"guitarist" poems
Your hands and fingers
so very strong
Yet filled with tenderness
as you strumned my song
A wonderful guitarist
I loved to watch you play
As the music notes
played
carried you away
To a place so peaceful
it was beautiful to see
As you strummed the piece of music you'd written
for me
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
I thought about you for a while today,
Imagined all the things I’d like to hear you say.
You said many things I wanted to be true,
And when I fantasized I said, “I love you, too.”
If only I could feel the things you feel,
Are you just a friend, or will more be revealed?
I know I’m not the perfect specimen.
But I love you now, and I will love you till the end.
And when you think of me,
Remember me with kindness.
If you go away,
Please, close the door with tenderness.
And all you are,
Is everything you could have been to me.
I know you would,
If only you could love me.
I sat in silence with my thoughts today.
And then I practiced all these things you’ll hear me say.
I never knew I had such feelings inside.
I would have said before, if it weren’t for my pride.
The truth is more like that I fear too much,
And do women like their men to be tough?
I wonder maybe if there could be a chance,
If I am bolder, so I’m here to show my stance.
And when you think of me,
Remember me with kindness.
If you go away,
Please, close the door with tenderness.
And all you are,
Is everything you could have been to me.
I know you would.
If only you could love me.
I knew that if I wore my feelings on my sleeve,
There was a chance that things would change and you would leave.
One in a million lucky few can feel like this.
I want to thank-you.
I love you.
You’re worth the risk.
My heart’s not broken, but it’s fortified.
You’ve taught me lessons, you brought joy to my life.
You’ve shown me kindness, and when to let go.
And lots of other things, I think you should know.
I have to tell you all these words I’ve said
Have just been swimming loudly ‘round in my head.
I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.
I am in love, even though you’re probably not.
And when you think of me,
Remember me with kindness.
If you go away,
Please, close the door with tenderness.
And all you are,
Is everything you could have been to me.
I know you would.
If only you could love me.
I knew that if I wore my feelings on my sleeve,
There was a chance that things would change and you would leave.
One in a million lucky few can feel like this.
I want to thank-you.
I love you.
You’re worth the risk.
Was writing for a musician friend, a guitarist, to see what he could do. Negotiations are on the table. Lyrics completed dec. 29, 2015. All copywrites reserved by the writer.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
I'm not afraid of being called egotistical
For having convictions, for feeling like I matter
But not in that "it matters inside"
Like I'm some hipster flavor of the month
Because if Kim Kardashian is relevant I'm ******* relevant
Tell me what sandwich Kanye ate after he wiped his *** today
Tell me how One Direction smoked *** and wrote a good song finally
Tell me how Arcade Fire thinks electronic music is lesser when they
Record their tracks using a DAW
Tell me how you think Jimmy Page was a sloppy guitarist and then show
me your discography, I probably don't like it as much
Tell me I'm wasting my time, and then go clock back in at work
I'll do the same
Because if Kim Kardashian is relevant I'm ******* relevant
Tell me writing is a subjective craft
Tell me my writing *****
Tell me I'm not touching on any real points
Tell me I'm being too specific
Tell me I don't express myself enough
Tell me to shut the **** up
Tell me I'm a voice for the people
Tell me I should calm down
Tell me to keep writing and working with no recognition
Because if Kim Kardashian is relevant I'm ******* relevant.
Tell me to ignore those facts and keep going anyway
Cause I'll do it, and I'll write this ******* poem about it
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
Hair like sunshine dust,
Shining like a gleam of light,
I could play with them forever.
Voice so addictive,
Even drugs can't get me so high.
You set me free,
Free from the worries of the world,
I feel like an autumn leaf,
Flying from one place to another,
Not caring about the tree.
When I look into your eyes,
I see a blue lagoon,
Deep and peaceful,
Calm yet powerful.
The guitarist,
To my heart strings,
Is you, my dearly beloved.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Did you ever consider segregating,
The good ones from the ********
The devils and gods,
With trending honorables,
Or symbolic presses,
Call it lame meetings,
Random trending would be my guess,
I'm ******* crazy,
In reality I need a physical test,
Fail it then then turn it in,
Then tell every in class their all ******* pests,
Like I said I don't need your pity,
Nor your sympathy,
It was the end of me,
But also the beginning of the new me,
I will never rest,
I just need some time to think,
While this blows over,
Being hated by many,
But no luck with clovers,
Violent black kid in America,
Do I sound like a good person,
Mistake me for a fool,
Leave you with one of my curses,
So strum away lady,
Cause I'm not listening,
I'd rather be frozen in block of ice,
Then be trending.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
The front man does the singing
The drummer provides the beat
Then there is the lead guitarist
Still the band is incomplete.
There is a certain member
Who we often underrate
He's there in the background
The one who plays the bass
Sometimes he goes unnoticed
By the audience and the crowds
And can easily be forgotten
As the rest all play out loud
But he holds the band together
The band should all be proud.
If it wasn't for the bass player
They would be gone like a passing cloud.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
spartan kick the fat *****
with their freshman album
hallucinogenic state of paranoia
a ******** screamo band
I will be the lead vocalist
I will take a hit of acid before each show and scream poetry while guitarist etc. play brutal ******* downtuned music behind it.
throw rager ******* shows
be like a cult band
get ******* famous
live ******* life
do drugs and be successful
stay classy kids
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
Ragged mountains and rough terrains,
Withstanding storms and heavy rains.
Warm rays of sunshine bring light.
Bearing hues of black and white.
To the touch it feels like a freshly mowed lawn.
A promise of tummy tickling at dawn.
A relaxing walk in an uninhabited forest.
A tempestuous hike to the top of Everest.
You could be a renegade or a mad scientist
An investment banker or electric guitarist.
A biker's beard could be just as immaculate.
Rough as sandpaper or soft as velvet.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:00 AM UTC
When we walked up to the door of our favourite coffee pub
You tangled your fingers around my own
And with a twist of my wrist
We went in
We order our usual from the usuals
The baristas never changed though the drinks did with the seasons
As I pull out the exact change from my coat
You shake some melted snow from your hair
We grab a seat at a nook by the window
There was a ring of dried coffee on the table
I fill it in with my mug
You joke it’s my OCD but I say it’s my love for the unappreciated
We listen to a woman with a guitar at the makeshift stage
She strums off a couple chords and sings with her lips
She fades into the background as I turn to look at you
Your eyes are closed to turn up the volume
I close mine too and let the music direct me
My mind swims like a trapeze *******
I sway with the strings and strums
Your hand grasps mine as I fall into the safety net
The guitarist is packing up
Our coffee or what’s left of it is cold
You lean over and
Two angels kissed like sinners
Two sinners kissed like angels
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 11:16 PM UTC
“cold winter sky—
where will this wandering beggar
grow old?”
— Issa
I. Stories
A ranch north of Spain,
his woman, their child... a dream
painted over, gone.
His... (unrequited)
...own tragedy for himself—
young death in Paris.
Quiet night at nine,
inside a café... gunshots—
being... nothingness...
II. Histories
A cold monochrome,
the winter hue of darkness:
umbra of despair.
Portraits of torment:
beggars, drunkards, prostitutes,
1901—
Lapis lazuli
thinned, turpentined—bleu de France—
ennui of sorrow.
III. Images
Melancholia
—the impotence of the will—
in Barcelona.
Barefoot on the street
corner, sitting on the ground,
he leaned on nothing.
A half-stringed guitar......
Germaine’s ******* distracted him..
he laid his revenge.
IV. Meanings
No can a beggar...
no steel strings a guitarist...
—a friend’s eulogy.
The cadaverous
curves of the bones torqued the flesh—
tedium of old age.
An allegory:
artists, poets, mendicants...
****** or broke oglers?
V. The Painting
His evocation:
the grave of Casagemas—
a guilt exorcised.
A mute’s discontent,
a blind man’s desolation,
an oil masterpiece!
An old guitarist,
blind, begging for an audience—
a blue Picasso.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 7:22 AM UTC
I am he
who blistered and
purpled his aching
fingers, upon playing
the saddest, dissonant
melodies out of
his old, untuned
guitar, whose strings
of somber used-to-be's
he ceaselessly strummed
and plucked under
the dullest starless
night sky; and
sing of his
weeping heart the
poetry of melancholy
notes half-composed.
It is me--
the lone guitarist
on broken avenue
who never stopped
playing his love
song of rue
since you left--
whose only lyrics
is your name
and your words
he dearly kept.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
Treble, tunes and solemn symphonies.
Trouble, wrecked and poignant stories.
Classic harmonies and plastic picks,
Picking on strings and drumming sticks.
A tale as old as his peppered hair,
Brooding lyrics of his dead girl, so fair.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
The Super Heroes of Rock!
There’s a little person named Gem, with a banjo in his hands;
But he’s too drunk to play.
There’s a guy with one arm and he’s slamming the drums
And I think his name is Dave.
Jenny plays the Bass, with a rash on her face
And she’s going to die today.
The lead guitarist (Jimmy) has no legs,
But he always tries his best.
But his lack of fingers and thumbs,
Is starting to become a pain
And the fact I can’t sing!
Well it doesn’t mean a thing,
Because we’re not even getting paid to play.
No we’re not, getting paid to play.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
When Kurt decided today was the day
And put a bullet hole in place of his face,
They called the Super Heroes of Rock!
To come and save the day.
And when Black Sabbath crashed the plane
And Axl cancelled the show again.
They called the Super Heroes of Rock!
To come and save the day.
The little person, Gem, he used to sing,
But a girl named Lisa broke his banjo string,
So now he simply comes to our shows
And joins us up on the stage.
He used to be the ladies favorite,
But now he’s lost all of his confidence.
Because he hit the bottle hard
And he hasn’t been the same since.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
We’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
And if there’s nothing else I can say,
I guess we’ll just rock the show our way.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
And ladies there’s no need to fight;
Just come and form an orderly line.
Then come and be the bands groupies;
With us back stage.
And the fact that I can’t sing!
Well that doesn’t change a thing.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we do this voluntarily, anyway.
We jump into empty gigs slots,
When a band’s singer has lost the plot.
We’re the rehab missionaries
And we don’t get paid to play.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we came to save the day.
And if our music isn’t your thing;
Well we already know we stink.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we only came to save the day.
Could you give us back Jimmy’s false legs?
He only wanted to try and crowd surf.
Things are already bad enough for him,
What with the leprosy and he’s just lost his girl
And I think Jenny has died,
I can see Dave’s put a drumstick in his eye.
But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve only come to save the day.
Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And our music will never be stopped.
Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock!
And we’ve only came to save the day.
(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
Black out, fade in,
spot light on the boy with his guitar.
Dim light, dim blue flush,
she sits in the corner,wishing on her imaginary star.
Same stage, same adrenaline,
same passion but time never intended for them to meet.
She plays on her role,
and he strums away at his gig.
Sound of guitar coming from his window,
no audience and no standing ovations.
On rented wings, she takes flight,
no rehearsals, no scripts,just tucked away passion.
In his camouflaged green,
he wakes up to his responsibility.
In her traditional prints,
she's all set for the working society.
The clock strikes twelve,
it's the end of two thousand ten.
He's at the eating place
and she comes by with her friends.
He's sitting at the corner
and she's at the other end.
Their eyes met for the very first time,
when they reach out to shake hands.
No lights, no stage,
no audience and that adrenaline.
Just the boy with his guitar, strumming
and in his room she sits, watching.
She talks about the plays, the roles
and in his room he strums, listening.
No lights, no stage,
no audience, just he and her,and their spoken adrenaline.
Twenty-six February,
two thousand eleven.
He and her,
like a match made in heaven.
You know what they said about heaven and earth?
A new chapter begins
for the guitarist and the wannabe actress.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
she fell in love
with a subterfuge
of a human,
manipulating words
into timely and
recurring emotions.
turning smiles
into idiosyncrasy
and crying into yore.
Act One
he started off easy,
with the tip of a hat
and a sly smile so thin
you'd walk a tight rope across it
Act Two
he had a way with words
that swept you
off your feet
without fail nor hesitation.
twisting love into lust,
and happiness into heartbreak,
and there's nothing
you could do to stop it
Act Three
as the final act prevailed,
he left with a surprise.
playing with her
heart strings like
a talented guitarist.
a song so beautiful
she seemed to dance
little did she know, she was dancing on strings
Prelude
as you see,
that was his trick.
turning a girl into a puppet
helplessly relying on
the strings she was
suspended upon
so if i may, i bid you with this,
never trust a magician
because a magician
never reveals his
secret, nor his
tricks
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
The graduation party
with fried aubergine, croutons and rye whisky
has raised the hairs of the alumni.
Kismets afoot about forming a band,
named after actress Alice White,
intuitive bluesy Psychedelicia.
Devonport's dappling on bass
and Schemtar's already on drums.
The devils in the details with the lead singer,
for the want of a lead guitarist
they are gyved.
But if they practice like clockwork
the turnaround will resonant .
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
There is a melody that sings,
of a dream lost in time, with music
that fits the space
that can’t be filled.
She is as real to you,
as the wood in your hands
and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar
that murmurs melodies about a world
too many understand.
What once was elegant boulevards
in Madrid, are now
a melodic strain
of fleeting moments, trapped
in colorless discontent.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
1. Our goddess lives under a banyan tree
Deep in the forest. She paints
And sings songs, to put herself to sleep.
2. Royina, your dad paints too.
Tuesday evening, he paints skies
And at the dinner table, you wonder
Why he has blue on his throat.
Wednesday, he paints the sun.
His fingers are red with the flames
He doesn't read letters addressed to him
Because he's afraid
Of burning them black.
Friday, he doesn't paint.
Just sits by the lake, on a secluded bench.
Feeding pigeons. And hearing them coo.
3. Royina, remember the boy who held you
Last time you allowed yourself
To be kissed?
He played a guitar, you told me.
And he had long thin fingers, which fluttered,
From string to string.
He wrote you a letter when you left.
And you folded it eight times. Then put it
In your pocket. Tell me, Royina
Did you put it in your heart too?
4. What is it with creative people, Royina?
The writers and the guitarist and the painters.
Do they look at you like you are the magic you are?
Do they tell you, no, you're not
Who you think you are.
There are so many shades under your skin
Let me peel off your inhibitions, and I'll show you.
5. Royina, their letters never reach you.
And they wonder why, homes are still called
Addresses.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
tall
lean
tanned smooth skin
short dark hair
crooked smile
big rough hands
veiny arms
emotional
funny
mysterious
guitarist
athlete
shy (but outgoing)
sweet
but what i miss most about you
is the person whom i created memories with
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
And again for the card game,
His throw kings in the fold,
Empires had forgotten them in the hastiness,
To find the familiar melody - that was lost, but always sounds in my dreams.
And jazz is playing and tired pianist whispers something to His fingers,
And guitarist with a shy smile governs the right tone,
And music shades compose the mellifluous long dream,
Where own orchestra in the world of his dreams has been shipped.
Again I am looking for the melody that plagued in His sleep,
Yeah know not destined to hear that melody in the other sounds in reality,
That the lost harmony, that still sounds in me,
And the sheet music signs the pianist reads in the delirium.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
ready to roll, it's saturday night
playing in a rock and roll band
truck is all loaded, everything is alright
playing in a rock and roll band
we hit the road, and put on a show
don't really know, where we're gonna go
but we're playing music, 'cause that's what we know
playing in a rock and roll band
we're playing in a rock and roll band
playing in a rock and roll band
never knowing where we're going to land
playing in a rock and roll band
playing in a rock and roll band
we travel the west, and may get to regina
playing in a rock and roll band
i know what your're thinking, a word that rhymes with regina
playing in a rock and roll band
the party don't start, till we're on the stage
playing in a rock and roll band
our guitarist is good, but he ain't jimmy page
playing in a rock and roll band
we're playing in a rock and roll band
playing in a rock and roll band
never knowing where we're going to land
playing in a rock and roll band
playing in a rock and roll band
we went to L.A., we were living in style
then the PR man said, put your disc on the pile
he said "thanks for coming", but he had a sly smile
playing in a rock and roll band
i guess we're just suited to bars, clubs and dives
playing in a rock and roll band
we get out on stage, and we play for our lives
playing in a rock and roll band
it doesn't much matter, it's always saturday night
playing in a rock and roll band
when the crowd is up dancing, then we've got it right
playing in a rock and roll band
we're playing in a rock and roll band
playing in a rock and roll band
never knowing where we're going to land
playing in a rock and roll band
playing in a rock and roll band
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
Sitting by the window seat,
Holding a velvet guitar case.
His heart beats heavier with defeat,
And tears rain on his barren face.
He watches the road that's left behind,
And the smiles that make him cry.
The soulless bodies make him remind,
He made a choice of not saying goodbye.
Of all the things he saw in a dream,
The most he craved for love.
Then the clouds let out a gentle stream,
And drenched her photo in his glove.
Holding his broken red porcelain pieces,
The guitarist walks alone.
Over and over his heartache increases,
Over and over his hate has grown.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
A picture says
A thousand words
I'll give two thousand
And paint a better picture
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC