The Old Blue Guitarist

I have always loved this painting. Upon finding out the discovery that it was painted over another painting of a family, I had to tell the story

The Old Blue Guitarist

 

Each day I passed as he sat on the corner strumming his old blue guitar.

Crippled hands playing the chords and a time-weakened voice hummed.

His sightless eyes closed as he played, as he felt each note with his heart.

He played for no one, though all felt his song.  He had no one left to play for.

His name was Macario, and he was my friend.

 

By my walk he knew I was coming, the scuffle of my feet on the ground.

Always a smile, but never, no never did he stop in the middle of a song.

I stood and I waited and dropped in a coin, it landed next to yesterday’s.

He continued to play and I continued to hear.  His guitar was the last living thing he loved.

His name was Marcario, and he was my friend.

 

A fire had come and taken his wife, it had taken his daughter and sight.

She was, he described when the music had ended, “angelic even in life.”

 His daughter, the one he had held on his knee for nearly seven whole years,

Was also a victim of the blaze that had crumbled their home.

His name was Macario, and he was my friend.

 

Ana, his wife and sung as he played and his humming echoed her sound.

“I have no voice for singing” he said, “but I hear her now some days.”

His daughter had danced, spinning in circles and laughing, loving her life.

“I see her now dancing in my mind’s-memory, it is the only thing I can see.

His name was Macario, and he was my friend.

 

Resting his guitar on his old, crippled legs, he told me of love and of joy.

Growing up in Spain with his mother and single cow they had nothing but smiles to live on

But for a young birthday a gift beyond imagination, the guitar was presented.

His mother, his wife and small Maria his daughter and all been ripped away.

His name was Macario, and he was my friend.

 

Now I think back on the talks that we had, as I look at the note that he left.

My name blindly scrawled on the front and teardrops dotting the page.

“This is for you; it is all that I have. Your Friend, Macario”

It sat on the guitar, the old faded blue one, which had been loved by a broken man.

His name was Macario, and he was my friend.

 

Reviews

[April Blue]

This is lovely, I love the detail in this poem and your description of the guitarist and his family.. Well done! Thank you for sharing.