We were touched and impressed by the lovely poems submitted by those of you who responded to our invitation to write original works for our first-ever poetry contest to commemorate our literature-inspired Summer Series narratives. Thank you for your beautiful words. Here are some of our favorites:


Brazilian Rosewood

I am in love with the tallest man in Brazil.

He has long, slender fingers which strum

my heart and warm hands which touch my breasts.

When he plays—it is a sound which sustains.

The tallest man in Brazil was made in Japan.

An American born on a snowy night with G.I.’s shouting obscenities

and his father studying the bombs effects on Hiroshima’s population.

It is a mystery what we do, how wood effects sound,

how the wood on a guitar is endangered and luscious,

exotic and rare.

When the music stops, I am in love in an abiding silence.

I wait patiently for words as a quiet relentlessness penetrates

his unusual ability to attract. Dark chocolate brown, gold black brown,

oxblood, I have learned to sit still.

I do not understand the genetics of height, strict restrictions of trees,

magnets that attract iron by virtue of a surrounding field of force,

the alignments of atoms.

The angels have positioned our alliance.

The mystic is the spirit that is the soul of this matter.

Brazil is a faraway land I have never

been to. I take the subway to see him. His guitar is on

his bed. I have met taller men but the words now come.

I am in the middle of the story; to go to the beginning will mean to start again.


-Ysella Ayn Fulton


Poem For 6th Period

The smooth communal mind meld.

Eyes staring at other eyes from behind sheet music stands.

Feelings of bliss as notes crawl along your classical skin…

vibrant, like the surface of a drum.

Tones hum. Strings strum. Noise become Harmony.

Melting into the sounds,  souls surround you.

Toes tapping.  Fingers snapping.

All of us…..waiting….for our moment of brilliance.

That’s what my section does the best….”Rest”.

We, Heavy Brass, and Low woodwinds offer

The background hum and unifying rhythm

To support the soaring flutes, busy clarinets,

Blazing guitars, blaring trumpets, and

Charging french horns…

(You know they always get the solos.)

Whenever the composer wants to glissade

Through beautiful meadows and forests,

Or represent a peaceful rippling brook, we,

The thundering horde of wildebeests, rhinos,

And elephants, have to wait out the delicate

Little creatures who create the whimsical Dance

Of the Fairies.   Those waits are called:

Rest Bars.

1 2 3 4.  2 2 3 4.  3 2 3 4.

As a Baritone Saxophone,  I’ve  counted out 50 rest bars.

The problem is….humans get distracted after  4 2 3 4.

Life starts creeping in from the wings.

“When is my term paper due?”

“Hey, I need to buy a new reed tomorrow.”

9 2 3 4.

“Hey Donna”, first chair tenor sax, “Are y’all going out

after the concert tomorrow?”

12- 2 3 4.

“I know.”  “I can’t believe they haven’t made him

get a haircut yet….He does look cool on his guitar.”

“What bar are we on?”   “Ask Tommy, Mister Trombone.”

“What?  Are you sure it’s 22-2 3 4?  Seems later into it.”

Tell David to signal the Tubas.”

18-2 3 4?!   “Heck No”  “That’s sure not right!”

“Does this part sound like where we come in?

“The guitar hasn’t had his solo yet.”

“This seems close….How ’bout 40-2 3 4?”

“Wait a minute…Eileen on the Clarinet is giving us

the finger…..

Leave it to the tone deaf kid to always know the

right bar count.”


-Liz Delaney

(Dedicated to Donna Beth Klaus 1959-2006; I never sat next to a better soul or sax player)



A Man’s Guitar Narrative Day

The morning dawns,

Maybe today.

My nylon string yawns,

“Will you play?”


The rush to the job,

After lunch is made.

Will time rob

My guitar to play?


Thinking about the sounds to come out,

No words, no struggle, no thought.

On the nylons I can shout,

No worry about getting caught.


Home…a kiss.

A silent wish.

My guitar I miss,

Time is a swish.


Alone on a stand,

Waiting for me.

This one man band,

Wants to play a melody.


The night is here,

I’m wide awake.

My time is now,

Soft notes my fingers make.


So smooth…so pretty,

Slumber comes fast.

But its only 1030,

A little longer…will I last?

Then I awake,

In the middle of the night.

My guitar I take,

And put out of sight.


-Rudy Martisek



Haiku reflection on first classical guitar experience at Carmel Classical Guitar Festival as a child in the 70s

Cool Carmel evening

Guitar pieces fill the air

Warmly doze secure





A seed blown by the wind

Planted by the wind

A sapling nourished by the lullaby of the wind


The tree listens and remembers


Year after year the crown skyward reaches

Century after century the wind teaches

Song verses of fire and flood

Crescendos from gentle breeze to raucous gale

Rhythms swaying, an accelerando to the

Finale of felling hurricane


The tree listens and remembers


A craftsman’s saw and plane shape and thin to

Test tree tone and timbre

Reading the tree rings and grain

until the tree is a sculpture ready to sing.


A musician’s fingers pluck the strings that vibrate and amplify the ancient resonance of the wood

Harmonizing his soul’s composition with

The tree’s song of the wind

-Lloyd Pond



Orlando not Bloom

Not Bard driven

Not a last resort

A new sacred place

Where love will out hate

Life will out death

Death remembered

Life dismembered

Beginning middle end

Beginning middle end

Persona process nocturne

Staccato framed falling silhouettes

Breath pulse

Hold breath pulse

Hate crime memorial filling the Washington Mall

Etched in power life chord beats

Parchment rubbings spark star bursts

Stones unturned

Breathe hold breath pulse

Breathe hold breath pulse

Breathe hold breath pulse

Orlando not Bloom

A new sacred place.


-Daniel Capouch


Touch My Soul

Strum thy string and let it ring

O seventh chords so crisp and clean

This day and age so full of worries

Full of rush and full of hurry


Touch my being this wooden box

So full of joy and natural healing

Thy strings vibrate and down they go

So deep, So deep, to touch my soul


-Andrew Martinez


Call and Response

Amen to the sun on my face

Unfiltered through curtains or lace-

Sunglasses, clouds or disgrace.


Head tilted back, I begin to relax

Knowing my throat will be safe.


Warming up to my God given place

Within this sole human race,

Say Amen! To the sun on my face.


-Kathleen Burke



I see Miss Havisham

In Dicken’s Great Expectations

Sitting and wandering

Through the rotting remains

Of her dreams


And she stays there

With those expectations

Becoming nothing but dust

And food for rats

Amusing herself by playing

With Pip and giving him

False hope that will

Blind him to his actual life


It makes me think

Of Lot’s wife

Turned into a pillar

Of salt as she looks back

On a life ripped from her

Nothing left but tears

Which she becomes


Blind to the future

Unable to let the past

Slip through her fingers

And disappear


Pain is like that

Giving me the opportunity

To drown in disability

Or to be present now

Not longing for the past

But always looking at today

Allowing the past to fade

Into memory


-Marilyn Zwicker


A Tribute

From near or far

All people know the strum

Of the guitar.


Sounds of classical or flamenco

Country, rock, or folk

To the heart they flow.


As melodies are played

Memories can return

And now they’ll never fade.


Emotions stirred by every chord

Which build with every rhythm

Bring peace without a word.


And so it is that ACG

Succeeds in it’s pure mission

To bring this world to me!


-Virginia Urban


Pause No. 2

Listening brings joy and peace

in quietness

Hauntingly lovely chords

from a classical guitar


Soothe the soul  –  with calming  – rhythmic balm

Hearts are full  –  and can see  –  hear  –  remember

things forgotten  –   treasured  –   longed for


Now grateful  –  offer tribute  –  clapping hands

In honor of this gifted artist  –  and the magical sounds

A classical guitar  –  proudly  –  the best ever  –  one man band


-Patti Renaldo