When waking from the seizure all I heard
was country music, those guitar twangs played
again and then again. They kept on, stayed
inside my head, wore grooves. I wished for bird-
song, not those tunes of trucks and broken love.
I’ve never been a country fan, but round
and round the songs went, and their wrenching sound
soon lulled me, strangely fit me like a glove.
(I don’t know where this poem came from!)
Guitar (Photo credit: SPW/)
Posted by Harold Knight on 03/01/2013 at 2:14 pm
Do you ever know where a poem or a song comes from? I suppose everyone is like that, but I have a feeling we have a special track to some kind of mysterious zapping in our brains that makes these things happen!
Posted by Maggie on 03/01/2013 at 2:17 pm
Interesting thought. I think you might be right.