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YAMAHA ELECTRIC CLASSICAL GUITAR

By c j, www.PoetryPoem.com/heartunes    Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime

Fingers will move
As I close my eyes
Listening to a film about building
Yamaha guitars
In Japan
I forgot
Where mine was made
I love it
When I close my eyes
Play guitar
Or write poetry
From a keyboard
With my eyes closed
It's as though
Sound and touch
Are all
Being blind temporarily
Has it's rewards
Let spell check
Fix the errors
As you do it blind
Seeing only
Green
With a yellow hue
Entwined
In the atmospheric
Bracing
Of my Yamaha
Ya Ya Ya
I love my Yamaha
Ha Ha Ha
May you have poetry and music
To go to another land
Where vision comes
In words
And strings
Fingers and things
That move
Into the groove
Of heaven
Playing my Yamaha
May you have music and poetry
May it set your free
May you have light and life
May you have a good wife
May the heavens listen to you
May people not want to screw you
May you play a Yamaha
Built with dove tail joints y'all
Building a guitar like mine
Divine
Lasting a lift time
I wish my children
See my instruments
As something important
Not to burn in the trash
Rash
Some can be
Unlike me
Feel blessings playing my Yamaha
Thirteen to Fifty nine
Played guitar of some kind
None like my Yamaha
Classical guitar is so much better
Even if
I don't hold it right
Like a classical guitarist
Crippled and crooked sometimes
I position myself the hippie way perhaps
And play my Yamaha
It's La La La
It's a feeling of God being right there
It's more than I can describe
As a scribe of myself
Playing songs is wealth
More of a feeling than any drug
A God-like hug
From something beyond the norm
It's the sunshine in the storm
Of this old age
It's the rage of the rage of the cage of the sage
Writing and thinking and playing for no one
Is fun
It's what I do
Being a creative being woop-tee-doo
Trying to entertain and amaze myself
When it is all God's doing
Cooing and cooing and cooing
To my Father
Like a child
It's all I am lost
Tossed around like a dog at sea
Swimming and swimming until God caught me
Up in his fisher's net
Because he needed a sinner half mermaid half wet
To lick her lips and get the circles going
Because in this world
The devil's stowing
Away the bad to take the good
If it feels wrong
It's understood
The pain of gut
The hiding of eyes
The shame is no surprise
He's here among-st us somewhere hiding
But the music and the poems leave him sliding
Back into his fiery hell
Suffering there fair thee well
Oh Prince of Darkness no Yamaha for you
It would burn at your touch
All come askew
No there is no music in hell
God puts music in me
It suits me well
To be a poet
For decades a nurse
Better to throw the ball than duck
As some big line backers ready to
Mow you down
To live and to live and to live
With this curse
Of free flowing writing
Of just what I'm thinking or doing
If it's red or it's bluing
My soul right now
You can stop reading
If it bugs you somehow
That I call my poetry
Production in nature
Slop it out
Some will shout
Others need favor
Or flavor
Or I just need to shut up
As the snoring of boxers
Reminds me of the pups
Who are younger than me
Who have girlfriends or babies
Who have college and jobs
Do something for you maybe?
Like write some production poetry
Let it out
And let 'er buck
Better to throw the ball than duck
As some big line backers ready to
Mow you down
Write some poetry
Play guitar
Be a clown
Laugh at yourself
Learn to entertain yourself
Love kids and dogs
Be old and have purple hair
What matters in the long run
Is that you care
About your Yamaha guitar
Or a God up in the stars
Or even in yourself
Go on with the gold of you
Write this stuff
Play that guitar
Someone will hear
And if they don't
Oh well
With a poem you can send them
Like the devil
Down to hell
Where Yamaha's are burned
As well as poetry
Maybe a note will flow to hell
To the dark one not so well
As he cry's his tear of blood
That turn to red steam as he is mean
Meanest of mean
Forsaken the God of love
Be here with my Yamaha
Thinking of above
Not below
My Yamaha knows knows my soul
And so does God
You think I'm odd
Oh well
As I said
In a poem
I can write my write to hell
As well as yours
Or her's or his or ours
It's easy to do
With freely flowing thoughts
With eyes closed
Telling what you think
Over the brink
Of what is socially acceptable
Nontextable
Stupid and a fantasy
Fancy pants me
Blurting on
Beautiful a song
Or poem too
If they are written
For me or for you
Right now
This night
Typing away the time of night
When Yamaha's are being build across the sea
For weird eccentric guitar playing women like me.


January, 2016 cj









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