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haunting
by Angela Thomasi once had a lover named ben. he was musician.
and not just a weekend band warrior, but a blithe,
gods-honest, made-a-living-through-sound musician.
his weapon of choice was the perfectly tuned six strings
of a classical guitar, a haunting spanish melody,
and his latest strumming techniques. with hands moving
like smoke rising from a curled smile, effortless and
with a sense of underlying grace, he would pluck
each string to produce a note. pluck and make a sound.
he played my body like i was a Bach symphony
and he was but a humble schoolboy to lessons. quietly,
with restraint, and a sense of purpose, he'd strumm
my strings until the chords were so loud, they would
penetrate even the densest wood, the largest trees,
the most grounded oaks. sitting in a darkly lit room
with paintings of giant looming trees on the green
walls, the raidiator hissing slightly, the rug damp
from the air and the sex, ben reaches for his guitar
and strums a melody softly. the sound is like the best
cigarette i've ever had. the notes hang still like regret. 09/01/2008 Posted on 09/01/2008
Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Frank Lee on 09/03/08 at 04:17 AM I really like the way you blended the different stanzas with this. I think you chose the best ending..but the first alternate would be my next choice. overall a very good read |
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