• Arion

    Looking into the bright red sun,
    Sitting by the big blue sea,
    A boy plays his guitar,
    Looking almost like a movie star,
    Strumming and singing a sweet melody.
    The glistening water,
    Drowning his feet
    As his guitar keeps in beat.
    His legs covered in golden sand,
    As he's off into his fantasy land.
    He picks and plucks
    At his old acoustic,
    Singing and humming,
    As the waves are coming.
    The melody is strong,
    And his voice in tune,
    In the hot and sweet June.
    He needs no audience,
    He needs no cash,
    Just some time to play
    Every night and day.
    His strings strung tight,
    And his voice just right,
    Time slipped away
    As he felt the ocean spray.
    The reason he was,
    The reason he became,
    Was his family,
    His relation,
    With their love and dedication.
    There was his father,
    A genius with strings,
    And his mother,
    A brilliant singer, of all things.
    Their talents combined,
    They were a divine pair.
    His dad played,
    with sweet and tender care.
    His dad played,
    with a rough and tough snare.
    His dad would make it complicated,
    With his fast fingers,
    And perfect combinations
    Of majors and minors,
    While his mother sang,
    Sang like the angel of music,
    Letting her words flow like water,
    Like the water rushing,
    Rushing through the boy’s toes,
    H still e plays along,
    With this thoughts and memories.
    His mother was pretty,
    And his father, smart and handsome.
    They loved each other very much,
    And decided to give birth,
    To have a little one
    Of their very own.
    So they stopped singing,
    And they stopped playing,
    To settle down and raise,
    Their newborn son,
    their new loved one.
    The noises he made,
    Were not musical,
    Not at all soothing
    To a man’s ear,
    But they loved their baby,
    And brought him up
    With tender love.
    And yet, the best love
    His parents could give him
    Was the music,
    The thing they loved most.
    So as he grew up,
    His father bought him a guitar.
    An old, used, shabby, and bizzare
    Acoustic guitar.
    It still had magic and zest inside,
    so as his father as his guide
    He taught him chords,
    He taught him songs,
    He taught him techniques,
    He taught him shortcuts
    and easy tricks.
    So that little boy,
    Sitting on his chair one day,
    Started to play loud,
    Started to play rough,
    He started to play,
    His very first song.
    Plucking and strumming
    As it rang out loudly,
    He played it proudly.
    His parents watched in amazement
    As he let himself go.
    At the age of four years old,
    He finally played.
    Perhaps he was a prodigy,
    Perhaps he was a star,
    But his parents both knew,
    That this was their son.
    Years went by,
    And he continued to learn,
    He continued to play,
    But he wanted to sing.
    He wanted to sing,
    To sing his little heart out.
    Shouting and screaming,
    Was something he was sick of.
    So his mother decided
    To give her son a taste of her talent.
    So with her consent
    They started singing lessons,
    Although it was hard at first.
    He was off key,
    He was off task,
    And he was always off somewhere else,
    Thinking about his guitar,
    Thinking about the outside world.
    But his mother was strict,
    And gave him his lessons,
    Even if he wanted them or not.
    It was tough at first
    But it soon paid off,
    As the screeching words,
    Turned into smooth vocals.
    It was a joy to hear
    His sweet gentle voice,
    His mother was proud,
    as she rejoyed,
    the beautiful works that he made..
    Every day, they did scales,
    And every night, a different song.
    But he learned through time,
    And he learned well.
    His singing voice had changed,
    From that shrieking, shrill yell.
    So as elementary school came,
    He continued his music,
    Singing along
    To his father’s guitar,
    And playing along
    To his mother’s voice.
    It seemed nothing was wrong,
    It seemed everything was perfect.
    Until it came,
    It came to his mother.
    She became sick, ill,
    Weak, pale, hospitalized.
    The boy became scared.
    He refrained from his music,
    And kept to himself,
    As she kept to herself,
    Sitting in her hospital bed,
    Not even lifting her head.
    At school, they were concerned,
    But his lips became sealed,
    With the angst he suffered
    and the sadness he had to deal.
    His father was depressed,
    Now hitting the bar,
    When he needed to be healed.
    They visited her every day,
    But the boy came at night.
    She loved her little boy,
    And knew he was in pain.
    The boy loved her mother,
    And knew she was in heaven’s gates.
    One night, he sat,
    With his guitar on his lap.
    He couldn’t play,
    Not when she was like this.
    But she said to the boy,
    Her sweet, yet saddened son,
    “Son," She started,
    Seeing her life almost done.
    "I want you to play.
    I want you to sing,
    For me, dear son.
    I want you to listen,
    To all the sounds in the world,
    And realize the world will revolve,
    It will revolve without me.
    And dear son, take notice,
    Of the sounds you hear.
    I want you to continue,
    And bless this earth,
    With the sounds that you make.
    Bless those who are deaf,
    Because of the shadows.
    Bless those who are blind,
    Who need the sounds as their guide.
    Remember what I say, son.
    I love you truly,
    I love you dearly.
    Your father has given up,
    So will you give him your music?
    And, will you treat me
    To one last song?”
    The boy knew it,
    This was her last song,
    So he played.
    A sweet lullaby
    To her closing eyes.
    His mother left that night,
    As soon as he put his old acoustic away.
    He cried and sobbed
    As he walked back home
    That night she departed,
    into the heavens above,
    remembering her sweet love.
    And he didn’t tell his father,
    For he was gone for his own comfort.
    The next day, his father found out.
    They both cried silently
    And to themselves, all day and night.
    A week or two passed,
    And the funeral was set.
    The father stood stern,
    While his son tried not to cry,
    He tried to have his chin up high,
    But he knew he couldn't lie.
    Neither the boy nor his father,
    Dared to play at the funeral,
    But as the roses were placed,
    The boy sang to himself,
    The song he played,
    For his own mother that night.
    The boy, now being ten years of age,
    Stopped playing for the world.
    He couldn’t take the pain,
    And neither could his father.
    But he cried, and wept,
    Until his eyes were dry.
    And now, in his school,
    The boys picked on him,
    For his love of music.
    But he kept his mouth shut,
    As they teased him,
    Spit on him,
    And pushed him away
    In spite of dismay.
    They shed no mercy,
    as they pushed him around,
    The boy didn't care,
    for he made no sound
    He didn’t need friends,
    But he always felt lonely,
    So he decided to play again,
    To cure the darkness he created.
    Comforted by the tune,
    He felt at peace again.
    It took him a while to sing,
    But he came through.
    So as he continued to age,
    He played his acoustic once more.
    He let his singing do the talking,
    For his hidden and poisoned emotions.
    Now in Jr. High,
    He felt out of place.
    Most of the kids were different,
    And thought music was for losers,
    or at least, only for him.
    But he joined the choir,
    And helped with guitar lessons,
    Earning money for after school time,
    To support what his dad
    Lost for his alchohol ailment.
    And yes, he still played,
    He played for some,
    And he still shared with the world,
    The sounds that he made.
    Meanwhile, his father had turned evil,
    He had turned nasty.
    The bitterness that the death gave,
    Was comforted and supposedly healed
    By the alcohol he drank.
    He was an addict,
    And didn’t stop
    When his pockets were empty.
    He did some club gigs,
    With his sweet yet bitter guitar,
    And used the money for his remedy.
    He was never happy, never healed,
    By the pain she gave him.
    One day, the boy was in his room,
    Playing around with his guitar.
    His father, drunk and stupefied,
    Stopped him in his act.
    ”Where’s the money, boy?”
    He said, bottle in hand.
    Confused, the boy said,
    “I don’t have any money, dad.”
    His father glared evilly,
    And dropped his empty bottle.
    “I need more money, boy!
    I need more money for my booze!
    It’s the only way I live!”
    The boy put his music away,
    And while he was packing his guitar,
    He said, “You spent it all,
    And it’s your fault.
    I have to work for money around here
    With lessons and all that!”
    His father was now furious,
    And grabbed his boy by the collar,
    Lifting him in the air.
    “I want my money, boy!"
    He snarled at the boy,
    Still holding him up,
    And then threw him on his bed.
    Angry and still drunk,
    He began to lash at him,
    Abusing him and making him scream.
    The boy finally stood up,
    And pushed his dad aside,
    He needed out of here,
    He needed to get out.
    He wanted freedom,
    He wanted true happiness
    Without seeing his father,
    and his addicted look in his eyes.
    Jumping through
    An open window,
    Carrying his old guitar,
    He ran away,
    As fast as he could.
    He ran away,
    As fast as he should.
    With loose money in hand,
    He realized he needed shelter,
    A place to stay
    For at least a night,
    To get away from that thing.
    And then, he realized something,
    That saved his life that day.
    He had an aunt and uncle,
    Who he barely knew,
    But he remembered them,
    From a long time ago.
    They didn’t live far away,
    But he didn’t remember exactly where,
    But he remembered one thing;
    They lived by the ocean,
    the ocean where he sat today.
    So that boy,
    With his guitar on his back,
    His memory still intact,
    He ran forward.
    He ran to find shelter.
    He ran to find a new home.
    He ran to get some light.
    After hours of running,
    In the golden sand,
    He found them.
    Remembering their home,
    With vague memories inside,
    He ran to the door,
    And pounded onto their door.
    “Help me, somebody!”
    He screamed, he sobbed.
    And they opened the door,
    To find that poor boy,
    On his knees and crying.
    The whole story was explained,
    The whole story was shared.
    And they decided to help him,
    And let that boy,
    the poor, defenseless boy,
    Stay there in their house.
    Reporting to authorities,
    What evils his father had done,
    And after months of legal action,
    They had won their case,
    And they kept the boy in safe company.
    So now, here he sat.
    Four years later,
    At sixteen years old.
    He stopped his fingers,
    And sealed his lips,
    Looking up into that big red sun.
    He thought about his mother,
    And how she wanted him
    To share his music with the world.
    He shouldn’t have kept it to himself,
    But he did,
    Four years alone,
    And it didn’t seem fair
    So he looked down into the sea.
    He whispered to his mother,
    “Let me sing to you…”
    And that’s when he sang,
    He sang for his mother.
    And from that day,
    He decided to keep his promise,
    Of sharing his sounds,
    His songs,
    His tunes,
    With the world.
    He traveled through,
    And played for many.
    Yes, he played loud,
    And he played clear.
    He shared with the world,
    His guitar and voice.
    His name was Arion.
    And this, my dear friend
    Is his story, in it's beginning
    But not at it's end.