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MetaVerse Sep 22
Reinbert de Leeuw
Should've given Aldo Ciccolini a lesson or two
On how to play
Satie the right way.
VERSE ONE:
You know me truer than I know myself
Lately I've been turning into someone else
Thoughts I place upon a shelf
Hidden cause I won't ask for help
An honest woman most the time
Except when saying I am fine
I ask the universe why I'm alive
Born to live
Live to die
A fool
Will not try to deny
Already accepted I won't make it in life
Every moment you break me it hurts a little more
Worth it feeling butterflies in my core
Were once best friends but not anymore
After the pain I guess you got bored
Would bring flowers to your front door
It wouldn't make you feel the way you did before

HOOK:
To make something happen we had a chance
Just have to remember that homecoming dance
Believe it is special
Love we share
Can you sincerely say that deep down you don't still care?

VERSE TWO:
This worse than I ever feared
Fall of everything once held dear
This where the face that used to be near
Becomes distant memory
And unclear
Built by us when we first arrived here
The smiles
Secrets
And tears
As they tug heartstrings
Feelings flooding back
Standing on piles of perseverance I lack
Through mess it's difficult to make out what's real
Can't tell if infatuation or animosity I feel
Pinned against walls that close in and seal
Inside our souls so we don't heal
Meet shadows as we bend and kneel
Wonder from the floor why the world is so surreal
Your noose hanging from a beam of steel
Your death is a choice fate may steal

(HOOK)
Title is the name of the instrumental I looked up on YouTube to write this to
Robert Ronnow Mar 19
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.

On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.

Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.

Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.

Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.

Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.

Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Ira Sosa Sep 2022
With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.

They begin.

With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.

They continue.

As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.

Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.

They end.

Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.

They change.

From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.

They continue, anew.

As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.

They continue, still.

As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.

They end.

Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.

They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.
A professor of Piano, Violin, and Cello can make some bangers...
miki Jul 2022
today i walked west
but only for a couple of minutes before i reached the old church that i've lived next door to practically my entire life
it's from the '60s, and as soon as you walk in a sign is still hung in the entry that reads
"Colored Church" with a cross underneath
i always loved it here
it's small
cozy
with a ringing sense of familiarity
much reminiscent of the people who gather here every Sunday
really,
it's been my quiet place for a while
somedays i come just to bask in the uninterrupted silence that it offers
but most, i sit at the old, nearly crumbling piano that's slightly out of tune
at the very front
and i'll just play for hours
simply to get lost in the echos of the pitch that's just barely off, but that's not unlistenable
it's become somewhat of a sanctuary to me
and i'm probably crazy to seek solace in a place whose very nature, more times than not, tends to frighten me
but maybe everything that i fear
is what ultimately will bring me the most joy

at least that's what i will let myself believe
Henrie Diosa Jul 2022
he doesn’t play the piano
the piano plays itself
through the dextral treble
and the sinister bass clef

he doesn’t lift a finger
the ivories press back
the ebonies go up and down
without a single clack

he barely presses downwards
his fingertips suffice
the music plays the piano
he’s merely its device
Strung Jan 2022
When it rains,
do the cracked tips of your fingers itch
to play?
The secret between creator and created
overwhelming.
You, piano man, live.
Empty slowly full
letting go but never fully going.
Sunburn on your back, music in your ear,
I will never understand life
as you do.
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