Long Violinist Poems
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Alfred getting old
Alfred, the violinist had some setbacks
he fell in love with a woman of high culture and rich,
Alfred moved in with her as she also had a piano
which Alfred loved. He played Chopin and another semi
popular tunes, so engrossed he was that he didn't notice
she was tired of him and told him to leave.
It was shocking for poor Alfred who without arguments
left with his violin.
He used to have a small room at a rundown hotel, but
It was occupied by some other loser, so he slept on
Aa park bench, had a wash at a river nearby where he also
washed his clothes.
One night when he slept he was assaulted and his dear
The instrument was stolen now he had nothing.
Alfred was depressed, but not for long, a woman who, had
A café nearby gave him food and shelter in a shed she had
At the bottom of her garden, she also ironed his clothes.
The police who liked Alfred he was always polite, caught
The thieves and he was back in business.
He became a fixture of the town playing his music
at street corners and was much missed when he drowned
washing his feet in the town’s ornamental pool.
I awake to the beautiful plaintive strains
Of a violin - then realize it’s just in my head
Just a dream - a shame to find
I’m in the hospital - same room - same bed
The monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall
Time, an indefinite progress of my existence
Time for my pills, time to call the nurse
Time not on my side, breaking down my resistance
After lunch a quick nap
Then the visiting hour I dread most of all
Seeing pity in their eyes, they wish me back
To what I was before my withdrawal
The world of music - my life - my love
The fame and fortune that once was mine
Exhilarating - Intoxicating, a wife at my side
With children sharing the Glory Divine
I lived it - I breathed it
Plucked at its very soul
The core of its existence in my hands
Like a faithful servant it played its role
I look at the painting on the wall
A feeling of Déjà vu enters it seems
I’ve seen this glade of lush green plants
And these sparkling bubbling streams
I remember drawing back watching afar
An Angel who danced in its midst
Who danced with wild abandon
Her hair that the sun had kissed
I remember wishing I could dance with her
With this Angel from above
A hundred birds would sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
But it’s just a painting - There’s no girl there
And I’m just a sick old man
Wallowing in my grief and sadness
Existing however best I can
What’s this I’m suddenly in the glade?
A young strong man once more
She has come for me, my Angel love
I leap - I twirl - I soar
The world I’ve left behind
Unshackled my attachments of
A hundred birds do sing out loud
To watch us Dance to Love
We dance with wild abandon
We dance without a care
With sun kissed skin our arms entwined
Wild flowers in our hair
Footnote:
We do not know for sure if my Father – who was a great violinist and classical musician, had imagined this story when he was a young man, when he chanced on a young girl dancing in the glade. It’s a story he told us many times and we loved to believe it.
I like to imagine a fitting finale to the first story, when his time came and have pictured it in this poem.
This story begins in my Poem arrangement 'Dance to Love - Part 1'
The sunrise broke free from dawn.
Drum beats could be felt but never heard.
Bass guitar strings wired the fiery horizon,
and the lead guitarist played 'hallelujah', quietly.
Clearly seen releasing imaginative music was a violinist.
There were harps and horns, tambourines and quiet trumpets.
Like a sponge, my soul was absorbing every musical note,
and like a ship, I was sailing upon a celestial sea of harmony.
It was one symphonic sunrise with the feel of heaven.
It was one dream of a morning; one melodic August day.
It was a real treat being graced by God between cotton sheets.
I slowly arose from a deep sleep feeling restored, rested, and sweet.
A beautiful dream had 'made my day' before it even began.
Nothing nor anyone was going to rob me of my blessed August day.
081924PS
"Violinist : Diana Yukawa Vocals : Jemma Lyrics : The Poet"
If you start Dianna's video on the 26th second and Jemma's voice recording on the 13th second simultaneously, my words fit exactly to the music.
Where do we go to?
Feelings so blue now,
When we think of you.
So many souls are gone now.
Gone forever into the blue.
Lost not forgotten.
Thinking of you.
Thinking of you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Where do we go to now?
Where do we go?
Something familiar and new.
Dear one I need you.
I am no where near you .
Feeling this song is for you.
See I long for you now .
All on my own now.
My body longs to know you.
I light a candle loving you now .
longing too.
Longing for you.
You are my savior.
I am needing you.
Happy as I am,
Missing you too.
I do need you close now.
Needing you so.
Where dear are you now?
Seeing you now.
Longing for you I am too.
Longing for you.
You are my savior.
I am needing you.
Happy as I am,
Missing you too.
I do need you close now.
Needing you so.
Where dear are you now?
Seeing you now.
Vivaldi man of “Four Seasons”
Played his violin for a reason
While singing the strings
Excellent music he brings
Great melody it rings
“La Primavera” sole concerto
Uplifting the spirits without alto
Amsterdam, Prague, Venice and Vienna
Spectacular operas making souls remember
Strings and harmony joining in splendor
Maestro de Violino
Creating rhythm with his bow like no one knows
Musical scales moving your head
Great melody even for newlyweds
Tempo, decrescendo, awaken even a sleepyhead
Vivaldi man of “Four Seasons”
Played his violin for a reason
Bow singing the strings
Excellent music he brings
Great harmony it rings
© Joseph S. Spence, Sr., (Epulaeryu Master) 4/14/08
All Rights Reserved, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA
Senior Advisor, to Founder of Motivational Strips
Ambassador De Literature
Noble Star of Literature 2018
Living Legend of the 21st Century
Pentasiv B World Friendship Poetry Featured Poet 2019
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
Placed in the 352 poems selected
out of the 1129 submitted in the
Poetry Soup September 2008 Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
Dedicated: To the lovers of great violin music
Author’s Comments: My youngest son is a violinist and it’s such a pleasure
listening to his music and hearing about the musicians he talks about with
others.
The Violinist
He sits on the corner of a building
Four stories above the world below
Playing his violin day after day
No one knows his name
They just know that there is beautiful music
They imagine that is coming from Heaven
Does it matter to this lonely man?
He doesn’t care for fame or money
God has graced him with the gift of music
He could be a star
He could perform with a huge orchestra
He would rather play alone above the people
He plays just to make people happy
He loves it when people dance down the street
That man
That lonely man is an artiste
Too bad no one knows who he is
But that would not make him happy
Russia, my lovely
Why do I remember this now on a Christmas day
galley boy on a tank ship that was old in 1956
as the youngest of the crew of mostly middle-aged men
it is safe to assume I'm the only one left alive.
The ship arrived late at the port I have long forgotten its name, we had been stuck by drifting ice and only the Russians could come to free us.
A large icebreaker came and got us out of the mess
it appears the winter that year had been hard,
the elderly
said it was because a long war had upset the weather pattern, the cook, who was Swedish and had the face of
a Roman senator, or a hawk, told me not to listen to the fools, weather patterns change over time, whatever humans do.
The town was only a short walk from the oil terminal
and we walked without being harassed by beggars and
people who pretended to be friendly, anyway they skulked away when the cook looked imperiously, made
a remark in Russian.
The avenue in the town was wide but strangely empty of cars there was also a nice looking park but the town was saving in lightening, and there were speakers
at corners playing music to gladden the heart.
But things were going on that I was not aware of
buying Russian caviar to be sold in Europe and bottles of vodka, the cook got very drunk and the chief steward came to help in the galley.
I was later told, although I had no way of knowing
there were many prostitutes in park the who wanted
women's underwear, and nylon stockings, which some
enterprising sailors had bought in Rotterdam
later that evening, the Swedish cook and I went to a restaurant where men in old-fashioned suits sat and a lady
violinist played.
We were served food, and the cook drank white wine he said came from Crimea, wherever that was, I was not familiar with maps back then.
My impression was it was a poor place suffering from
a long war, basic freedom, and the great difference between the haves (nomenclature)
and people.
Southern belles
New York lovers
The warmth
That shelters others
That old man
He just sings away
A folded hand
Mary sings and she
Bleeds about the same
You ran off
Hand in hand
Just to save his band
There she sits now
On she carries
For she’s never really down
Violinist
If you haven’t heard her
Time slows
But the moments
Are just a blur
A widowed smile
At my heels
She holds life so gently
Such that I can’t feel
No turning back
We go on
For days know no yield
Dissolve my misery
The garden grows not
Without her tears
Your almost famous
Upon Broadway
Singing away those years
Lost now found
Your tears lapse
Against the sand
The stories of a broken man
Commitment once forgotten
She said
“I know your not that man”
Lips to forehead
Sighs It’ll be alright
She walks these streets
Without the quiet nights
The absence needs her light
Stay tonight
The morning breaks
To bring you home
Your not so
All alone
Julian and Joan were married, just as glitter is joined to crystal sun.
Julian was a famous violinist, like redbirds making music, in season.
Joan had a variety of elegant shoes. Of them, she was rightly proud.
Like seagulls of lakes and sky, whom liberty makes scream out loud!
The Halls were very busy people, like smoky shadows, ever moving;
And mornings were most hectic, like windblown petals, disapproving.
Flowering ferns graced their country house, when old friends came;
For a face-to-face is much finer, than wondering what love became.
Farmers went to frolicsome fairs, when firecracker family popped in;
Like fad future in a fascinator, carrying memories of way back when.
The Halls lived in the house of colors, like the kaleidoscope, spinning.
Days were entranced by hues and beauty, like a rainbow reminiscing.
Sabotaged shasta daisies bowed, while gilded, silver raindrops jingled,
On the street of jade, turning seasons, of red Mars and stars, mingled.
Neighbors noted navy blue skies, when a nuanced sun, sank in rubies;
While they'd enjoy a nightly snack, or watch the never-ending movie.
'Skeleton glass warriors' guarded the greenhouse, of a fragrant June;
As 'Biltmore's ballgown' plants were admired, beneath the new moon.
'Turquoise green cockscomb' plants strutted, in nature's pretty vanity;
And 'rainbow pampas grass' showed after storm, delighting humanity!
One particolored, exceptionally hectic sunrise, the Halls were in a tizzy.
Joan had lost a favorite shoe, and Julian's bow was missing. Such a pity!
They couldn't find the items! Julian left for rehearsals, very frustrated.
Joan left for her boutique. Yet, gold sun'd soon return, when motivated.
After they both had gone, the first butterscotch rays, indeed, appeared;
And their talking rooster had much to say, like hues, after mist cleared!
'Cock a doodle doo!
My dame has lost her shoe,
My master lost his fiddling stick;
And doesn't know what to do
And doesn't know what to do.'
World War 3
When war again breaks out in Europe
and the culture that was, is a smokestack
that drifts in foul air
Not that art matters, if any survives, they
will be busy finding food and shelter
the winter will be long and hard, Britain
will be a hole in the sea, fir for fish,
I will seek sanctuary in Ushuaia, the most
southerly place in Argentine
It was there a world-famous violinist fled
when during a concert, lost his trousers
and Europe laughed.
a place where two great oceans collide
clearing the air and foul debris
I will visit the violinist to see if he still
plays, and if he has no radio tell him of
the tragedy, if he feels sorry for Europe
he is a good man, but if he gleefully laugh
his embarrassment has made him bitter.