Musically Speaking 
After Wallace Stevens 
This is not about a blue guitar. 
But a blues guitar. 
Where hands of my brother's friend 
were on it in his basement suite playing Angie. 
And his wife to be up here from California. 
It is ebony and pearl inlaid. 
But like Wallace and his 13 blackbirds. 
this is another view after Steve moved away and 
sold his guitar to my brother. 
Blues licks for years 
playing the sounds from my brother's home. 
And as the years fast forward into the mist-- 
My brother's ghost is still with me as I pick 
up his guitar and move down the frets. 
As if his hands and the people 
before him are playing. 
Playing for me again 
against the cold days and nights 
that fade into memories. 
d. n. simmers is an on line editor with Fine Lines. He is in will be in Poetry Salzburg Review, the Storyteller, Iconoclast, Plainsongs, California Quarterly, Poets Touchstone, Bluestem, and  Nomad's Choir. He is on line in poetrymag.com, red river review, new american digital, storyacious, and word press. He is in an newly launched anthology Royal City Poets ( 4) and was in Van Gogh's Ear, Paris France. 
 
Hello there, my friend, I love your haunting poem with great visuals and lots there to which I can relate..... I would love, no, I would ADORE to read much more of your words and - often ............. Very riveting, indeed!! Sheri
ReplyDeletecould almost hear 'Angie' as I read this - very vivid pictures indeed
ReplyDeleteLoved your amazing visually expressive poem. Thank you for sharing your wonderful talent.
ReplyDeleteCharlene