Guitar In The Closet Poem by Laurence Overmire

When did I last play the guitar?
You ask.
When was it? Yes, when?

When was it when last I
Brimmed with music
The notes pouring out
Like new-made wine from a
Dionysian bowl?

When was it?

A time, not so long ago, I think
When my most precious possession
Bridged six-strings taut to a box of wood.

The strum of life can have its own
Slow rhythm, or a fierce insistence
To catapult the song, warrior-like
To battle.

These passionate days fire the blood too
Quickly.

But time itself cannot halt the wand'ring of
The minstrel
The sad true heart of the lonely balladier
There are monarchs to be paid for the ransom of
The fief
A time to lay down in a soft bed of grass
And remember…

I last played the guitar, you see
When I was still a youth
Love lying in wait just beneath the shadows
The fond finger's tip softly on the string.

But the playing ended, like youth itself
In the worldly rush of parented
Responsibility
The dream tucked away
In a closet somewhere
A dark, cold place where daylight only
Enters upon the opening of the

Door.

~ Laurence Overmire