The spotlight hits the Guinness jar hair

and the shadow of black denim hides a multitude

of other people’s sins as she holds the guitar

as if holding the heart ransom

and I feel mine break each time the dry ice swirls

around her fingers and the lesson of the moment

was not to fall in lust but to appreciate the gliding

searing heat of metal upon skin upon thought upon delivery.

 

Exhausted I sit up straight backed and erect

as blood, life, animated kicked in electric driven soul

collides with the meteor of her existence

and the splendour of the ravenous voice

gnawing with hunger

and musical desire

for my attention.

 

She has it,

She has my complete concentration

and as each song is lifted from the bowels of the Earth,

I feel the despair of my own existence,

the frustration of my own inadequate thought

and inability to even make a nightingale sing

without sounding arrogant and shrill,

I have a heroine, not some damp eyed misty wretch

left on the wind bleached hill with her wrists

held out in desperation,

but the dynamic and willing woman

who plays guitar like a God.

 

 

Ian D. Hall 2015