The Great Guitar on a Hill by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

The Great Guitar on a Hill March 13th, 2025 by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art
The great guitar used to play, it used to say what we longed to hear. Why won’t you take it out and strum it once? Don’t we want to again hear? Didn’t you say that you wanted to play? Now all of the others get to hear you today, what about tomorrow? Remember yesterday? No, this time we didn’t borrow…You always borrowed, I always played for you, but now there is no time. I do not have time to stay and take care of your play and your desire for me to stay, go away. I don’t want your way; I don’t need you today. I don’t want to entertain you, why do I have to be available to stay? Why have you trapped me? Can’t you see? I don’t belong here; you don’t own me. You only enjoy me when I play the great guitar. Please look past your needs to see me. The guitar never leaves, it has always been there for me, for you, for us. The great guitar on a hill. Who else is going? Your other friends and all of your family except one. Oh, why? Well, this person wasn’t invited and never will be. We have kept that person away from you. Oh no! what will you do?? We laugh at you and your tarry! We get to keep you and your do and to do list. This person never pleased us, and we took you away. We helped you to sail away to a different shore so that person can’t keep you. It will never hear you. It will never hug you or sing you to sleep again. She cannot bargain to feed you or clothe you or hold you. We hold you for us. We feed you for us. We work you for us. You can’t leave on a bus, who will calm the whispers in our minds and behind the blinds? We stalked you; we kept you; she cannot run to find you. She cannot wish to teach you about love. We are quite above; we are all that you need until you bleed and then years after. You will never return there from your rafter to see her. The great guitar on a hill. We took your desire to play. You will never stay in that day of rest. We get to search your body, mind and soul. You will always have this bowl that we shove down your throat. Do not play, do not believe. You will only grieve all of those memories we took you away from and showed you a different way. We are your family. We dare you not to see how we are the ones who have you and take you and make you in this tree, now be filled with glee. What about the great guitar? Oh, you don’t have time to be with that form, only to clean our dorm. It is never a storm, only a dark dungeon full of fear and misery. We took you away, now enjoy, it’s always to our benefit. We have made you believe that our benefit is your benefactor. Where is Mr. Sheaves? The guitar on the hill has him. He walked there so easily, he thought himself so bereft while he was in our great presence. He left in the night, he said that he didn’t want to break our hearts, but we don’t have a soul, only organs. I know you want our organ to grow, and we make you blow around in the wind but it’s only a fan in the dungeon, it is not a storm. Only the great guitar on the hill is in the true storm.
Why are you speaking? Why did you interrupt? I am talking and breathing and in my grand attire. This suit tells you that I am speaking. But you are always wearing it. Yes, and you wear what I tell you to wear, or it is nothing, just like your plate. I don’t have a plate. Exactly my dear, exactly. You have to earn your plate. The plate of displeasure. The plate of fear. The plate of-no, we don’t want you here until we do. The plate of no reason. The plate of discretion. The plate of-I might love you dear. And the plate of-I want you here, be a dear and shut up. Please do not talk, only do me a favor and tell him about the great guitar’s disappearance. It never was, they speak of it like it is the law, but the disappearing act becomes evident in act three or four or maybe it was act twelve, then? When you are sucked in and they have your money on the plate for that new shiny blue robe behind the mask, behind the wall. No one hears you while you are in that stall under that shawl. Do you think that you know? Go ahead and show your great big head and feet so the doctor can sit next to you, say AH. You will be ok one day, you will understand one day, that will be the only thing left to pretend.
March 18th, 2025
Why are you always here, always near and mocking me? Every word, every phrase from you tells me now, how you hate me and how I exist. How do I exist? I guess to bother you and yours. Why was I created? To tell you to go elsewhere, you know where. Do you think that place exists? I do. I believe it exists but not the other, not the good. Only the bad, only the sad day in hell will I ever see, even before I leave this earth. This earth has proven to be a failure. What about Christmas or the other holidays? They have been cancelled for almost how many years? I guess everyone has a different opinion. Those people on television live at the same address as me. They look happy, but you see, they extort that money just like I do, they wonder like I do if it is ok. Is it really extortion? I lie all the time anyway about myself not being on that ugly shelf, or the fat shelf. What about food, what about love, what about gas money or water, or myself or you-self? They are my daily life if I can find them. I could live in that tent that I found in the dumpster where I also found all of that copy paper, what a useless day. I am sending the copy paper to hell. The tent has a whole lot of nothing, full of motor oil and trash. What did it look like before? It is red and blue and then full of motor oil. How brash! I did see some torn up tortillas that were mushy. Is that why they threw away the tent? All of those damaged tortillas. The motor oil is normally thrown onto tents, inside and out. Did you know that the great guitar used to speak and talk and walk and laugh? It was blue and gray with strings attached, unlatched and known to all, it was sure a ball. Now the music is empty. the guitar never plays, it became invisible and quiet. It does not speak or tell me what to do and it isn’t next to that shoe. Remember, the guitar used to sit next to a brown shoe that kept it upright. The shoe finally left the house, and the guitar was laid on its side, forgotten and then it disappeared. How can we revive it? Do I have to ask someone for help with that idea? Do I have to have permission? Does someone important have to say that we should do that and that it’s a good idea? What if that person is an alcoholic? Peeples in those steeples I am telling you, then, it will never be done because their fun is in their own private closet. That closet only has room for two to three people stuffed in there! I will not be getting permission! What should we play, what song is available? What song is popular? You decide, we can decide, what should we decide? Well I want fries…
By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

I would like to make this an ongoing poem so I will be adding to it here and there.