Sunday, January 24, 2016

Short Poem Of The Week Jan 24 2016

The Second Fiddle Speaks Out

The fiddle rests lightly,
cradled under my chin,
resting on my neck and skin.
I draw the bow
and the vibration in the bow
vibrates the string,
and the string, the wood of the fiddle,
and the wood, my neck.
We vibrate.
We’re hummin’ the same tune.

Before the concert,
the maestro looked at me.
I heard him speak,
but the words tripped
on their way through my ear.
What I heard was something
else, but
it was more wonderful
just the same.
So that’s what I played.
Everyone looked on in amazement.


Mark Bohrer
November 2015 Andover, Mass.

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