The Guitarist is too a Poet
One late evening, I sit and sip on my
evening tea, looking at my guitar sitting
in the corner of my bedroom. It’s long,
slender neck flowing into a body covered
in scares from me holding a pick wrong.
I pondered the legends of guitar that my
mother raised me on, who helped inspire
me to pick up the instrument and begin
my own master of it.
In my mind’s eye, I was front row at Woodstock
‘69, watching Jimi Hendrix wail on Izabella, his
haunting solos sounding like bombs exploding.
Depicting a sense of violence that was only matched,
by that of Langston Huges in his writing of the injustice
African-American’s faced during Hendrix’s time.
I then was transported to downtown Los Angeles
watching John Mayer perform his soulful blues,
singing of love, that never came to be. Almost like
that of Emily Dickinson, writing of longing, but
knowing it will never come to be.
In this revelry, I come to a realization of what the
guitarist and the poet have in common: They are
both artists, the only difference being the paper
they use is lined differently.
And their artwork will set all of us free.