Marty's Flute

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


My brother, Marty, spent his last birthday in palliative care, 17 days before he died. I hope I have captured something of the feeling in the room that day.

Submitted: September 20, 2018

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Submitted: September 20, 2018

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Marty's Flute

My brother, on his dying bed,

Picked up his treasured flute.

Expectantly, the room was hushed - 

His playing held repute.

 

Each person in the room had known

The man that he had been,

Each knew him on a different plain,

Each formed a different scene.

 

His family gathered, day by day,

(A million tears were cried),

But on this special day, their hearts

Were overflowed with pride.

 

To painter in amongst us all

His fame, it reached the stars.

He painted walls, he painted floors,

He'd even paint his cars!

 

The chess players, they knew him well

For prowess in the game,

They came to show the fallen king

They'd ne'er forget his name.

 

And in among those players were

Some friends of forty years.

He'd shared with them his many thoughts,

His theories, and his beers.

 

And from the restaurant Budapest,

Where loving friends he'd made,

His friend picked up his violin

And as in good times, played.

 

But Marty's flute, it made no sound

On this, his last birthday.

But in his mind, his music soared. 

And we? We heard him play.

 


© Copyright 2018 Bobi Leutschaft Poitras. All rights reserved.

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