Sweet Wine’s weight pulls on my arm as I lift her,
stainless steel–a beautifully crafted guitar,
Her smooth polished finish gleams in the soft light of the room,
I slide a blue glass bottleneck on my finger,
As I pull Sweet Wine across my lap.
Plucking the guitar, my blues resonator,
I slowly rise to the middle,
And she responds to my vibrato,
Yet ‘tis not I who makes the sounds,
Her creation of velvet harmony combined with metallic purity,
Sweet and smooth, she mixes delicious wine, with a mellow whine,
A carefully measured old and loved song,
creates an ebb and flow of harmonics,
Ever expanding to dimensions unknown,
Softness caressed by a distant angelic chorus,
A thousand voices sing from beyond the grave,
Each one, a cry from the wilderness.
Wistful long dead dreams, kissed by hope.
Yet within–one hears a faint, subliminal harshness,
Raw echoes from the past,
a howl from the roots of the music,
The essence of the Blues.
Pain and hope,
Fulfillment yet to come.
And the tears they will not flow,
From emotions deep below,
Are my walls still in place and secured,
Padlocked, deep foundations,
Built by my own imaginations,
Brick by brick, and mortar, well cured.
I’d rather it was not so,
That my emotions they could show,
I’d heal so much faster don’t you see?
I try to let things out,
But cannot even shout,
No-one must ever see the real me.
But somewhere deep inside,
I scream and yes I cry,
Is what I write even making any sense?
They say the pen it never lies,
When from the mind my thoughts do fly,
Let us have a look at that impassable great fence.
It’s rather ripped and loose here,
A simple kick will unlock the fear,
Let the demons, screaming, crawling, stumbling out,
But instead I use some glue,
Because I dare not ever, be true,
Will I ever close this life of crumbling doubt?
And the end to my little tales,
Of hidden woes and mighty wails,
Is still not certain, it’s a process going on,
So I’ll keep trying to change myself,
And seek for better, mental, health,
And through my journey just plod on and on and on.
Jack Wolfe Frost is the Eternal Rebel, he rebels against everything which may have the word “rules” within it, whether explicit or implicit. Born in Sheffield, UK, in 1956; he first started writing in 1982, as a hobby–dreaming that perhaps one day he might try and publish something…and succeeding.