The cadence of the strummed chords of an acoustic. The arpeggios plucked on the same strings
their unending melodies
morning bird songs
The vibrant melodies exploding off the rabid finger-tabs on an eletric’s frets. The chest-pounding distortions of staccato chords licked on the same.
piercing an afternoon
cicadas
Whatever sound, in whatever form, who dares deny the enticement of the guitar?
the silent ESP
summer stars
Merril hosts Tuesday Poetics over at dVerse, where we wax poetic to a musical term. I chose “Guitar.”
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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