Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Robert G Page Aug 2013

The cool evening breeze filled with a scent of approaching rain.
Caught by playful window shears
as it passes through an open pane, to reach their  
length and breadth toward the waiting bed.

He was a lover of music and his woman,
a passionate man with a sensitive heart.
She was in love with the melodic way  
his gentle fingers moved with sensual touch
over her soft silk like skin of art.

He started gently around her ears softly prying
them open with the quiet richness of her melodies.
Each note of his gentle kisses leading her to a sensual abyss,
easing her down from the edge, controlling her descent, to her goal.
Down the swirling dark and light blends of the music rendered from her soul.

She was his instrument on which he placed
his soft loving fingers, moving them effortlessly,
caressing her most sensual delicate keys…Each body part
smoothly rubbed added richness to her sensual sound driven by lust
and loving trust.  

Her ******* he fondled, licking and kissing, squeezing and rubbing.
Silently giving thanks, to her creator for such an amazing instrument.
Both of her hands with long slender fingers tangled in the long dark locks
of his hair as she eases her maestro’s head up tighter against her soft
beautiful mounds.

The loving melody continues with his touch now joined with the sound
of raindrops splashing into uncovered metal buckets and cans. The drops
carried on the breeze through the playful dancing shears came through the other end as nothing more than refreshing cooling mist.

Her body was his loving piano, and as with the 88 keys of his magnificent
Baldwin, the sensual areas of her equally magnificent body, when properly stroked,  filled not  only the bedroom but the whole house with the most glorious ****** notes known to man.  

After a while the symphonic ****** builds as he masterfully impales her with his instrument of love coming into constant contact with the one special key of keys. Its special sound as his strokes came harder and faster brought the whole master piece to a beautiful melodic end as the two lovers bath in the rain’s gentle mist…
Evelyn May 2018
You have one headphone in the left,
the radio in the right
as a stranger drives measures in clefts of night.

Kiss him how your feet kiss sand or
a soloist breaks off from the band
until the pianist beckons him back,
tuning deft fingers to a single track.

Open your ears to sound’s wordless talk,
beats in a measure a half-step off.
Blue’s lips tactless, ******* you down,
Blue’s lips fastening ankles to ground.

Then sudden and brace;
a rock in the road,
an anchor thrown
as you're caught between verses and words you don’t know.

Then sudden, the break;
pianist's mistake.
Notes shift under toe as the ocean lets go.
Mos Jun 2018
The tangible entity of consciousness is fleeting
A elegant party but not quite extravagant
Clinking wine glasses echo through transparent walls
Twenty-two hundred lulls over the city like that of a shadow
This isn’t an ungodly hour nor is this a typical night
It starts when She enters in a red gown that elongates her figure
A pianist smirks in the corner — a grin that’s almost sinister
The clinking of wine glasses abruptly stops when its replacement of grim notes fills the glass house
The attendants still seem cheerful
(How peculiar?)
A stranger pulls her into a waltz but his eyes look hauntingly familiar
Unbenounced to her, He too dances with a stranger
Both on separate sides of the glass room
Both dancing with the unknown
Yet each pair seems to recognize some prominent feature
Nostalgic for what has never been
(How do you preserve a memory in reality?)
Through the glass house mirrors sit in obscure angles
One could see that within each reflection He and She were projected into the other room
Each glance towards the mirrors posed no questions
For both pairs seemed identical
Now their lives may have been content in accepting this dance with a “stranger” I suppose
But that was not the plan of this party
For guests grew tired of sipping on Beaujolais and listening to solem tunes
The pianist presented a different song, more lively yet equally eerie
Their feet paced with the new rhythm which called for a spin
(An act as dramatic as such was only proper for the scene)
With a grand gesture She turns, finally seeing the glass barriers
And for the first time that night He and She were face to face
A perfect dilemma to entertain an audience
In a frenzy She tried to speak
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
But each plea for affection deemed futile
For the grin on His face became that of the pianist
Her emotions were a downward spiral of gray shaded confusion
And with a sinister laugh He (or he) smashed the glass, shredding all source of reality
He was the hallucinogen and She was angry at him for making Her feel
And each guest cheered “bravo” demanding an encore
But this tragedy, dear friends, has come to the end
She’ll never know how the stars look where he is
(Is such a loss truly a loss?)
This poem is for two people
Kiz May 19
Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

Dang....the hour is up.
Wk kortas Jan 2017
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)


There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)


I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)


Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
With a tip of the cap (and a rather profuse apology, as well) to Ms. Dorothy Parker
Kevin Sep 2018
in the puddle beneath the pear tree
I watched the galaxy weave its web
and my fingers could tug it's strings,
like a pianist at the keys,
tugging at infinite light and sound
pulling me closer to this eternal truth.
guiding me through the endless paths
and showing me the difference

between those
and rabbit holes,
folding into folds,
unfolding into new,

you whispered in the night, "i'm here".
but I couldn't find you in the sunrise
or in the field I cleared for you.
To be near the arts
able to hear the pianist
the notes of the Quire
flow through the halls
creative works on the walls
a sorrowful peace
Deb Jones Oct 2017
You would think that new pain takes precedent over old pain

But the truth is that when new pain follows old pain, the weight of the whole tends to be a lot heavier than any individual wound.

A whole lifetime of accumulated pain.

If we have no coping mechanisms we just bear the weight.

The ever heavier weight.

Because let's be realistic, life is full of pain. And there is no one to turn to that doesn't have their own pain.

We can't say "Hey, do you mind holding this for a few hours? Or for a day? I'll pay you for babysitting it."

The truth is we don't want to give up the pain, to give it up means that we give up the immeasurable love we carry for the people we are mourning.

To give it up means that we never loved them enough. And we did. We do.

We love them so much we are willing to carry the pain for the rest of our lives. That is part of their legacy to us. The love, the memories.

After a while the pain is not so heart clenchingly hurtful.

We start to remember the laughter, the happy times. The loving times.

And we take those memories out and examine them. Smile and feel the lightness in our very soul.

We put the memories back and the heavy hurt doesn't seem so dark.

One of my my favorite quotes is  by Lewis Carroll
"I try to believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast"

That always seemed like a good attitude to me.

The way the world is these days, it’s almost incomprehensible how anyone could have a closed mind.

It seems like most every day there’s a story in the news about one of our certainties being turned on its ear.

Maybe that’s what it means to be human, forever questioning our certainties.

One of my certainties is I will someday smile and outright laugh at the memory of my mom.

She was a funny, outrageous woman that made me laugh daily.

One day she said something so shockingly funny I threw myself across her bed laughing and banged my head on her wall.

Even that made me laugh harder.

She was a treat to talk to. A great artist, pianist and writer.

When my niece Ashley died, her granddaughter, I came home and went straight to her room.

We didn't say a word. I cried with my head on her lap for more than 2 hours. While she made soothing noises and cried with me.

The night she died I looked into her eyes for hours. The fear. The panic. I talked her home through it all.

I smiled while I cried and I made sure she knew she was safe. She was going home to be with loved ones.

I asked my siblings to come around to my side of the bed so she could see them and they couldn't. They just couldn't.

So I talked her home alone while they listened and cried.

I made sure every time she focused on my face I had a smile for her.

I told her to go. I reassured her and at the end gave her massive doses of medicine so she wouldn't hurt.

And I smiled until my cheeks hurt. While I kept talking her home.

I didn't want strangers touching her so out of 7 sisters only my youngest helped me bath and dress her in her favorite clothes.

I washed her waist long hair myself and did it in the long side braid she favored. I put the light makeup she liked on her face. She looked beautiful.

She was wonderful. She was my anchor, my soulmate, my best friend. She was my mother.
I can't believe she is not upstairs in her room waiting for me right now. I will miss her everyday for the rest of my life.
This was written at the same time I wrote the poem "Dying" my 22 year old niece died just a handful of months before my mom did. Last April. I am still working my way through the grieving process. Writing about it makes me feel better. I can pour the pain into my words
Ivan Brooks Sr Nov 2018
Every man has a calling
And my nitch is writing.
Mama gave me life and my name,
But poetry completes me.

Bless your soul Queen,
For my path is green
And my deeds are pure,
I couldn't ask for more.

I'm not a president.
But my words are important.
I don't need bodyguards
Only some pens and pads.

I'm not an astronaut
But a poetic juggernaut.
No ,I'm not a pianist,
But I play the note of a realist.

I'm a wordsmith and sageist,
That's better than a freak or sadist.
Call me a vessel of wisdom
Or frown and rot in boredom.

I may not be a musician
I spin words like a magician.
I'm a deep thinker and poet,
A writer and future laureate.

Jah gave me a unique gift
I'll therefore use it to uplift.
With it I can write, motivate.
Inspire, impact and create.

No comment...I was in my element and wrote this in that special moment.
Kats Jan 27
imagination rules the inhabitable mind
eyes get covered from memories
and filled with dreams
rooms turn into theaters
with giant balconies gently hanging from the walls
through the dense fog, actors appear on stage
they run
romantically dancing they get in position
the Show is about to begin
scenes from the past
scenes from the future
and scenes that are not even meant to be true unravel under the bright orange lights
music is playing and talking has no meaning now
words are launched to the audience but no-one is able to notice
red dresses spin on the wooden floors
magically turning into roses
the pianist
the ancient translator of the spectacle, hypnotizes the listeners
they truly open themselves to him
to his melodic outcry
the night has no ending
no beginning
and words like happiness and love are now reinvented
an unbelievable parallel universe of laughter and joy is being born
no drugs
no alcohol needed
the mind itself is expanding like the universe does
the Show gives it energy
gives it meaning
every emotion, every word and every note can be found during the Show
the stage is on fire
pleasure both to the body and to the mind
viewers can not even comprehend the enlightenment that they are being exposed to
the place seems ready to explode
and just during that moment
a noise
a noise ruins everything
an unpleasant sound drags me
drags you
drags every single person out of the place
throws us violently out of the utopia we have built
the eyes are brought back to the sad reality
a voice sounds
"Are you listening to me??"

If you want to, then you will.

~ A fellow pianist

It was said in Russian, but I tried my best to translate it.
Mikaila Sep 2018
I could say
That without you in the world
Silence would fall on the whole planet
All at once
Like a blanket of snow
Like a curtain on a lit stage
And everyone would become a silent film-
Board meetings
Crowded trains
People standing puzzled,
Voices stolen by a universe
Holding its breath.
I could say that the color would leech from everything-
Traffic lights and flowering trees and oceans
Bland and gray and flat,
Husks of beauty.
I could say that all the strings on all the violins in every orchestra
Would snap at once
And hang limp
Like bits of litter caught on tree limbs.
I could say that
Every song would be wiped from every page
And every long fingered pianist
Would freeze at his work
Hands shaking
Suddenly unable to remember
What his own mind sounds like
And unable to cry out
In dismay.
I could say that the stars would slide like tears down the face of the sky,
That the old gods would turn in their graves,
That the roar of the world would come to a halt
So suddenly and so completely
That every person in it would stop and stare upward
A billion faces all lit with fear confusion and grief
A billion voices
Bitten off like unwary confessions.

I could say all of that,

But I won’t.

Because after all,
It would only feel that way
For those who knew you,
Wouldn’t it?

For everyone else, the sun would rise like always
The wind would whisper
Time would march on
As it always has.
Colors would remain firmly in place
Just as beautiful
As any other day.
Music would swell in subway cars and concert halls and little houses.
Children would laugh and shout in schoolyards
Deals would be struck, fortunes would be made
Vows would be said
And bows would be taken to thunderous applause.
Choirs would sing
And raucous men in bars would shout at tv screens.
People would swarm blithely through airports and streets and museums
Murmuring, laughing.

And somehow...
Somehow that is so much worse

Because none of them would know

That silence should have fallen

And didn’t.
Michael John Oct 2018
how many years since we
heard from joe
a curious combo combing

and happy..
some inspired bass
some real *******
sensitive lyrics..

he was 6 foot 6..
his piano composition
is further inspiration
i felt

jealous and sick..
stepping out
i glowed inside
and howled along..!

into the light
young old
tv gone

he made too
a song called cancer..
gives you cancer..

listen now..
never hear live
a lively rumbo
or something..

and don´ t played
that piano..
good on yer


not unlike
alladin sane
kind of
a bit

not so
less structured..

he rambles
like tottering
on a cliff

a bit more
there is a
lack of direction

and a child like
the genius
tired by genius..

the whole thing
lacking any kind
of melody
but quite melodic..

some of the single notes
might have been aliens..
and the pianist

was his first and only
cut..and saved the day
when we are
to plummet

into insanity..
there comes
the saxaphone
which purrs

and loves us
into breath..
and that first

astrix joe jackson
a real songwriter..
JP Dec 2018
about the structure of the brain
after reading
a thought
a pianist has brain in finger tip
a soccer player in legs
a driver in his hand
a boxer in his fist
an awareness
the brain is everywhere
Why I believed
it is in my head?
Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank.
Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress,
A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans,
Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness,
Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad.
I followed her to the bank, but once I got there,
The place but harbored still and humid air;
An uncomfortable silence was all I had.
Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare...
I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass,
And I hurried outside; somehow I thought
There was an exotic restaurant she sought,
And once an Indonesian one came into view,
I knew I would enter the restaurant too.
Yet once again, when I entered, confusion
Had conspired to make silence an intrusion...
Apparently, Rain had communed with air
Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere.

Sometime later I brushed with her again.
Though we didn't speak, something told me
She was off toward the train station
To acquire tourist information.
I wanted her, I wanted her by my side,
Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside,
Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach,
Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air,
Every nonchalant lift adding to my care...

I awoke to a charming morning stare...
It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird
Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound
As if to say I had been mad, absurd.
I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass;
I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves,
Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist,
That plays upon a keyboard of leaves.
What a silly boy I had been to let care
Conjure up restless imaginings,
When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there...
When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door, I carried a heavy head
Of drunkenness. Rebecca bought
Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed
And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam
Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...
This poem is included in my book "I Have Been Moved", which is available on Amazon for as little as 14 dollars (paperback).

— The End —