll tobacco
Baffles my clumsy mind
Could a mortal be so beautifully designed?
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
The last time I felt like this I
was a high school freshman
trying out this new word as if I'd
just heard it.
My mind escapes reality on its own accord
and returns to moments where
your summer brown eyes made
my chocolate brown eyes melt.
The image of your neck gently curving
to listen to music replays in my head
like an old jazz tune,
like I'm a chord holding out for resolution.
I sway in memories of watching
your reflection in the upright piano,
eyeing your hands gliding across
the familiar fretboard,
as I played alongside you.
I am bound to your smile.
I wonder if you've ever had a
love poem written for you?
I wonder if you even think about me?
I wonder if you even know
you inspire me.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
hey, not bad kid.
you been practicing that?
learning all the tricks,
figuring out the secrets,
putting in the hours,
working hard,
doing what you
live for?
I can tell,
and someday,
they'll put your name
up in the big flashing neon lights,
you'll be a superstar,
they'll all love you then,
they'll watch you intently,
gazes fixed and eyes widened.
then you can show them
all about your skill,
your technique,
more flawless than the thoughtless
fingers of a master guitarist
as they dance and flutter
over the fretboard.
because you--
you have ideas
that nobody else has ever thought.
you've got it down!
you can make it
float in the air like a leaf,
wiggle like a worm
wriggling in the mud,
swim like a slow-motion-astronaut
jumping on the moon,
quiver and flip over
like a struggling fish
on the deck of a boat,
spin like a top,
even sprint across the finish line
like a breathless runner.
but none of that,
kid,
is worth ****
unless you can make it sing.
and i mean fly like a falcon,
effortlessly though the air,
soaring,
beautiful,
mesmerizing.
you have to cram it all,
every emotion, thought,
every piece of piece of this puzzle
that is existence,
and jam into one note,
one step,
one jumpshot,
one stroke of your magic paintbrush
only you can use,
and then,
maybe,
somebody will notice you.
so keep trying kid;
you never had a choice.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 4:57 PM UTC
arthritic hands search the fretboard
finding chords that hurt the least
the old guitar brings a toothless grin
then we sneak a sip of whiskey
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 9:02 PM UTC
it is strange that I find you here
unpopulated
w/o a bottle of ***** and orange
juice in backpack
w/o a ukulele in hand with which
I would sing about
drinking alone and my
******* roommates.
with the moon close
to the fretboard
and the electric lit windows
of the residence halls
like constellations
closer.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
Only on the fretboard
am I comforted anymore
the fretboard is my best friend & companion
the fretboard is my voluptuous lover
the fretboard is my interpreter, confidant & knowledgeable guide
i am lost without it
My crooked path winds on and on
you know where you can find me
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
fingers dance
up and down
the fretboard
a violinist gives voice
to endless frustration
~
lyrics hold
endless
meaning -
damaged souls tangle
themselves in the chords,
******* vitality
as milk from a mother
to
drown out endless
white noise
~
tears roll down cheeks
pale from
lack of sunlight,
glimmering with
tiny flames as
heros conquer the demons
we /wish/ we
had
the bravery
to tackle
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
To the guitarist perusing the fretboard in boring , endless combinations , my ninety dollar ticket for a migraine headache in the back row.. For the artist throwing paint on canvas and decreeing this art I offer my head scratching amusement . To the 'gifted hands of the physician' whirling poor people into the river of bankruptcy I've nothing but scorn ...
To the Garbageman and the 'Street Sweeper' my lifelong admiration ...
For the 'Laborer' and 'Ditch Digger' my endearing praise , 'twould be an honor to have a 'Janitor' occupy the crown of my dinner table on any day !
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
*Flurries of call and response , electric guitar notes
travel over these Oak floors , escaping through an open window
bound for a star , my grandson could quite possibly receive
the songs coda from an extraterrestrial musician yet unknown
I pray for alien language to be music , I've so much to tell ,
, so much hurt to describe , so much passion and understanding
stored in my souls living well
If we could communicate love through a fretboard vocabulary
I would wail*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
I got my first guitar when I was 10 years old.
It was a navy blue Ibanez from guitar center.
It was used and when I played it
It sounded like a shriek more than anything of music, but it was mine.
I’ll never forget the first time I sat in a soundproofed room at that music school
With Jimi Hendrix posters on the wall, playing the riff of “Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones completely off beat
and thinking to myself that I had found magic.
Back then, metal strings still made my fingers bleed
and I used to forget song formats and my rhythm was horrible no matter how often I used a metronome.
My second guitar was a matte black Jackson with a sharp headstock.
I drew flowers on it with a white sharpie and took out springs in the back
Which made the bridge float until it was almost unplayable.
But I didn’t notice and I didn’t care because it was mine and
I still played with my eyes closed and sang off key
I used to scream the lyrics to Green Day songs and I felt like I knew who I was
I used to be unafraid and though
Posters on the walls were replaced, white walls were painted dark gray somehow that school still felt like home
With music blaring through practice rooms
I think I’m always going to miss the sound of music
Not professional, produced
Not crisp and clean, but raw music played by teenagers who could eat 6 boxes of pizza in 20 minutes.
I remember walking in the rain to the CVS across the street
Joking and laughing
I remember growing up with friends that became a family
My third guitar was a Fender Stratocaster, sea foam green.
I bought it used and the fretboard is chipped but its mine.
Now my hair is its natural, bleak dark brown and I prefer indie to hard rock but I am still me.
And I don’t think I’ll ever become the musician I once wanted to be
But I know that music is seared into my soul
And that’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC
There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness.
Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another?
There is a breeze stuck in your hair.
"How?"
Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death.
Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever.
Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes.
I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words.
We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer
My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery.
What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess?
More meaningful than a heartache of happiness,
a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love?
More laborious than saying everything and nothing?
Time is a fretboard.
"How?"
When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?
Nov 27, 2020
Nov 27, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC
Bright stage lights,
adrenaline rush,
ear-splitting screams
for my little rocker—
not so little now.
I see her on the big screen,
but I remember
when she cried—
stinging fingertips,
frustrated fretboard fights—
couldn’t get the chords quite right.
Then she learned her first riff,
played it on repeat
seven days a week.
I watched you
take down the posters in your room,
pack your amp in a beat-up case.
I stood in the driveway,
watched the cab pull away—
rain streaming down the windows,
deep breath, hands shaking.
You didn’t look back—
and I hope you never do.
You had bigger places to be.
A buzz,
and a roar—
the first chord rings out,
wild screams echo,
and I’m just one in the crowd.
You don’t see me anymore,
but through all the noise,
I was your first fan.
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 4:13 AM UTC
The bass player for Korn
Reginald “Fieldy” Arvizu
Plays in a distinctive style
Using the slap bass technique
By down tuning the bass guitar
To the point where there is enough slack in the strings
That they hit the fretboard while playing
Slapping the bass
He also increases the treble significantly
Accentuating a recurring clicking sound throughout their recordings
Some people view this positively
I feel it gives the music more texture
Like putting a little pepper on the song
But some hate it
They say it makes Korn’s music unenjoyable
And annoying
A little clicking noise
Makes their music instantly horrible
For some people it’s never good enough
They will always be listening for your small clicking noises
And demand you change at their whim
Ordering you to tighten your strings until they snap
They say Fieldy *****
They say Fieldy is a ****** bassist
While never putting out any content themselves
So they can throw rocks from the dark
Forcing one to ask themself
Who am I making this art for?
The fickle and ignorant masses
Or the jaded and pretentious elitists?
The answer must be neither
Art must be made for the self
With the hope that others will be able to relate
And whatever your craft is
Some people will appreciate the hard work and dedication
And some people will hear a small clicking sound
You just have to slap their face
With the way you slap your bass
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 12:04 PM UTC
An Augmented Villanelle
Long ago **** Taylor quit playing for the Stones
And we got hot stuff at the Memory Motel
Everybody hold up a lighter on your phones!
Then Harvey Mandel got fifteen minutes of fame!
And played fretboard taps into a Seventies shell
But he's back with a highly unauthorized game
It's true, some cover tune classic rock bands are lame
But these guys rock like the end of a Pipeline swell
Then Harvey Mandel gets fifteen minutes of fame!
Tonight I'm looking to see who's wearing crossbones
At Sweetwater where they pour a premium well
Everybody hold up a lighter on your phones!
It's wild, fans are parking in 'no parking' zones
And the young millennial crowd is getting still
Long ago **** Taylor quit playing for the Stones
Look who's back with a highly unauthorized game
Everybody hold up a lighter on your phones!
Once again Hot Stuff gets fifteen minutes of fame
With Rudy & Friends playing hits by the Stones!
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
Fell through the alligator’s snout
Picked his teeth clean out
Landed on a duelling banjo's tail
Herein a Minneapolis trail
Piously thumbed a black crested wave
Buffeted by the pick up from the bridge
Seized by turbulent string vibrations
Singing to survive; drowning in awkward silence
Cajoled and plucked on a tight-rope score
Pounding pain within lifes neck
Mics backfiring: boardwalkers selfless feedback
Toe tapping, heel thumping discontent
Fighting for humanity
Evil running through crashing cymbals
Miasmic lyrics pushing to survive
Trade winds heading south
Thrown ashore in the gutter
Soaked from harmonica to soul
A sliding quiver shackles societies skiffle
Now climb your fretboard to heavenly freedom
Those who cannot breathe
Legislate in due measures: equal rights and respect
Civilisations blues are out of tune
Levitate the knee of wilful contempt
Dec 10, 2021
Dec 10, 2021 at 9:28 AM UTC