"tuxedo" poems
Home bound after work
near 12:30 am
just a few minutes from checking my email
then retiring
as us old folks like to call it
from the North side of route 7
at a slight angle
there and gone in half a second
was the biggest meteor I've ever seen
if that's what it was
so big that I slowed and listened for a boom
but nothing came
I have no idea how far it went before touching down
but this isn't about the meteor
this is about the fact that when I got home
and thought about who I would tell...
there was no one that came to mind
I've seen so much crazy **** in my life
that the stories have grown old
even the new ones
I breathed life into a dead woman one morning
then faced the fact that I couldn't save another
hit by a truck on my way home
just after midnight
on the day before the great Russian meteor
I saw 2 objects in the sky on fire
and not moving...
in broad daylight
I've been touched and spoken to
by spirits or ghosts or phantoms
take your pick
I saw 3000 people sacrificed in the name of what?
and as a child I witnessed a president murdered by those supposed to follow him
I've grown to see the young know nothing of that last President who actually had a vision and a spine
and when I quietly leave this life
there will be little to note...
a brief glance
of my obituary
by a few sad souls
I often think of a quote I heard as a young man
by a comedian; George Gobel
who was on the 'Tonight Show'
Dean Martin and Bob Hope were also on that show
and unknown to George, Dean was flipping his cigarette ashes
in George's drink as he was telling his humorous stories
this caused the laughs to come out of sequence...and finally a confused George said; 'Did you ever feel like the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?'
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
Make-ups
Break-ups
Dates
Make up
Limos
Hair
Hair Spray
Tuxedo
Dancing
Crowns
Gowns
Kings
Queens
Prince
Princesses
Fun
PARTAAAYYYY!!!!!!!
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
the bottle is
the
bottle
is
the bottle is empty
had its contents been precariously dealt with
or
drop by drop assimilated?
assimilated?by the cloths of
silk pashmina cashmere
or the blackness of a tuxedo
i might never
ever
know, my father forgets
to the left
to
the
left
to the left of the bottle
is another bottle
quite smaller.
it is filled with
pink liquid
half full--or half empty
barely used by its
current owner
it smells like apples
and by the bottles is
and
by
the
bottles
is
and by the bottles is a ring
with two keys
that open locks somewhere
of COURSE!
why, what else would you
use a key
for?
the darkest
alternative for a key's usage, though
is to
hurt
some
body
with
it
metal
grinding the
skin
and the bottles
and
the
bottles
and the bottles thrown
the former can shatter
the latter houses a liquid
but,
but,
but,
but,
why?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
Thick skin, big body and sharp teeth, they slay
These greedy animals hunt for their prey
Their goal is to get all what they want
In the darkness of the night they usually hunt
Crocodiles and snakes, they attack like storms
How big are those reptiles as compared to the worms?
Now modern predators are in tuxedo’s and suits
With shiny eyeglasses or well-polished boots
These greedy creatures scattered in this world
They always make the biggest stories ever told…
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Are you my penguin?
Yes. . . this may surely sound odd
But, the beauty of the basis of this question
Is true
You see, these simple little lovely tuxedos
They waddle around the forever winter
All by there lonesome
Until they spot another little tuxedo
Roaming the winter flakes
They fall in love
Rub their icy beaks
Together they are one
They waddle together now
Have little tuxedos of their own
Raise them, then grow old together
Never leaving one another's side
That is the love I feel
That is the curious little emotion I carry for you
I have penguin love for you my dear
I've known it a very long time now
So I ask you, my sweetheart
Are you my forevermore?
Here to stay until we are old and crazy?
Are you my true love?
Are you my penguin love?
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
I
I am often attracted to things unhinged. Not necessarily (traditionally) romantic, more akin to an unwillingness to ask permission, one who might say It was never your permission to begin with and not be angry or upset about having to say it. Few are so willing to evaluate situations without the overwhelming cloud of emotion. Judgment fully withheld, kind banter catching wind. A needed immediacy.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was aware of the past. He pretended to not care if you did not like his paintings. Part of him was upset some people did not understand. Basquiat strangled history down to basics: music, culture, society (not the same thing), generations of family after family. His point was not for you to obtain this. This was his conscience—tangible. Brain processing. Synthesizing. To him it was so simple. I refuse the word primal because it is misguided, it does not factor purity, clarity. Sugar Ray Robinson told Basquiat to stop painting the background. Tuxedo told Basquiat what words to place and where.
So much of my art is stripped and lucid and enacted with only me in mind.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
I wept as I walked down the aisle
My heart was throbbing in severe pain
A bouquet of roses in my shivering hands
I felt like a zombie in a wedding dress
My dad, dashing in tuxedo
Smiling proudly as he gave my hand
To this total stranger...
A wealthy entrepreneur ...
His type of son in law
Very little information that I knew about
Marriage was not something that i planned
Marriage was something that arranged in my culture
My So called Happiness was set before me
Just needed me to say I Do
Love marriage is something impossible
Falling in love?
Yet another taboo
I cried oh I cried
I wanted to see the world
I have so much to do
Places to visit
People to meet
Happiness is what I sought for
On my own
Yes the diamond ring
i was tempted to wear
Wasn't so sure should
I tie the knot.
Should i travel the universe
I hated what I did
But I was not regretting either
Sorry daddy
What a big disappointment
today...
Once again...
I had to be a runaway bride...
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.
Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.
The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.
Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.
Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.
'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.
'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.
And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.
So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:
'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.
'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.
That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.
'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.
'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'
And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.
As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
The professions of our leaders are paraded across longitudinal and latitudinal vistas. However, I have to ask: Whatever happened to the possession of that which is professed in our contemporary shell of delusion?
A princess may depart from her Celtic docks in order to sail back to her Anglican roots; and the fabric of high society may display an appealing veneer which covers explicit nakedness in the name of mass psychology.
So, my articulate propagate of conformity, I urge you to don the profound tuxedo at your avoidant desire. But please do not seek for me to enter into the denial of our core identity.
For those who are willing to rock this boat of ludicrous salesmanship, I raise my glass to testicular rectitude which transcends gender stereotypes.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
heatwave
night air barely sighs
heatwave
bodies lie far apart
on sweat damp sheets
heatwave
tuxedo boy sleeps
spread eagled, legs asprawl
on wet shower tiles
heatwave
the god child
twists and turns
in superman ****** under
mosquito-net blown by fans
heatwave
outside small things
bathe & scurry through waterpans
placed on fast dying grass
and larger things drink
gulping mouthfuls from the pond
heatwave
and we all await the breeze
and the small hours of the night
when the temperature drops
when the air cools enough
so as not to stifle breath,
anger minds, open lips
leaving hurt behind
heatwave
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
met a man once
and he took me to a steakhouse
the type where tuxedo men come back
with a twee bite-sized piece of meat on a plate
he ordered my steak for me
and though it glistened
the slab barely satisfied
the crack in my teeth
i was starving
and he kept talking about
business deals
and networking
to the type of cars that make him hard
which one of these thousand ******* forks
is best to stab?
making friends
with a bunch of pruned men
chatting business
he introduced me
she speaks Spanish
how exotic
raw and juicy
STEAK
sure does go well with potatoes
i started ordering loads of wine
when they all agreed that it was time
to make America great again
i downed even more down my throat
‘till I was seeing spuds in Versace
drinks for everyone!
we ordered like five bottles
so drunk
that I started mooing
but if this gasbag ever hopes to get laid
he’ll need to go to the slaughterhouse for that
meanwhile, let the bartender do the milking
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt
You called me "gorgeous,"
"Gorgeous?" I said, "that's not my name," I said,
As my cherry red tongue dropped my lollipop
Straight on the ground,
***** red sugar slivers gorging on my
Blood vessels pumping into my heart -
A big metal spoon banging on a cast iron skillet.
Skillful, you are with your
Cinnamon heart smile
Burning my taste buds and
Hugging my curves with every -
Gorgeous.
I dreamt of you
Running your finger like a wet paintbrush on my
Obscenely white canvas
Soaking up my stereotypically common insecurities and
Gently placing them in your pocket,
"I'll take those, gorgeous,"
And then you color me with purples and reds,
Red,
Like Red Delicious waiting
For the bite, like my neck,
Waits for your teeth, maybe
I'll just wake up and keep dreaming,
To see you,
Fiddling with a razor in one pocket,
A cloudy crystal in the other,
Mediating the argument of
Who gets to protect you -
Who gets to lick the salt from your cheeks
After backyard creeks race to your lips
The space between our tongues so small,
Yet it weighs on me like
A sixteen hour car trip with your baby cousin,
Torture.
Like blue eyes shaded by glasses,
Hiding behind fallen heads.
I woke up just to remember
That your eyes are the only shapes I draw in the dark.
Begging for sleep to bring me back
To watch you stare at the dirt snuggled into your
Weather cracked boots
Your fingers tugging at the chain that rests on your chest,
Keeping my attention,
On the heavy black coat I'll be wearing 'til
Summer, an extra layer of skin,
Keeping me from gorgeous,
Let me drop it like an old tissue in the cold,
Let me lose it like I've been sick for weeks on you
And I'm shedding my skin like it's time to start new,
There you go,
Wearing your silence like a tuxedo,
**** - always ****
And you're breathin' fractions of facts in my ear,
Seducing it's drum like a late night jazz club and
It's your first time on stage,
Gorgeous.
Let my stomach politely introduce itself to my throat,
Pleading with my temple to hold on to that bead of sweat that
Reluctantly drips down,
Gorgeous.
Down,
Like the tips of your lashes meeting my bellybutton,
Wet lips tracing my skin with "gorgeous,"
In your black coffee voice,
Gorgeous.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
I get home, to a hand crafted
note, one you wrote, with
the old calligraphy pen, that
sits at grandfathers writing desk.
You even used the envelope,
sealed by candle wax, stamped
a red wax, my initial, touching,
folded paper, a kiss of brass.
The art of, manliness, unforgotten
left on the pillow, of this grandiose
four poster bed, mahogany homemade,
the resting place, for weekend affairs.
You refuse to kiss, ruby covered lips,
as I remember the calling card, you
used as a formal introduction, perfectly
groomed, you entered my life, unregrettably.
You, a man learned from his, grandfather
his own father passing away, whilst
away at sea, that cold and distant war,
my tears fell as you pursued his path.
You looked so debonair, a
tuxedo, measured to fit, all alignments
and as I stare at you, eyes connecting
all I wish for, are sweet kisses.
I want your arms around me,
softly whispering, of how you
will gently caress, each
and every curve, kissing my thigh.
The letter, quite simply,
hand typed, reads;
Florence Rose, will you do me the honor of marrying me?
I flush my arms around your neck,
tears fall, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.
He embraces me, kisses those lips,
lifts me to the bed,
********** me for minutes
moments and hours,
he makes love to me,
and I know, I know he,
is the only man I will ever need,
or even know.
© Sia Jane
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Figures Dance Across My Memory,
In An Erie Ballroom,
Lit Only By The Light Of Vanilla Scented Candles,
The Light Of The Moon And Stars,
Glaring Through Transparent Windows,
Congregate In Creamy Daffodil Colored Flames,
Every Women I've Cried Over,
In Extravagant Ball Gowns,
Stitched With The Misery They Brought Upon Me,
With Them,
Every Man Which I Have Bawled Over,
Wears A Tuxedo,
With A Withered Rose In Their Pocket,
To Symbolize My Pain,
And A Tie Laced With My Own Tears,
The Ballroom Of Horror Caters,
The Party On The Top Floor Too,
Everyone Who Has Made Me Smile,
Dances Erratically,
Singing Along And Laughing,
Though The Demons Beneath Their Feet Houses,
Barbaric--Criminals--Found Guilty Of Heartbreak,
And As They Slow Dance To Rhythmic Beating,
Of A Broken Heart--That May Never Mend,
Something That Rips The Gauze Wrap,
From My Wounds,
They Smile,
As They Masquerade In My Ballroom Of Horror
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:59 AM UTC
Why oh why do I love pie?
The ABCs of it and
the LMNO-Pie of it
A Apple Pie
B Boston cream Pie
C Cherry Pie
D Dutch Apple Pie
E Equation Pie 3.14
F Fruit Pie
G Grandma's Gooseberry Pie
H Humble Pie
I Ice Cream Pie
J Jell-O Pudding Pie
K Kidney Pie
L Lemon Meringue Pie
M Moon Pie
N Nutty Pecan Pie
O Oreo Cookie Crust Pie
P Pud'nin Pie
Q Quick Set Frozen Cream Pie
R Rhubarb Pie
S Sweet Tater Pie
T Tuxedo Pie
U Upside Down Pineapple Pie
V Velvet Truffle Pie
W Whip Cream Pie
X PIE IN THE FACE
Y Yummy Pie
Z Zesty Lemon/Lime Pie
Now you have the XYZ of it
and the PIE of it
Why oh why do you love Pie?
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
the other night,
i had a dream;
usually,
i don’t remember
my dreams—
those unconscious
musings
of my mind—
but this night
was different;
maybe it had
something to do
with the fact
that i had fallen
in the shower
half an hour
before laying it
down on the
pillow...
...a trickle of
blood running
down my forehead,
transforming quite
alarmingly into
a babbling brook
consisting entirely
of chocolate milk;
my raft bobbed
up and down,
the demon who
haunts my nightmares
now clad in a
tuxedo—
a nice change
from the bright
pink trench coat
he usually wears...
...the demon’s
strong hands
propel the
craft forward
with a rather
Huckleberry Finn-like
affectation;
i turn my
attention from
my oldest friend
to the shore,
sparkling with
broken glass,
thumbtacks,
and mathematical
equations;
there,
i glimpse my classmates
doing burpees...
...suddenly,
a car crash
occurs;
the chocolate milk
becomes a very
narrow,
winding road,
the end of which
is obscured by
an angsty cloud
of disappointment;
the elevator
plummets horizontally toward
the 3rd sub-basement
of the shower;
my friend in
the tuxedo offers me
a steaming
cup of hot chocolate...
...which burned
my tongue,
causing me to cackle
wildly
and toss the
mug into the
abyss;
**** you cup!”
i scream,
utilizing my
full lung capacity
as i begin to
fall again,
down,
down,
down;
and then i was awake,
sweating, bleeding;
i may have a concussion...
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
I'm tired of not having a date
to take me out on a Saturday night
When nobody calls me and its getting late
Its such a pitiful sight
So I've decided to put on my wizard hat on
then go down to the basement below
and when my family have all gone
I'll build my very own boyfriend and nobody would know
He'd have eyes so dark and dreamy
he'd have arms that'd hug me tight
and when he'd turn his face to see me
his face would shine real bright
In a huge *** I stirred the magic brew
and I started dreaming of my lover boy
dreaming of all the lovey-dovey things he'd do
I started to bubble up with joy
I threw in hairspray for wonderful hair
and a Jon Bon Jovi CD for a heavenly voice
For huggability I also threw in my teddy bear
along with all my other stuffed toys
I added cologne and expensive perfume
so he'd always smell like a cool breeze in spring
My boyfriend would be nearly perfect I assume
and he'd be made up of all sorts of wonderful things
I threw in a black tuxedo and dancing shoes
so he'd be classy and gentlemanly
He'd be the perfect boy I would choose
to start my perfect family
As I was done with my recipe
I chanted my magic spell
smoke and fumes rose up endlessly
My hardwork was complete I could tell
Out popped out this boy wonder
who looked dreamy as could be
My knees went weak and my heart spat thunder
as I giggled nervously
We went on our first date
but It was a disaster straight from hell
This monster I decided to create
made me want to take back that awful spell
Me and wonderboy did not work
and we broke up instantly
with no love he turned out to be a ****
completely devoid of chivalry
The good things in a man
are not always the things that show
you see you must understand
True Love isn't what you think you already know
The things that send you head over heels
may not be the things that truly last
because the boy wearing expensive perfume
may turn out to be just another *******
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
best way
to describe him
charlie chaplin
wearing stan laurel's
black and white suit.
black hat, white gloves
funny walk..
does not say much
but forever making us laugh
he is just not sure,
why that tail thing
follows him everywhere...
loves the blucat...
the blucat tolerates him
but is warming by the hour
he is tod's new cat...
the blucat....gus is
geting on and prefers
to sleep...
timothy tuxedo
(he was going to be captain wrinkly drawers....but sanity
prevailed...can you imagine
standing at the the back door
and calling that cat..)
...plays
until he drops...
this will be a good thing
once tuxedo boy stops living
in the bottom of the shower...
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
"unconditional love dinner-dance"
so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance
laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...
*what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?
these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next
love
am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction
dinner
she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us
dance
she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself
she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note
I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of
unconditional love dinner dance*
I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
A 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera
A mixtape
Valentines Day
A tuxedo
A seafoam green dress
Prom night
A starlit road
A taste of your lips
Spring
A weeping embrace
A slamming door
Summer
An empty bedroom
A bottle of gin
Autumn
A silent girl
A disturbed boy
Winter
"I don't love you like I did yesterday"
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
It's Sunday
The Mexicans are all doing their laundry
Little girls with shiny bows, sweatpants and sequined tops
Happy smiling faces
Lead the brigade
Mothers follow
Shopping carts on the brink of exploding
The wheels about to blow
Tuxedo shirts, soccer uniforms with the words ***** PAN monogrammed on the front, mismatched socks, and pajamas with feet
Colors
A mess
Cheap laundry detergent stuck on top
I rush down to the laundry
They always take the best machines
I find my place
Throw my little load in
One person does not have that much
I never realized how alone I was
Until that moment
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
She mirrored the shape of a psychotic ******
Tattooed by hickeys and bruises
Written upon the pages of her *******
In lieu of her nightly pearl tuxedo
The teeth protruding from her ******
Began hissing and spitting at me
The war was far from over
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
sneaking in was easy
seeing you was the hard part
I saw her standing there, in her white marshmallow dress
then you beside her in your tuxedo, looking as if you've seen a ghost
the preacher began to speak
my hands began to shake
"speak now, or forever hold your peace"
either way, this would not be peaceful
I showed myself,
wearing that black dress you knew so well
proclaiming loudly "I do!"
as your eyes found mine
they silently screamed
"I do too."
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 4:48 PM UTC
Behind a person's success is a sacrifice;
Would you love to know the tale behind?
Actors and actresses preparing their act,
But behind the curtains there's a hidden fact.
Heels and shoes are filled with shards of glass;
Behind dress and tuxedo's there's a hidden blast
— Withal on the lights, they genuinely smile.
Let's move on and see the richest person alive:
They lurk abaft the gallanting suits and tie;
No day their feet cannot step on bars of silvers and gold,
Constantly crediting the humanity's sliver of hope
— Supported by government for the economy's growth.
Do you know someone born to be Einstein's child?
—A person whose thought process is unbelievably wide,
“What are emotions?” They frequently asked;
“Are those things related to a logical fact?”
Feelings are hindrance towards a brighter side.
We all know the people whom we proclaimed as leaders—
Behind the tall, wide walls they silently titters:
“Citizens are corrupted with money and blind rights;
This nation will never survive in a war nor in childish fights.”
Some politicians bought their roles, drinking leisure on their seats.
And there's someone like me— a bit higher, on the top—
Words are magical, making an astonishing plot;
Thy pen bleeds thread, weaving a wondrous craft—
Who knows they withhold theirs and other people's life art,
They'll keep going as long as the threadmill continues to spin.
Their tales are narrated a bit later, a bit little;
But that was a telltale with lots of missing details,
Are you willing to share the secrets found in the middle?
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
I have dreamt this dream for several nights now. It started off in colour; blues, greens, whites and yellows and with only the sound of beautiful piano music and the barest of floors. Each night the vision grew in detail but faded in colour, until now it is in black, white and gray with the actual colour only implied by my memory of it.
The scene is part of a room, a corner, in a very large and majestic house. The floor is hardwood with no carpet. The walls are a very light, warm white with somewhat high ceilings. I am standing (you cannot see me) looking towards the corner of the room where there are French doors. The door trim is black. The doors are open. It is night and the moonlight is streaming in the doors and in a window, off slightly to the left. Chiffon curtains frame the doorway and blow in the slight, cool, night breeze. It is a warm summer’s night and the fresh air is scented with an ocean fragrance.
To my left, just barely in the picture, is a glossy, black baby grand piano. The ebony of the piano is a sharp contrast to the soft white of the sheer curtains as the breeze wafts them towards the heavenly tones. The music coming from the piano is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. The notes reach into my chest and engulf my heart. The pianist cannot be seen. He is just out of the frame of my mind’s eye. My heart tells me it is he.
I awaken from my dream and lie there, still, with my eyes closed. Not wanting to lose the tranquility, I re-feel the dream again and again. In the foggy abyss between dreamland and being fully awake, I imagine him sitting at the piano. His hair falls in loose curls as he is slightly bent over the keys. His fingers fly over the ivory as he plays with passion and heart. His love of the music is evident.
He is wearing a crisp, white tuxedo shirt and black morning suit with the tails falling over the back of the piano bench. He has not yet adorned the formal tie needed to complete the ensemble. Or maybe he has already removed it.
This is the artist’s private time for peace and composure. As he closes the piece of music, he raises his face to the moonlight. His moist eyes glisten in the silver glow. His face is relaxed and calm. As he slowly closes his eyes, a soft, contented smile graces his lips and his body sighs. He has found the completion he seeks, in his music.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC