This is a personal experiment in imagery. This is only a second draft so it's arguably a work in progress. Done in free verse. Of course all critique is welcomed.
Father's Violin
Free from the toils of the day,
my father removes his oldest companion from its case
where he
placed it exactly twenty-three hours ago
and where he
will place it exactly one hour from now.
He gazes at its familiar brown countenance
that never seems to lose its luster.
The dim lamp-light reflects off of each
of its four strings
Loudly showcasing themselves against the
proud pitch of the fingerboard.
He runs his fingers up and down its smooth face;
and gently runs his nail side to side across the wood
creating the slightest buzzing sound over the wrinkles
that only he knows about.
He lifts his violin to his chin and the
pure smell of polish mixed with the
fragrant sap odor of rosin
accompanied the pristine antique wood smell
in his captivated nose.
He neatly raps the bow against his knee
to remove any excess rosin
producing tiny puffs of dust
like a long-neglected book dropped lightly on a desk.
His calloused fingers pressed onto the strings,
the bow assuming its practiced perpendicular position,
All is ready,
And Beethoven’s Romance in G begins to fill the room.
The opening melody of double-stops
sings to the empty living room.
He willfully submits himself
to Beethoven’s complex splendor.
An alien commotion interrupts his play.
He looks up and sees feet running down the stairs
and his son opens the large French doors
and enters the living room.
He joyfully exclaims that he has
wonderful news –
He is to leave this house within the year.
And upon receiving his congratulations,
he turns without a word and exits through the large French doors
again forgetting to close them behind him.
Father smiles because son truly needed no pardon.
He laid the violin down and shut the doors.
The floor creaked under his large heels
as he walked back to his chair.
Before he sat he momentarily stared where I stood
as one stares at a recognized monument
at the end of a long trip, and smiled again.
And he picked up his violin and sat.
He resumed his play and reached his favorite phrase.
His melody is unrestrained.
He and his companion are performing a fantastic solo
in an orchestra only they know.
Father's Violin
Free from the toils of the day,
my father removes his oldest companion from its case
where he
placed it exactly twenty-three hours ago
and where he
will place it exactly one hour from now.
He gazes at its familiar brown countenance
that never seems to lose its luster.
The dim lamp-light reflects off of each
of its four strings
Loudly showcasing themselves against the
proud pitch of the fingerboard.
He runs his fingers up and down its smooth face;
and gently runs his nail side to side across the wood
creating the slightest buzzing sound over the wrinkles
that only he knows about.
He lifts his violin to his chin and the
pure smell of polish mixed with the
fragrant sap odor of rosin
accompanied the pristine antique wood smell
in his captivated nose.
He neatly raps the bow against his knee
to remove any excess rosin
producing tiny puffs of dust
like a long-neglected book dropped lightly on a desk.
His calloused fingers pressed onto the strings,
the bow assuming its practiced perpendicular position,
All is ready,
And Beethoven’s Romance in G begins to fill the room.
The opening melody of double-stops
sings to the empty living room.
He willfully submits himself
to Beethoven’s complex splendor.
An alien commotion interrupts his play.
He looks up and sees feet running down the stairs
and his son opens the large French doors
and enters the living room.
He joyfully exclaims that he has
wonderful news –
He is to leave this house within the year.
And upon receiving his congratulations,
he turns without a word and exits through the large French doors
again forgetting to close them behind him.
Father smiles because son truly needed no pardon.
He laid the violin down and shut the doors.
The floor creaked under his large heels
as he walked back to his chair.
Before he sat he momentarily stared where I stood
as one stares at a recognized monument
at the end of a long trip, and smiled again.
And he picked up his violin and sat.
He resumed his play and reached his favorite phrase.
His melody is unrestrained.
He and his companion are performing a fantastic solo
in an orchestra only they know.
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