A Punic Picture

 My hungry spirit feasts upon the strains 

That emanate from places in my soul. 

These notes from Paradise I can't control, 

Ability to translate simply wanes. 

My talents undeveloped, the remains 

Of wasted time that from myself I stole. 

The keys unpounded, strings unplucked, my goal 

Elusive, still my love for it remains.  

Yet can arthritic fingers still unlearn 

Lethargic habits gathered by the way. 

The scales are calling, there I must return 

And trace the modes I know I can discern. 

Along my fretboard I must start today, 

No more excuse, for this my heart does yearn.  

Frank Garnick