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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
with a ringing sense of familiarity
much reminiscent of the people who gather here every Sunday
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
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.
Erin Dec 2021
Listen to the sound
ripples beating like my soul
letting myself flow
Quietly by Kristoffer wallin
LC Oct 2021
brow creases lightly
piano sings a soothing song -
fingers in their turf.
mae Sep 2021
I write music.
I write music and I sing,
I sing a lot.
I play the piano,
I play piano and I write music and I sing.
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