A violin drips its music down- published…

Summer garden of moth wings. Dusk gown of
violet, blue-
specks of black.
Night encroaches, circle moon, breathe the
in a mouthing.
A violinist in a frock coat, maestro of the dark.
He plays the music,
sister of
a song- dripping down a rabbit warren,
kneeling down
among the grass, dew dripping like a candle’s wax.

And the maestro, well past aging, and his fingers
grown milky,
yet with the bow bounces the flesh of the strings.
Their notes
plumb into the hollows, stoop over and kiss the
of shadows. Dare into the root of the soil of
a flower petal.
He walks in the music, but the night isn’t noticing,
thinks he’s
asleep in longevity. Lying down. And the voice of
nothing, tin white
(a bone white light, silence in a song).

Copyright © 03/01/17 lance sheridan®

A violin drips its music down

28 comments on “A violin drips its music down- published…

  1. Beautiful, you painted a vision with words the maestro and his violin. Summer garden of moth wings made me chuckle.

  2. allenrizzi says:

    Love this! My father was Concert Master for the Vienna Philharmonic and as an old man he used to move his head with bow strokes to the music he heard.

  3. Carly says:

    Like a a garden of music! That’s how I imagined it! Well done. 🙂

  4. efge63 says:

    Wonderful !!!!! I wish you Merry Christmas and inspiration in your soul!!!!!

  5. Brilliant and silence in the words and sound when the old man plays his guitar that is his second nature. Awesome poem, Lance.

  6. rabirius says:

    Wonderful poem, Lance.

  7. I could hear the music feverishly playing through your words… until the last stanza when the maestro took his final bow. Bravo Lance. Just brilliant!

  8. […] via A violin drips its music down- published… — Lance Sheridan […]

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