Death of a Steel Guitar Man

Today the family gathered to bury one old man,
Six bearers bore the coffin with the strength of their six hands,
Testimony was spoken by a few while all did stand,
But something was whispering from afar.

Who will play the music this proud man practiced all his days,
And studied long with diligence in spite of crying babes,
Notes and chords and harmonies, honing skills in wondrous ways,
With finger picks and sliding metal bar.

Who’ll take this magical instrument, place it on its face,
Screw in the legs; attach the piece that holds them in their place,
Connect the rods, the brackets, and pedals, bottom to base,
Stand it upright and play the steel guitar.

In truth, it will not happen while the death of him is near,
His passing has left wounds that only heal with many years,
The instrument will find an attic far from hurtful tears,
Lay dormant in the webbing of death’s scar.

Someday, someone younger may burn with music’s strong desire,
And discover in an attic what set one heart on fire,
And find with long, hard work the sound that instrument could sire,
That makes some men take note of what they are.

Again the beautiful music would know this family,
And fill the hearts of those that missed the soft, sweet memories
Of how the steel guitar could cry and comfort like a dream,
And spread it’s magic upward to the stars.