The Old Guitarist
(for N, at Pasara)
The narrow stairwell winds up in dim light
while pop culture, frozen in time, watches
or averts it gaze- smoking, dreaming:
Pulp Fiction, Boulevard of Broken Dreams,
Lady Day and them.
The quick facts to the presence before us:
Picasso had lost a friend and churned loss
so smooth it came out in placid blues.
He plays, or rests from playing, head bent
this man with long fingers,
this sad man with eternity to play.
You smile. We laugh,
pull each other close.
His eyes, his eyes remained closed
holding the guitar with a tenderness only music knows.
We walk down. The questions in my fingers want to reach out
and hold you how he holds his guitar- like a prayer
that is only answered by dancing.

The Clock.
(after Lorca)
A few days ago I stopped time.
For a moment. Numerals
Turned into words that drew themselves
Into lists, a series of silences
Like the wind kneading leaves
Or a breath
By the ear in the stillness of sleep.
A few days ago
I attempted to write a list
Of all the metaphors for love.
In the middle of the night
A ticking clock
Measures our distance.
About the Poet:
Bethuel Muthee is a member of Enkare Review