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A procession of pink lilies
upon a blackened road with
white dots on its surface
For what do they protest?
Dusk and twilight approaching
Everyone is holding a
black candle in its hands
The trees turned down
their blank stare and
lapsed into silence
Someone's playing Chopin's
funeral march on a piano
covered with ivy
It is a requiem mass about
the death of pure beauty
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZY5DBmgC_A
Arianna Oct 2018
Drifting daydreams:
Of cotton snow and you,
Of the lazy daisy Delta blues
On honeysuckle afternoons;

Those heart-of-August, bluebell eves
Blooming powdery and warm
Around the magnolia tree
Where together, in time,
We’d have placed candles
And fairy offerings.

Now the years blossom long between us,
Though your fingerprints I see
Still peppering the dust
Strewn over the piano keys;
Your hands haunting:
Ghosts of a waltz,
Dancing rosy gymnopédies ⸺

How I held them dear!

Good times ⸺

A clair de lune rhapsody.
Picking memories from my garden,
And gathering them in a bouquet for you. :-)

"Gymnopédie No. 1" by Erik Satie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMnxjdGTK4w

Also, "Clair de Lune" by Claude Debussy
CGW Sep 2018
Down inside of me something untouchable preludes my grace.
Leaves falling down like Chopin's Nocturne op.9 No. 2.
Through the looking glass a sail boat touches your watery eyes.
Standing by you.
Life is in the vine.
Hues of darkness against the light.
A thousand lifetimes in the flash of your smile.
Swan flight in the open field.
Breathe in and breathe out.
The softness your smile against the cold ice of death.
How does beauty and grace carry on even after death.
Up above in the clouds,
floating down down a creek
till the tree of knowledge is reached.
The tree of all life.
That which yields the ability to choose.
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
I said it was not meant for me,
But what did I mean?
For any youth, any love,
Whose prey who might be,
On whom you’d lean,

In your semi-corseted skirt,
Or dressed full fig.,
Stalking into town,
Shocking men in wigs,
Luring them into false love,
As others had been?

Would you capture me,
Chaining my soul to your heart,
So I must carry on playing
At your command?
I see your dress under the piano,
And your boots and pantaloons;
The piano is not my voice,
Though you insist it is.

I shot a drunken man for you,
Which made me more your slave.
You woke urges I suppressed,
Too strong for one so frail.
With words you pushed me
But caused music to pour
From me as love did.

A storm of disapproval raged all round
Our Paris nest of love and art,
You came and went like a soldier, shielding us,
And at home you urged me on,
To impromptu inventions,
Yet causing us to depart.

Packed into a cabochon,
You shanghaied me,
Away to Majorca
And the wintry sea.
Your searing love and the island’s cold
Were too much for me,
And I escaped with my art.
This was inspired by the film "Impromptu", about the affair between Frederic Chopin and the writer, George Sand, or Armandine Aurore Lucille Dupin. She had many lovers, mostly other writers and artists. Her love for Chopin was excessive and she pursued him aggressively. Once they became lovers, she insisted that his illness (tuberculosis) was due to lack of activity and fresh air and kept luring him out of his little apartment. He supposedly had a duel with her latest lover, but fainted, George picked up his gun and shot the lover, not fatally. She convinced Chopin that it was he who had wounded the man, then overcome by his violence, he had passed out. This seemed to make him feel more manly and open to seeing himself as a ****** being and not just a frail ghost. She and Chopin were together for ten years, but when she took him to Majorca for a year, things did not go well and he left. Mind you, I'm talking about the film, not an actual event, though it may have happened.  Hugh Grant played Chopin and Judy Davis was a great George Sand.
Phoebe H Nov 2017
the floating liquid pearls
from the Moon clouds--
and--
the smell of Sunday.

the window, a shield from the rain
yet I Feel it in me
as I drip out--Drop, by
drop.

through a cord, Chopin walks into my ears
and sits--
never begins but has been playing,
as droplets become piano keys.

far away, a chime Echoes
from a spiderweb of
iron, under a velvet sky
full of ghosts.

little golden moons line the shops,
and their moonlight blends into the fallen water,
and paints the Street
with an aroma of rose.

the dull click of shoes on cobblestone
crescendos
to where I linger--
i turn, and he takes me by the hand.

each step, a note--
we move with the Rain.
composing a piece already written,
already played.

in joins the rose, and the
watercolor moons--
two fragments of stars
dancing underneath the rest.

but I slip; fade,
a halfstep removed,
and like the cobweb clouds outside my window,
my mind rolls on.
Abbigail Nicole Oct 2017
ancient aches in chains
contained in the howls and hyacinth
the breast of syntonic refrain

halcyon honey hews sentience
with peals painting elysian fields
saturated in nocturnal opalescence

eclipse echoes along cathedral aisles
cleansing heathens in fifth progression
anointment of epiphany reconciled
Terry Collett Sep 2017
I wonder where it's at
that Chopin recital
of the Nocturnes,
he muses, she said
the pianist's  name
which sounded Polish,
but where she didn't say.

She was talking to another
woman on the train,
sitting to one side
in a window seat.

A goddess in a green dress,
legs crossed, thigh showing,
but no news where it was at,
whether they were going
or when or not.

He dared a glance,
taking the goddess
and the other to mind,
then closing his eyes
pretending to be blind.
A man and two women on a train.
the sound of Waltz Nocturne
   in A Minor,  does Chopin's rhythm a romantic duet's dance

played time and again by todays masters
re discovering the innocent genius of a child

the Waltz,
a composition to be heard in every generation to come
to bring romance and tears
to bring joy and humor

to bring a song for dance and the music of a memory

A musicians legacy might be just for you.
Terry Collett May 2017
I play the Chopin piece
over and over
on the piano.

Mother behind me
in her chair
listening critically
the tips of her fingers
tapping the beat of time
on the arm.

I think of Benny
being there
his chin on my shoulder
breathing
him whispering words
in my ear.

You played that bar
or so too fast
Mother says
go back.

I stop and go back
and begin again.

Trying to focus
my fingers nimble
my mind elsewhere
not on Chopin's piece
even as I play.

I muse
on Benny and I
in my bed at night
when he stayed
and I crept to the room
he was in
close to him
kissing and holding
but no ***
just in case.

That's not how
Chopin meant it
to be played
Mother says
pushing thoughts
of Benny
from my head.
A GIRL AND MOTHER IN 1962
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