by-Matthew F. Blowers III

Old wood surrounds

my 1865 C.F. Martin guitar,

with worn ivory pegs and fret bars,

and rare inlaid woods,

from tropical places afar.

Its coffin case

of ebony wood,

skeleton key lock

and hand pegged nails,

hold these precious

remains of another time.

What stories this one hundred

and fifty-nine-year-old

wooden instrument could tell,

of a not so civil war,

and perhaps a young soldier

strumming its catgut strings

around a blazing campfire,

just east of despair.

How many loves were wooed,

by romantic melodies

to young girls in

hoop skirts or Victorian attire.

To the Flappers of the twenties,

Depression era beauties,

World War Two widows,

Bobby socked and penny loafered

babes of the fifties,

Hippy chicks and

peaceniks of the sixties,

fingers dancing disco

licks across its strings

sweat soaking it from grunge

picks slamming it with Punk

so many songs plucked with hope

for the elusive harmonies of true love,

right up until now, 2024

and yet there's so much more

One can only imagine

the many struggling musicians,

bent over its hourglass frame,

pressing their very souls across

the many frets it offered

and finding peace.

I bend now to lift it reverently,

and strum its modernized strings,

and listen with awe at the rich

oh, so mellow tones that i emit.

As history strikes a chord between

a present-day dreamer,

and the hauntingly faint

echoing spirits of all

who died before me,

pursuing the same dream

on this instrument of

so much hope