A Poem Thrown Out.

Stones, Guitars and Getting Old.
A Poem, at last for just me.

I recently cut a stone.
Experienced the grind of sanding
The smell associated with the lie
Stones are cut, they ain’t.
They are glorified sanded
Worn to desire.
No brilliant chisel
No saw to measurement
Stones are cut by a course wheel and time.
The very definition of disappointment.
Soaked in water as done
Looking for errors…

I got a guitar this year for my birthday
A hellava gift to a man who owns 76 guitars.
This one was special, handmade in a garage
Stopping me with a living room look
By a dying Sedao Yari
One of 50 offered to the universe
One I have chased for more than half my life
My wife wanted to send me a message
That she watches my desires from the shadows
And loves me to an expensive point.
where only wood leads to a decent sound
And even purfling must be organic….

Which leads me to age, and glances in the mirror
An understanding that experiences become stories told
Even the scary ones, fade and yellow with time.
Danger felt and lived with long enough becomes doodling
Gray scratches no one cares about…

Stones cut to remember youthful talent
Guitars bought to confirm the purpose of presence
Poems to educate age….In my survival?

I suppose that is all I can quietly hope for.

-A.D. Fischer