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The piano player
has already been shot.
He is no longer a musician,
less one that sold-out halls.

Once he turned the river’s chant
into a jazz so fine that fish weeped.

Now, he plays only
right-handed counterpoint.
His left is still paralyzed,
even after a year of PT.

He only knows Bach,
the old bebop has faded.

His laugh,
a faint rhythmic sigh
is the only time
he knows how to keep.

He grows frustrated
when a two-handed Schubert
plays on the classic radio station.

He was acclaimed
for the way his music
triumphed over time and adversity:
the weakness of an inferior piano,
his own chronic fatigue, his very pain.

He would admonish those
who broke his concentration
with chronic picture taking
and excessive coughing.

He grunted whenever
he heard his imitators
in the elegies of Muzak
floating from the big mall speakers.

Now, his drummer and bassist
have died. He is alone.
His past brilliance is a cosmic taunt.

He realizes that he never
could have done any of this
without them
by his side,
keeping his time

The small, sleeping audience
of the nursing home
of which he is a resident
is not convinced of his genius.
He is no longer convinced of it.

He plays jazz in his dreams.
It’s as messed up as his left hand,
messed up as his waking life.
I sing to the shadows in my room
And play the piano to comfort my gloom
I hum in the hope that something will bloom
And write as I await my own doom
Lyn-Purcell Oct 20
◦•☽✶☾•◦
Against the black of the sky, her ******* lay
Stars swirl and twirl about the poetry of her snow-skin
Rose lips part in joy as the seas in her eyes play
On her heart of palms, her light has a shadowed twin

◦•☽✶☾•◦

Stars swirl and twirl about the poetry of her snow-skin
As she bathes herself in a Milky Way's core
On her heart of palms, her light has a shadowed twin
A musk rose-scented beauty which she does all she can to ignore

◦•☽✶☾•◦

As she bathes herself in a Milky Way's core
Starlight whispers lullabies to still her fearful heart
A musk rose-scented beauty which she does all she can to ignore
With eyes downcast, she knew that she was broken from the very start

◦•☽✶☾•◦

Starlight whispers lullabies to still her fearful heart
Her locks a weeping rose willow over a mystic lagoon
With eyes downcast, she knew that she was broken from the very start
We may not see but we sense her pain, the light of the very moon

◦•☽✶☾•◦
One of those days but what can you do?
It's strange how a piece of music can perfectly capture your feelings without words. Clair De Lune just suddenly played and I was just...surprised.
As if the universe knew how I was feeling. I always appreciated such beautiful piano pieces but this, in my current state of mind, made me love it's beauty all the more.

I just wrote this pantoum poem as it played...
I'm still extending my list so hopefully, I will start them up real soon too!
Thanks so much, everyone.
Please stay safe and well!
Be back soon!
Much love,
Lyn ***
Piano keys are like humans,
Both black and white
Alone as notes,
Just producing sounds
But together as chords,
They produce symphonies.
Every one of us has the potential to create harmony in their lives, but that often takes a great deal of collaboration and working together.

Individual sounds won't give you that pleasure and harmony that a musical chord can.

For a colourful life, we must appreciate all colours.
Carlo C Gomez Sep 15
The swing
The spinning top
The doll
Wooden horses
Battledore and shuttlecock
Trumpet and drum
Soap bubbles
**** in the corner
Blind man's buff
Leap-frog
Little husband, little wife
The ball

Please let me return
To my childhood ways
And the happy games
We played
Jeux d'enfants ("Children's Games") is a suite of twelve miniatures composed by Georges Bizet for piano four hands in 1871.

Inspired by M83's song:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=M5YoTHbdisc
I hear the piano playing softly
pulling me from these rutted plains
into a moist green meadow
a vision of a flowing brook down the hill
makes me believe the words of the Prophet:
“Your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.”
yes, I am old, but I see and feel the rising gentle treble notes
lighten my leaded limbs
awaken my spirit
and ****** me into the realms.
It is the touch and glide of the pianist’s fingers
across the ivory skin of the keys
that transports me
in the waning hours of this day.
How sweet it is!
I started out this day in the dark valley, but this is the way I end it. Joy!
Norman Crane Sep 2
From the eleventh floor
the world looks small
and possible

The cars
     black and white
     parked perpendicular
          to the curb
     parallel
          to each other
are keys
     ebony and ivory
    
I reach out
through the window
and play the street like a piano
Gabriel Aug 4
Arch your fingers, clasp your palm,

touch the keys as if pulling

at the heartstrings of a lover;

back in the looming financial crash of 2007

when a family bought a piano

and a new house,

and a young girl ached Chopin.

With your hand out of the window

and the car on the motorway,

talon hands, poised,

feel the air as a shotput;

smooth, round, permanent -
oxygen bubbles

puppeteering pale fingertips

until the window goes up

and the radio is heard again.

Speaking three languages,

la mort, la mort, la mort;

D – E – A – D 

the keys cannot spell ‘childhood’,

but her fingers reach

more than an octave now

(her thumb still ******).

Chopin welcomes her

to her final decomposition;

her piano, dusty

and blooming with flowers

through each key,

plays discords

that don’t quite make

a funeral march.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.
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