On Tuesday, on main street
I passed two relic wrecks,
An old man and his music
fused in wheezy breath.
Accordion stretched and strangled
giving off its pain,
I'ts puppet-masters fingers
sheening in the rain.
He filled the man-made lungs with air,
exhausting fumes, his own,
He tried and failed and tried again
to give the air a tone.
Scant heed he passed to passer-by
who swept the shuttered face,
The copper sodden penny cap,
pathetic saving grace.
The old man and his failure
kept each other warm
to a dirge of long lost melody,
Pandora's box in arm.
(dedicated to the 'box', Irish accordion)
I passed two relic wrecks,
An old man and his music
fused in wheezy breath.
Accordion stretched and strangled
giving off its pain,
I'ts puppet-masters fingers
sheening in the rain.
He filled the man-made lungs with air,
exhausting fumes, his own,
He tried and failed and tried again
to give the air a tone.
Scant heed he passed to passer-by
who swept the shuttered face,
The copper sodden penny cap,
pathetic saving grace.
The old man and his failure
kept each other warm
to a dirge of long lost melody,
Pandora's box in arm.
(dedicated to the 'box', Irish accordion)
Such masterful and incisive descriptions. Each piece fits perfectly with the next and it just keeps moving. I'm in awe.
ReplyDeleteTurquoise, busking is and has been a source of income for creative mendicants for time immemorial! Most of them have the ability to appeal to the more generous aspect of man's nature but the majority of them are repetitive and have the power of repetition but scarcely creativity! Therein lies your obvious advantage. Thank you for the comment and next time you see a busker, give him a quarter;no more. Regards P+P.
ReplyDeleteWonderful imagery. Well done!
ReplyDeleteMadeleine Begun Kane