The Grand Piano
The grand piano stood in the corner
no longer played anymore.
Once it stood under the spotlights
in crowded concert halls.
Famous musicians from around the world
sat and played concertos
and solo arias with soft melodic tones.
Each note graced lovely
from eagerly expectant ears.
Now the crowds have disappeared,
loving fingers no longer graced
its black and white keys.
The grand piano just stands alone
locked with memories
of the great old days.
25 October 2008
poem by David Harris
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For All Pianos All Around The World
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piano teacher
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piano repertoire
piano brand name
anno piano twenty twelve
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Duet with a Peony
A dark red peony
Darker red than
The crown of a rooster
Swollen with pride
Stood on the grand piano
The petals fall
On the black and white ivories
I hear a quiet pianissimo tone
A haunting sense of emptiness
Soft and mysterious
Constant change of mood
The last piece of satin red petal
With hint of jazz
Morph into a smooth abscission
Like a saxophonist flirting the soft piano
I close my eyes
Red petals bursting up the piano keys
Like fireworks, a fleeting dream
Dazzling array of pianistic explosions
And me, duet with a dark red peony
The Grand Piano
In the centre of four white corners
He stood proudly dressed in black upright
Keys in minors and sharps
Shining in mahogany in the light
He spoke with golden tones
With definition and authority
He was sort after
By the minority and majority
So many desired
To play his keys
Producing melodies with chords
But very few could afford
His price
It was worth it
It was nice
He was the grand piano
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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I Love A Piano
[1st verse:]
As a child I went wild when a band played
How I ran to the man when his hand swayed
Clarinets were my pets, and a slide trombone I thought was simply
Divine
But today when they play I could hiss them
Evry bar is a jar to my system
But theres one musical instrument that I call mine
[chorus:]
I love a piano, I love a piano
I love to hear somebody play
Upon a piano, a grand piano
It simply carries me away
I know a fine way to treat a steinway
I love to run my fingers oer the keys, the ivories
And with the pedal I love to meddle
When padarewski comes this way
Im so delighted if Im invited
To hear that long haired genius play
So you can keep your fiddle and your bow
Give me a p-i-a-n-o, oh, oh
I love to stop right beside an upright
Or a high toned baby grand
[2nd verse:]
When a green tetrazine starts to warble
I grow cold as an old piece of marble
I allude to the crude little party singer who dont know when to pause
At her best I detest the soprano
But I run to the one at the piano
I always love the accompniment and thats because
song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Failing Lonely Music
Thoughts that take me back, a texture, in perfect tune with every note
A grand piano so new, the keys ivory white, flawless with many a devote
Beauteous to life to play a melody designed, lively and sweet to many ears
The musical rhythm in harmony, bringing a serenity to the atmosphere.
Thumping the many hours, minutes, that so majestically then displayed.
Seen now with lines drawn around the face, many a hardships detailed.
Gone with the years, now wasted, distorted, dumb and left in sheer daze
Alone with the four walls in a corner, a laptop, begins a new phase
The silvery streaks shining through the once so ebony black hair
The touch of that mastery hand slips away with lesser love and care
the joyous glow, the musical softness, now faces just an empty smile
A burden hard to bear, and no longer a road that seems worthwhile
Like the dusty old piano abandoned and brings no comfort to the air
Withering hands, elegance shrinks, a coldness, with feelings, despair? ?
The worthy of a soul with the creeping of old age, the body a creaking
Concern cease, just memories of days, once kept a world a glowing! ! !
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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Piano {Klavier}
They say to me
Open this door
curiosity screams
Whatever could it be
Back behind that door
A piano
The keys are all dusty
The strings are all untuned
Back behind that door
At the piano
But she plays no more
It so long ago
On the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
She said to me too
That I'll stay with you
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
I poured her blood
On the fire of my rage
I locked up her shrine
They questioned in time
At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
I stand by her
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
They opened up the door
And how they cried
I heard her mother plea
her father struck out at me
They tore her from her chair
No one believed me there
I was so insane
With the strech and the pain
At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
She's who I hear
As I began to play
I took her breath away
song performed by by Rammstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rose lies on the piano keys....
Rose lies on the piano keys.
It still hears the sounds of music.
Hopelessly dump it lies,
Echoes of love songs arise.
Glowing petals fade by the past shade,
With the yesterday’s love groan.
Black and white keys played
To the only one and his own.
Memories of the fingers remained.
They were beautiful love skill,
A shrill cries of love and pain.
Rose lies on the piano keys…
It’s a memory of the old follies
And the fairies giving the dowries.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
January 30th,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Old Upright Piano
For as long as I remember, when friday night came round
The family would gather out at grandpas house.
With supper over and the dishes done
It was then the best time came
At an old upright piano that only grandma played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
Grandpa was a stubborn man, they said it was his style.
Grandma called him ornery, but she said it with a smile.
Even he could not disguise the love he felt so strong;
We all could see it in his eyes when she played his favorite song.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
I was almost 17 when my grandma died;
I stayed all night with grandpa; the old man never cried.
He sat at her piano, there was nothing we could say
It was the first time in my life I ever heard my grandpa play.
It wasnt beautiful dreamer or my wild irish rose
It was a song he played from memory & he never missed a note
I sat right there beside him until the morning came
What a friend we have in jesus was the only song he played.
She played beautiful dreamer, my wild irish rose;
She never played em perfect, but there was love in every note.
Grandpa sat beside her, in harmony they sang,
At the old upright piano that only grandma played.
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heaven
The piano played its final tune
And strings got torn in two
And the old lady sang her final song
As her grand-daughter cried all way through
It's the end of a chapter
An era in time
The piano lid closes
The old lady shuts her eyes
And drifts to a land far away
The last generation ends
But doesn't go to waste
It's a sad story that happens all the time
Unfortunately......
But one day this old lady will open her eyes, sing again
And the piano will mend it's strings and play again
And her grand-daughter will hear this song
And smile..... instead of cry
She'll smile again.
poem by Lucy Vernezze
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The Day the Piano Came
His fingers caressed the new, shiny keys, pulling out the strings
of Chopin melodies and chords that tugged at the heart.
We had never heard anything so beautiful as the gentle notes
that rolled into my ears, soft and warm. I shivered
in this warmth. It was too beautiful. This man
was a genius, bringing us this new and beautiful happiness.
That night, while everyone slept, I crept downstairs
and sat at the new piano. The smooth white glistened
under my curious fingertips. They itched to play.
This was a real piano.
I had never seen such an elegantly monstrous instrument,
and it was right here, in my house, under my fingers.
I was wrapped in bliss that night, and in the years
that followed, that silent piano brought me peace.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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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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That Old Piano
On a lonely corner of an old house
A permanent feature for a decade
An old piano played the living witness
Of singing and dancing till the wee hours
in the morning
Grandma and Mama made the house turn around
Playing old familiar boogie, waltz and mambo sounds
Kids just played around
Munching goodies, cookies and cakes
Oh, ... those happy days
Seeing that old piano, the living witness
Holding back these tears
But life is what is all about..
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Grandma's Old Piano Was Sold
grandma's piano is old.
she died ten years ago
being the second wife of grandpa.
my mother is her second child
that she sent to piano school
but father found her and married
her when she was still 18.
and i was born as their fourth
child. Mother knows how to play
the moonlight sonata which father
loves to listen at night when
i learn how to smile and laugh.
One day Papa found another woman
whom he said made him new again
and he left Mama.
One day Mama died and Papa married
that woman.
One day i left home.
One day the piano was sold
One day the piano was taken to another
town so far away from us.
One day, all these things, the piano, Papa
and my step mother are forgotten.
But then the Moonlight Sonata comes again
One night
From another piano nearby.
The keys are no longer made
From elephant tusks like grandma's old piano.
Not the off white of ivory.
So white and smooth like a well brushed teeth
of a very young boy.
I like to hear it when he learns
how to gnash.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fingers On The Piano
the fingers on the piano
are so cruel
pressing the ivory keys
of mother's old piano
and from
the blankness of
her presence
a floodgate opens
the memories
which should have
been better
forgotten
there will be more
tears shed
as there will always
be rain
but there is this
adamant
determination to claim
the colors
of the rainbow
after
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Game of Life
Games people perform in this life-
Playing Chopin’s waltz on the baby grand piano- I am a believer.
My father stood still- whip in hand.
A big black cat carrying a crimson red trunk entered my room past the midnight hour
Dumping live boa constrictors atop my bed- although I only saw soap bubbles emerge before from the gates of heaven’s past.
In my mind I still can hear Chopin’s waltz playing on our baby grand piano-
I listen to voices that aren’t even real-
My father giving orders- he was once a soldier.
My mother’s negligence screams and
Stabs me with her cruel and toxic words-
My father passed in the springtime.
Roses and wild violets grow freely- in the back of my mind.
I never promised anybody flowers- only music-
Games that people play are what life is all about-
My thoughts are spinning out of control-as are Saturn’s rings.
Our baby grand piano is out of tune-
I do not care- I sing an opera solo-off key though gently-
The wind is blowing outside at hurricane strength-
The power just went out.
I am in the dark- as I dream, and I dream-
My hands are still playing the baby grand piano-
Out of tune as it may be-
The back door to my mind’s prison is locked-
Life is a gamble- my thoughts have spun out of control-
I dance the tango in the woodlands where
Oak trees and evergreens have fallen-
But I foresee no moonlight-
I gave my father no flowers;
I play him Chopin’s waltz on the baby grand piano-
I know he can hear as souls never die-
I can listen to my dreams –
I hear my father’s orders and my mother’s wrathful vengeance-
I never promised them flowers and
They never promised me the world- I was invisible-in the eyes of millions-
I hear angry voices echo about- nature’s bounty-
Life is a venture, but
My soul shall reap its reward
Before hell’s brush fire is extinguished-
Can you hear the music playing and
The lonesome screaming of the deceased?
I can only hear a neighboring car alarm sounding as too many days have passed since
the doorbell sounded and fog has lifted-
Rain is falling into a bloodbath. –
Where extraterrestrials are inclined to exist-
I am a believer…my soul shall live on.
Can you hear the calling of the wilderness?
Only where mountains meet with the horizon and
I keep on searching for rainbows in a fleeting moment?
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Hillbilly Hollywood
I can still remember my first guitar
Bright and shiny like a brand new car
Even took it with me when I went to school
And I practiced every day till I got real good
I learned every lick on the radio
From wabash cannon to go johnny go
I majored in rhythm with a minor in blues
Then I hit the road with my blue suede shoes
And I dreamed of seeing my name in lights
Grand ole opry on on a saturday night
Standing where my heroes stood
Hillbilly hollywood
I played some bars where you never wanna go
From oklahoma city down to tupelo
My ears would be ringing like an old fire bell
When Id lay me down in some cheap hotel
And I dreamed of seeing my name in lights
Grand ole opry on a saturday night
Standing where my heroes stood
Hillbilly hollywood
And I pray before too long
They will hear my song
And I dreamed of seeing my name in lights
Grand ole opry on a saturday night
Standing where my heroes stood
I dreamed grand old opry on a saturday night standing . .
Hillbilly hollywood hillbilly hollywood hillbilly hollywood
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At The Piano
Wanting to cleave clearly in the mind the wooden chopping boards of the house into piano keys,
and the long tables of the dining room into some imagined concert:
Do you hear it?
Yes?
Do you not since then not realize this grand scale?
The poor boy is playing a sonata in his head, yes?
Yes.
Now. (Pushed into agreement as if pushed by birth into an empty room without choice and flowers for wallpaper and a mirror kept blind dark in a drawer)
There was a piano, once, in my head.
And a stage.
And the world surprised by what had been found.
Difficult piece: the left hand flying over the right and the air-pedal stepped through and clean to sustain.
And all the world standing behind kitchen counters and the dinner plates waiting for the imagined overture to complete its applause:
If only there was no need to explain.
If only the real thing was as clear and as audible as once the beautiful music.
* Brown beaver in a stream and the grass green
Small girl on a swing and a bird wing
And because he thinks it’s meant to be spring,
he colors the clear edges
of all living things in his piano book-
Where the paw touches sharp the blades
of the green patch
and the bare arm of the blonde girl arcs
her slender reach to the sun.
And old Brahms who lifts his hand in a wave,
even if this is meant to be a slow waltz he’s playing,
and a packed piano concert hall he’s set in where a bright blue blazer’s not the right suit for this true master to wear.
This genuine thing:
Every day before the sun rose,
I dreamt the world already in color.
Ivy on the old wall greener by far
than any I had seen the lush trees
bending some friends hiding behind jars,
sliding doors snuck into the empty cabinets of the garage wanting to be found and: everyone loved.
Wanting to tell the truth, to play it.
Song remembered from somewhere else
and someone else’s mistake:
the bored boy on the waiting couch
knows the girl now playing the piano has no applause in sight. The day could be awash with light!
what colors blind him with the waiting bird on the wing wrap his hands with a song small girl’s swing fill his eyes while he’s playing a fast loud trick of a trill in his head
in what was said to be “with feeling” terrible terrible thing
* All encompassing terror of the grand design
I wanted the great concertos,
the Bach arias.
I wanted: Praise be to God who fashions with his own hands the universe and all of creation out of a deep love for everything without choice.
Without being dramatic.
I wanted the long pause.
I wanted the audience stunned to tears because:
this we have not heard before in the streets this song this beautifully done.
It moves.
It brings us to the edge of our sight.
I am not the light.
I was not even part of its terms of recovery or perfection.
Joy without end without just reward.
Who has not, faced with a sin, said:
I want to be good?
For he hears even our thoughts.
I wanted that silence.
I wanted the huge applause after the silence.
*by L.L.Ypil
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The piano chords
You play the piano chords
In this sonata as well as
In the music of Prokofiev,
Emphatically catching the music's mood.
Fingers seem to stick the keys
And the keys seem to direct the fingers,
When the thumbs move under them.
You both look like a single being,
In together.
The piano seemingly breaks the sounds.
They penetrate my soul,
Searching for the necessary words.
I understand the story of your feelings.
Dedicated to Richard Clayderman
poem by Marieta Maglas
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An Old Dusty Guitar
I walked into a shop one day,
in a dusty corner stood an old guitar.
Dust was playing its only refrain now;
no one took much notice
of it standing there
with several broken strings
looking worn and forlorn.
As I stood and looked at it, I
wondered what stories it could tell.
Were you played by someone famous,
and how many footlights did it see? On the other hand,
were you just strummed by someone
dreaming of stardom out of reach?
How far did this dreamer get, oh, old dusty guitar.
How much I would love to hear your story,
but I have to leave much to my regret,
but if your still hear tomorrow,
and I have enough money.
You will no longer be
an old dusty guitar,
for you will belong to me.
poem by David Harris
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Segregation
I stood beside the silken rope,
Five dollars in my hand,
And waited in my patient hope
To sit anear the Band,
And hear the famous Louie play
The best hot trumpet of today.
And then a waiter loafing near
Says in a nasty tone:
"Old coon, we don't want darkies here,
Beat it before you're thrown."
So knowin' nothin' I could do
I turned to go and--there was Lou.
I think he slapped that Dago's face;
His voice was big an' loud;
An' then he leads me from my place
Through all that tony crowd.
World-famous Louie by the hand
Took me to meet his famous Band.
"Listen, you folks," I heard him say.
"Here's Grand-papa what's come.
Savin' he teached me how to play,
I mighta been a bum.
Come on, Grand-pop, git up an' show
How you kin trumpet Ol' Black Joe."
Tremblin' I played before his Band:
You should have heard the cheers.
Them swell folks gave me such a hand
My cheeks was wet wi' tears . . .
An' now I'm off to tell the wife
The proudest night o' all ma life.
poem by Robert William Service
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