#pianist
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
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 7:20 PM UTC
Kyra is a painter, but she's colorblind.
She makes someone else's world colorful but hers is grey.
Whenever she draws in the middle of spring afternoon, she tends to whispers to the singing bird on her shoulder.
"For whom I draw still hasn't been decided, and I wish to meet my muse soon after the season's end."
Two days after spring.
She's being asked to attend her friend's rehearsal.
A pair of her brown eyes is glued to the pianist as his melody hits her right. His fingers gracefully dance in tuts, faster than anyone's breathe, but not so fast compared to Kyra's hand sketching him.
"I find my muse." She whispers in happiness. Gaze falls to the quick sketch on her hand.
She asks her friend about his name, eyes sparkles with love, so pure, so honest.
"His name is Will. He's special like you."
Her brows furrow in confusion as she skips a heartbeat.
"Special? Like me?"
"He's a pianist but he's deaf."
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
I've been pressing
The sustain pedal
To let the sound of us
Stay longer.
I didn't take note
That no matter how long
I held on to the right keys,
Or how perfect I read
The entire score,
Or how hard I stepped
On that pedal,
No sound emerged.
The piano wasn't just broken:
You weren't playing anymore.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
Long fingers, strong
as those of a pianist, maestro
entrancing as he strikes ivory
keys unleashing,
hypnotising notes gently
opening with an adagio,
softly incalzando to an allegro
keeping tempo, beating rhythm
to intimacy only awaiting,
reverberation.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
I slam the keys and shiver still,
They make me shake and break,
These keys they don't just make a sound,
It's memories they make.
Yet once a while I'll sit upright,
And play the keys so slow,
But this time there aren't memories,
It's just a concert show.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
Jamming her fingers into the keyboard,
You would have thought that it was elastic -
You would have thought she was digging into her soul,
Searching for something stronger than this
Broken melody.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
He waited for the bride
The bride in her holy divinity of love
The groom with his trembling heart
And the pianist with her shaking hands
Groom, blue eyed
Pianist, hazel eyed
Bride, grey eyed
Oh, how did the oceans and the soils of the earth met
The man said his vow to the bride with no divinity
For he loved truly a different lady
For his mademoiselle was the pianist
The pianist in her red dress
He truly loved the pianist
That he gave the best part of the church hers only
That the arts of the church's saints
Reflected on her skin as she played
But it was not right he knew
Oh, how torn and tortured he was
Fate and Destiny may will hinder their love
But the heart is and will always be true
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
She ran
She ran towards the uncompleted music room
She stood at the corner with her red dress
The corner where the tall windows were
The corner where the piano was
With a touch, she played her heart
Her heart of cries
The music room was complete with her tears
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
He played me piano
He played me a song
He played me a note
Quite a bit wrong
He played me here
He played me there
He played my body
Like notes everywhere
I can't look at a piano
Without dying inside
You did things to me
I have to hide
He played me piano
He played me a game
He played my heart
Oh what a shame
He played me here
He played me there
He played me good
Then pulled my hair
I can't look at a piano
Without crying inside
I was falling in love
I had to hide
He played me piano
He played me a song
We played an affair
Oh so very wrong
He played me here
He played me there
We played piano
Everywhere
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
and her piano fingers fluttered
by and down the keys, like song-note leaves
on an indifferent autumn breeze, making
birds out of the music trembling
within the ivory beast before her;
she was a paper doll and it was raining,
she was moving like possession
but she was her own exorcist
and the demons were beautiful.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Hope!
In the far off land of Dae-han-min-guk, on a brand new day.
An angel's fingers dance and prance on the ivories.,
So confident the way she plays.
Like magic! Sending the gift of music to me flying though time and space.,
The music flowed out of the piano like birds singing good morning new day,
Amazingly!
Thousands of piano notes,
Filled with elegance and charm travel to my ears.,
This angel sent to me a gift of hope today.,
I have never heard or seen such a wondrous thing,
I must be traveling through a beautiful dream...
© 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Fingers so beautiful and precious.
They are priceless!
Worth more than diamonds and gold.
Fingers float above a river of piano keys,
Fingers play music that sounds sweeter than bird's song.
Fingers so beautiful and precious.
They are priceless!
God sends His glory of song to these fingers.
Fingers play with much love and devotion for God,
Fingers battle summer's Cicada hum and afternoon fatigue.
Fingers so beautiful and precious.
They are priceless!
Worth more than diamonds and gold.
Fingers of mystery; which bring light, hope and peace to all.
Fingers accept the challenge of writing new song.
Fingers so beautiful and precious.
They are priceless!
Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC