Flying Fingers (Ode To The Guitarist) Poem by R. H. Peat

Flying Fingers (Ode to the Guitarist)

Soft sounds written in naked sky,
the alphabets of beetles, tiger moths, and
lacewings float through the evening air.

Penetrating vibrations remembered like
standing in the back of a rusty Ford truck
being struck in the forehead by a June-bug
while doing forty-five on a dusty back road.

A sudden ringing pierces the brain
in late spring
almost summer, the days
grow hotter and longer—
wriggling heat waves arise
from the tomato fields.

A graceful bird
along the Sacramento River bank—
a white egret or blue heron, wades, stops,
listens, perches, one wing jut out,
lopsided while playing the guitar.

Magic music
glides through air,
phrases that catch the slightest updraft,
rippled feathers, just to hover there
on long unfolded wings fanned into
flight.

© RH Peat 4/2/2015
Form: 5 strophes,24 lines
Published: England — Poetic Bond V Pg.14
Willowdown Books 2015,