The Vase

The vase

I now hold this vase
As I once held his face
Oh it doesn't replace
What is gone.

The flowers he brought
Just after we fought
Love and passion was hot
But it's done.

His kisses were fine
His tongue curled with mine
For his body I pine
All alone.

When love is a Game
And it roars like a flame
But it ends just the same
Life goes on.

Making Music

Making music

You place it in my arms
As if handing me a newborn.
I cradle it
Feeling the sensuousness
Of the smooth wood
As I mold my body around
Its gentle curves.

I touch my naked fingers to the strings
And feel the first hint of the work to come.
My touch is rewarded by a soft mellow voice
But  I feel the first pain, the foreknowledge
That I will have to give of myself to get what I want.

My fingers remember chords I learned decades ago
But strength has ebbed.
I scrape a pick across the strings
And the sound is mushy, garbled, impure.
Will I ever honor this beautiful guitar
By helping it sing as it should?

You teach me.
Give me suggestions.
Encourage me.

Over and over. Again and again. Error after error,
I practice my assignments.
I play until my fingertips ache
And the pick flies out of my hand into the sound box.

We find songs that push my skills
 You gracefully play a melody
And I doggedly strum along.
Keeping up.
Sometimes glorious
Sometimes terrible
But with steady improvement and hope.

I hold it in my arms
As if cradling a newborn.
Feeling the sensuousness
Of the smooth wood
As I mold my body around
Its gentle curves

I strum the chords
To accent your beautiful playing
Rising and falling with you
As we joyously make music together.



Dianne May 2014