The Gibson

 

My Father-in-law, Bob Blake, owned and played an old Gibson acoustic guitar for most of his life… from the age of 13 until he was about 60.
While it was still around, in the mid-1960’s the guitar began to show her age. She had a crack in one side that went almost the whole length of the body. It had been played so much that there were deep grooves in the neck. Bob wrote to the Gibson company and asked if they could repair her. They said no, so he lovingly took her all apart and used epoxy to glue her side and filled in the grooves and cleaned and polished her and put her back together. She sounded more beautiful than ever. Bob has been gone for several years now…he, and his music, are missed. I wrote this some time ago…. it was, partly, inspired by another poem (Voices), written by my friend Kathy Earsman. Eventually, when arthritis took its toll on his fingers, Bob gave the Gibson to one of his sons… and somewhere in the shuffle the Gibson was lost.

The Gibson

In gentle tones he sang the blues, with working hands caressed a chord. Not one request would he refuse for nothing more could he afford. He lived within a country song, his Gibson and his voice defined the only tune that wasn’t wrong; the hidden sweetness in his mind. And near the end, in sweetest voice, the music filled his soul it seems… and in the end, as if by choice, he left the music to our dreams. The sweet and mournful music sleeps in other hands … the Gibson weeps. ~ Dean Neighbors ~