Poetry: “The Man with the Violin”

/ frankormond

A bar I frequent had a stage to present
musical acts from a sign up sheet.
Local artists play on their concert off days
and sometimes you’ll get quite a treat.

One night I chilled with a beer, heard my fill
of a girl with a guitar on stage.
When she finished her set, her name I forget,
they announced no one else signed their page.

People left so I swallowed and I started to follow
but an old man stood with an instrument case.
He said, “I’d like to play next while you all pay your checks.”
and he made for the front of that place.

Gray hair with one eye, dress shirt with no tie,
and a brown leather jacket and hat.
He took a violin from a case of buckskin
holding the worn bow like a bat.

By then most of the crew had left but a few
so I by myself nodded at him.
He grinned like a skull then bowed to us all
and began his melodious hymn.

The violin scratched like a scar tissue patch
sounding as cats in a fight at night.
But then the man paused and waited for applause,
then said, “just a joke, alright?”

Other patrons’ checks grabbed and then paid their tabs
some of them practically fled.
I stayed behind then, watching the man when
he joked, “Was it something I said?”

I laughed and he tracked, then making contact
said, “this song is for you, my friend.”
He brought bow to string and started to sing
a song that I wished wouldn’t end.

The language was odd like the voice of a god
but his song sounded modern and clear.
Then he looked my way and started to say
“here’s the best part, my friend, right here.”

The doors busted in and what came to pour then
were ghouls and dead men en masse.
I panicked to run, but still I felt stunned
’til the place was full of the passed.

They sang along when, clapping, laughing, and then
the old man packed quite a place.
His song took a turn and the dead made to churn
and danced like a flock giving chase.

He stopped his own song but the dead kept along
singing it then on their own.
He stepped off the stage and walked past the rage
and approached where I was all alone.

“Enjoying the scene?” The man sat next to me
and lit a cigar from his coat.
“They’re dead,” I said with a voice full of dread.
And the man smiled, “you hit the right note.”

“I don’t run the dead but I like to instead
offer them time back on Earth.
I’m the Devil, you see, so they come begging me
to show them some kind of mirth.”

He whistled real loud, cutting straight through the crowd
until the whole place emptied quick.
The dead left the bar, leaving that old morning star
as he walked back to the front in a click.

The waitress tapped my shoulder and asked how much longer
I’d sit by myself in that place.
I glanced to the front, and uttered a grunt
for the old man was not in that space.


Again, my poem “Life in a Puddle” has received a ton of attention. Please read it and let me know what you think!

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