Silent, illusive lonely minstrel,
his soul held close to breast.
Striking chords mellow stillness,
a tune the thought has blessed.
Pear shaped, wooded fretted beauty,
gently play the songs.
Moving flesh, calming essence yet,
heartfelt still it longs.
Strumming ballads of lives passed by,
the simple and the sage.
Echo visions the performer dreams,
deep down the inner stage.
Resounding air does beckon now,
let solitude be done.
True spirit draw near, softly,
the master and his lute are one.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written in 1986 after attending the Laguna Arts Festival and seeing Jody Bergsma’s painting of The Lutist.
I live in the Pacific Northwest. A small community with farms and antique shops. Lots of rivers and lakes and these are some of the themes I like. I am a technical writer by trade so poetry offers me an escape from the more mundane industrial articles I work on day to day. I love music and am a classic rock fanatic. Love good books and stories too.