Ode to Bill Schwab, luthier

by

Rick Bandy

Crusty cantankerous curmudgeon.
Mohammad on his mountain.
A forgotten cellar in a warehouse lost
That always smelled of fatigue and frustration,
Lacquer and dust.
Your walls adorned by your canvases
The wounded and near-dead
In various stages of resurrection.
"Just hunks of wood with strings," you said.
We all knew better than that.

Your gnarled claws breathed life.
No child ere’ held with more tenderness
Nor lover with reverent restraint.
You listened to music still silent from
Singers awaiting their voices.
And smiled, beamed when they sang.
Critics met sarcasm.
Sycophants your shrug.
And if the whip of your wit often stung,
We could forgive the sin of patience withheld.
You were saving it for the victims
Of our excesses.

You won your battle with Johnnie Walker
Jilted the white mistress.
But lost to their aftermath.
The onslaught that creased your brow,
Narrowed your eyes, and finally
Silenced your hallowed hovel.

But we remember.
We fortunate few who knew.
And the voices of your children still sing.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Fair & holy one
by: Joyce Hemsley
from: Sunderland, England, UK

To visit all of Rick Bandy's poems, click HERE

Check out these deals at Amazon.com

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

To write us about this page,
contact willy@dreamagic.com (Willy Chaplin)