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Poem: The Old Guitar

Here's a brand new poem. The writing prompt said, "Close your eyes. Write about what you see." The music I was listening to evoked this memory, which took place in a small town in Mexico, long ago...

The Old Guitar
Callused fingers plucked the strings
Head bent over the old guitar
Foot tapping out the beat

The moon rose behind him
Granting his black hair a white halo
And his brown skin a silvery sheen

Forty feet stomped and twirled
To the corrido he strummed
While the rest of us clapped and sang

A few cumbias later, the dance square
Held only a few lovers
Rocking each other to his ballads

And I dreamed all the way home
Of dancing with a lover of my own
To the rhythms of an old guitar

March 13, 2013
Written by B.J. Weathers