I have these big piano-playing hands. I feel like I should be picking potatoes.
quote by Sandra Bullock
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For All Pianos All Around The World
pi
piano
piano use
piano key
piano roll
piano wire
piano note
pianoforte
piano store
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piano effect
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piano string
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piano maker
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piano action
piano player
piano lesson
piano design
piano course
piano soloist
piano tuning
piano recital
piano replica
piano sonata
piano rhythm
piano sample
piano teacher
piano program
piano concerto
piano repertoire
piano brand name
anno piano twenty twelve
poem by Nicolas Grenier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Picking Up The Pieces
Take cover, young lovers,
fall apart at the seams
It's stainless steel, that's how I feel,
you're the girl of my dreams
Well I tried to call you on the phone,
your dad said that you weren't at home
But we are, picking up the pieces of our lovin'
over and over again
Picking up the pieces let's do it again
We're picking up the pieces,
picking up the pieces of our love
Well, I need your lovin'
to show me what I am
And I want your body
to make me feel like a man
You know that I'm down on my knees,
you know it's you that I want to please, please
Picking up the pieces of our lovin'
over and over again
Picking up the pieces let's do it again
We're picking up the pieces,
picking up the pieces of our love
song performed by by Quiet Riot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My hands look terrible but I can do anything I want to do, so, you know, I just think I'm playing all around with more good taste and not dashing up and down the piano.
quote by Marian McPartland
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pianists Heaven
A piano in the background
playing
A pianist in his heaven
in which I shall never step foot
I know no feeling of heaven
nor of a kingdom to believe in
This piano shall be forgotten
but its player will not
He will play his way to his heaven
and shall not be forgotten
nor shall I forget him
nor shall his piano
poem by Andrew Westermann
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I started studying music at the age of five and a half. My older sister was taking piano lessons. When her teacher left our apartment, I would get up on the piano bench and start picking out the notes that were part of my sister's lessons.
quote by Marvin Hamlisch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm quite proud of my piano playing. Robin's never played a note on the piano at our recording sessions. I just wish I could be appreciated musically now.
quote by Maurice Gibb
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Through Paris 1970
As you rode through Paris
in the packed coach
the radio played
Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5
and Mamie
sat beside you
her head to one side
sleeping
her mouth open
like some fish
out of water
her hands tucked
between her thighs
her blue skirt
riding high
and the slow movement
of the Beethoven piece
began
the piano playing softy
as the bright lights
of Paris
lit up
the dull space
inside the coach
and you closed your eyes
laying a hand
surreptiously
over hers
hearing the piano
and orchestra
as if in a dream
and Mamie
never minded
your hand
on hers
or so you thought then
and as now
it would seem.
poem by Terry Collett
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Picking It Up
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up...
Like that does not ensure,
Self assurance to occur.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up...
Like that does not ensure,
Self assurance to occur.
It is a strategy that one should seek.
With satisfaction first examined.
To make sure that one increases harmony!
With a proactive way,
Of life to live.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
It is the heat that one releases.
When nothing satisfies to analyzing eyes...
Only seeing with a vision that's fixed.
As if in a tunnel,
To rip through quick.
It's not a riddle when one plays it second fiddle,
Oh...
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
With proactive actions to prevent blurs.
And...
Don't be vague!
Proactive actions do prevent blurs.
Don't be vague.
Proactive actions do prevent,
The making of excuses.
Proactive actions do prevent blurs.
Don't be vague.
Proactive actions do prevent,
The making of excuses.
Proactive actions do prevent blurs.
Don't be vague.
Proactive actions do prevent,
The making of excuses.
Oh...
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
From the middle can be critical.
Picking it up.
Picking it up.
Picking it up,
One should think of self assurance that endures.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I bought a piano once because I had the dream of playing As Time Goes By as some girl's leaning on it drinking a martini. Great image. But none of it worked out. I can't even play Chopsticks. But I've got a nice piano at my house!
quote by George Clooney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wanted to play piano in restaurants in the south of France. I went there on holiday once and I saw this guy playing in an old tuxedo. He was all disheveled, with a whisky glass on the piano. I thought that was the coolest thing. So what's happened to me with 'Twilight' isn't really what I'd planned.
quote by Robert Pattinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hot Potatoes
My baby woke me up this mornin
She said get down that labour exchange,
And if you dont come home with a job son,
Youll get no dinner to-day.
You gotta secure me a weekly workin wage.
Youll get no more fancy cookin,
Youll get no more apple pie,
Youll just get those plain hot potatoes
To satisfy your appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin every single day.
I said I dont need your fancy cooking,
I like the simple things in life,
Just give me those plain hot potatoes
And Ill be well satisfied,
Theyll satisfy my appetite.
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, yeh,
I want your lovin 60 minutes an hour,
I want your lovin 24 hours a day,
I want your lovin 7 days a week.
Yeh, yeh, oh yeh.
I want your love, I need your love,
But all I get is hot potatoes
When I come home late at night
To satisfy my appetite.
Dont give me no more potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes,
I want your lovin every single day.
I want your lovin
La la la la la la potatoes,
Boiled, french fried, any old way that you wanna decide.
Hot potatoes, hot potatoes, yeh.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The 'Potato' Poem
I love potatoes chopped up into chunky chips.
I love spicy potato wedges, served up with dips.
I love potato slices which have been fried in a pan:
Of sautéed potatoes, I am the world's biggest fan.
I love potatoes which have been pummelled and bashed
With butter and milk to make a real light, fluffy mash.
Jacket potatoes, I find a bit dry, but with a nice filling
Such as chilli, to give them a try, I am more willing.
With breakfast, I love hash browns or potato cakes,
And I love potatoes mixed up with leeks in a bake.
Crispy, golden potatoes, served up with Sunday roast
Are among the kinds of potato which I love the most.
Mixed in soups and casseroles, I love potatoes diced.
On top on minced beef hotpot, I love potatoes sliced.
Fluffy potato stuffed inside a crispy potato croquette
Is also rather nice, and, for me, it is another safe bet.
I love potatoes cut into crisps: the slices, wafer thin,
And, as a starter, I simply love loaded potato skins:
I do adore a delicious dish of Bombay potato curry:
For me, it is a taste which I won't forget in a hurry.
I like potatoes diced up with creamy mayonnaise,
Served up with salad on really hot summer days.
But I don't like potatoes which have been boiled:
From potatoes, cooked this way, in horror, I recoil.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Picking Teachers For Their Leader
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
My steps cease to seek a quickened pace.
There is no wish for leaving.
I am told in my mind I should stay.
Soft voices dance within rainbowed light!
Sparkling to convince...
I should pray with faith.
And they would make my life right!
Picking teachers for their Leader.
For the One never shown.
The One who through scriptures...
Repeated to make appear,
But left still for them to go unknown.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
How they do it like it's done...
When they come,
Nobody knows.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
They say He's number One.
Like none other like He,
Upon me with gifts bestowed!
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
As God demands.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
As God Commands.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
And I understand...
Something that I give,
Must be done with giving hands.
And instantly I'm comprehending...
My relationship with my fellowman.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader!
Strangers!
Come before the darkness of night,
Crawls.
As twilight escorts the rising moon!
Strangers...
Known in dreams.
Whisper of their presence unseen.
But felt...
By a familiar comfort embraced.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Their picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader
Picking teachers for their Leader.
Picking teachers for their Leader!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hands Love
She and he
Sitting on the
Train...
Booth hands
Are catching
The fingers
Are playing
Pulling and bowling
Pushing with catch
With playing...
Body's are
Not for tuch...
No for kisses...
But 's
The hands are
Playing beautyfully
With the love...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Work Dignity
Hands!
I see many hands
Watching fingers
Graciously playing
piano flute or harps
Writing molding painting
sounds and colors
to brighten and lighten
every heart
Those arts are
to become a special present
for those similar fingers
similar hands of our parents
grandparents
or grandgrands..
hands taking so much pride
in building, feeding, cleaning,
carrying in any way they could
for those inspired ones..
for our earth..
Those working hands
the finest souls
Could never scream out their
happiness or pain
because the lack of time
to even catch a breathe
But they too
expressed themselves
and done their best, oh yes
through work
own love and kindness
never stoped to spread.
Truth:
The Hard Workers!
Are Masters of the World!
Let's recognise
and value them
at Real price.
poem by Elena Sandu
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about the ash from Yuri N., she writes it
I once knew
a lady at our church
who played the piano -
Her name was Naomi...
she was quiet,
maybe insignificant...
but I knew her
(only from church) ...
when I heard one Sunday
that she had died
and had been buried
without me knowing,
I grieved for days....
that was 8 years ago...
I still sometimes
think of her,
thinking that,
in some way
she enriched my life -
I cannot remember
her piano-playing,
but I still grieve
nevertheless....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Autumn Years
Picking up the pieces of my life
I wonder why the hell I ever came here
A man without a future left to face
And nothing but a memory to embrace
Holding on to threads of sanity
Imagining the roads I could have taken
It fills me with a deepening sense of shame
And outside I can hear the pouring rain
There is a place
Where in my mind I escape
And there I understand the way I feel
And deep in this world of make-believe
I will spend my autumn years with you
Sitting in this grey and sunless world
I try to come to terms with guilty feelings
A man about to pay the final price
And nothing but his breath to sacrifice
Therell be a time
When Ill be gone from your mind
A fading ghost that soon will disappear
And deep in my would of endless pain
I must face my autumn years
Im picking up the pieces, Im picking up the pieces
Im picking up the pieces, Im picking up the pieces
Picking up the pieces of my life
song performed by by Johnny Hates Jazz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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91
about the ash from Yuri N., she writes it
I once knew
a lady at our church
who played the piano -
Her name was Naomi...
she was quiet,
maybe insignificant...
but I knew her
(only from church) ...
when I heard one Sunday
that she had died
and had been buried
without me knowing,
I grieved for days....
that was 8 years ago...
I still sometimes
think of her,
thinking that,
in some way
she enriched my life -
I cannot remember
her piano-playing,
but I still grieve
nevertheless....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poetry At Night Time And Beethoven's Piano Music
this is like playing the piano pieces
at night when everyone in the neighborhood is already sleeping,
they wonder if there is a ghost in this house
someone that cannot accept death someone that claims
an unfinished business
still roaming in limbo and plays the piano at night
they are all disturbed and will close their windows earlier
turn off the lights and retreat inside their thick blankets
the piano is heard and it is playing some pieces of Beethoven
the story of his death...
it is not the same with your poetry
all night long, you write, and there is no stopping and the neighbors think
that everything is all right
that the lights are on because there is a baby in the house
it is you that sob silently inside the limbo of your dreams
that refuse to die
roaming the streets at night
breathing the cold in the darkness
the following morning, nothing is changed
the neighbors as usual do their normal activities
the street is heavy with traffic
people are busy chasing the hours
and there is no stopping anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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