Thoughts on the Man with the Guitar – Poems for January

Pond’s edge. Seeing how a mind
Drifts until a presence twists sight.
Looking to my side: an old man
With a guitar.

Other hand: flowers. He is not
Looking at anything seen, doesn’t
Notice me. Keeps walking.

The guitar was rough
On my fingers. The one i had,
The one i stopped playing,
The one i sold not because
Things were getting tough.

I would like to say something
Uncoiled in his mind, but there was
Nothing spread across his gaze
As he returned to wandering.

Why do we gather things
For funerals? Flowers, faces,
Memories. It just felt like a ritual
To me. Just a ritual. Inside bone.
Don’t know why he had
The flowers.

What made him position
His fingers, shaping the hand
Into foreign pains? Was there
A song that i couldn’t reach?

I thought i had something.
Just movement beneath
The trees.

Why do i have to be this self
That curses old age and believes
Old age to be a curse?

Will the guitar ever be left

The old man is gone. The presence
No longer in water. Been away
For a while. Slip away into a mind
Stationed beneath murky glares.

Written for Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #100 and OLWG #190.

Image courtesy of artbyrandy at Morguefile

4 thoughts on “Thoughts on the Man with the Guitar – Poems for January

  1. The man in your photo looks like an amigo of mine. Beard might be a bit longer, but still.
    The poem is great. Thanks for playing.
    For me, old age is not a curse, rather it is a blessing.
    The infirmities that come at the same time though, they can be perceived as such.


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