Tuesday, December 28, 2010



Face a fretboard he knelt, fingers webs
spun of pain.
A songbird on a tuning peg would bow
when the old guitarist was done

-- then fly away.
The piazza rang with children
scrabbling for the coins left behind.

For at a certain moment each day
the old guitarist would simply vanish.
No one having heard knowing why
-- he played at all.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010 --

Friday, December 17, 2010




In the first sense, not what is thought or felt.
Rather that which is held, seen or smelled.

In the second, everything physical scatters.
Add an "s", and only what is invisible...

© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010