Best Pianist Poems
Another Sunday evening at the street-corner
next to the coffee parlour, overlooking the ocean
The solo pianist with desert-lime eyes
sits once-again on the piano chair.
His hair,a Honeysuckle-brown
with a salt and pepper tint
sways in the summer breeze
under the old wrought iron street-lamp.
Passers-by gather in a crowd
and listen to symphonic sounds.
Like on those many yesterdays
when She sat down on the old oak wooden bench
to listen to his baritone voice and melodic tune
Close enough, to capture the glow upon his face
through the soft embrace of a cradle-moon.
His fatigued- hands wear early youth
which match the embers of his heart
His fingers bleed between the keys
of black and white, as crimson red
wakes up the passion-rose inside.
Before each note, within each pause
Its there He thinks of her ..
The one who turned his every page
The brown -eyed ,sun-kissed island girl.
All vibrant colours fill up his mind
Her somber soul He seeks to find
Her shadow still craves to belong
wrapped in his arms and every song.
He'd practised all day with his Mummy
A tune for his Daddy's delight.
His soft little fingers were aching
From trying to get it just right.
He gave it his full concentration
Determined to master the tune
Expecting that his darling Daddy
Would be coming home very soon.
His Mummy had guided his fingers
He'd felt for each note one by one,
She'd sat by his side and encouraged
Her cheerful, adorable son.
Unable to offer a painting
He offered his own work of art,
For vision had never been granted
And music had lit up his heart.
But Daddy called late from the office
So sorry but he'd been delayed.
And one little boy gave up waiting;
The birthday tune never was played.
'Tell me a story 2' : sponsored by Brenda Chiri
picture 1 - The sleeping child
06/11/18
broken fingers of soft hands
linger and retract under fallen wands
pianist sits still;
blood flowing down
keys going off-key
Agility flows
through the fingers;
gently dancing upon
those black and whites,
like graceful ballerinas
performing the music
of her soul.
©Ana Espinola Collins
Beneath a starlit sky
of an early tranquil night
A solo pianist sits
in the middle of a quiet valley
A lost swan,waddles by
in a forbidden lake
Seeking reflections
as moonbeams cast their glow
upon the lone man's silhouette.
'Pull off your mask '
He heard her say
as She glided towards him
in a smooth and graceful way.
''I need to see what lies behind
those once upon a glistening eyes.
I need to hear you play again
I yearn to hear you sing
I want to waltz in ballet
to your voice against the wind.'
His lifeless mask fell slowly to the ground
Into a thousand pieces without making a sound.
His youthful soul revealed
Like a splash in calm beauty
His fingers were released.
Knocking on her heart-chords
He composed new symphonies
Dark feathers drifted by
like tragic memories
He did not let another yesterday
Steal all the joy, take all the bliss
He bathed in fresh waters
and showered with her kiss.
...And the pianist plays again
A found swan ,pirouettes
Her wings She opens freely
He rests in her embrace.
Inspired by music ,and a disney movie
I watched awhile ago with my girl called
'The Swan Princess' :)
Proud sound, soft tracks of voices burned
taming crude souls their virtue earned.
Inspired from the ''Pianist'', scene of Ballade No.1 in G minor Op.23 - Chopin.
You never see his name anymore, but believe me he's still here.
He open's the soups' door, making it possible for me to write beyond this
atmosphere.
He makes it possible to enter these contests, for it takes away from his own time.
All the postings often get him stressed, and yet he was the first to befriend me
despite the nature of my crime!
See, he's a talented poet as well, but he'll tell you he's more a pianist than anything.
My words may put you under a spell, but his finger's will play a melody on your
heartstring!
My father figure is still on the soup, but he chose to go by an alias rather than his
name.
He doesn't like poetrysoups secret group, plus he thinks the contests are judged
more like a game.
He's shown me fatherly love I missed as a kid, and that says a lot.
Our bond is thicker than the walls of a pyramid, and my pen stole the keys to
Camelot!
My father's helped me to make plans and goals, to do all I can to succeed.
He tells me don't let the devil steal my soul, and the Bible I should read!
He told me the soup was a joke, that premium members have learned to manipulate
the placements of contests.
Soup members are starting to see through the smoke, that top placements have
premium members possessed.
I would have to agree; for I know I'm one of the best poets on the soup.
But it's no longer about poetry; it's about being down with #%!$:'s secret group!!
They were invincible
whenever they’re onstage:
piano on the lead
with violin
as his accompaniment.
They toured the cities,
the parks as well;
soft harmonies they played
that all, including men
went envying them—
violin had felt betrayal
from her own bow.
It snapped her strings;
made it sever—
leaving piano out of tune.
Despite his downfall,
piano persisted performing
on stage, but alone—
playing his wife’s
funeral song.
"then they get into this....
we love the way the
sunshine through the
diamond ring and
real delicatto
so, you made your $20
and grabbed your line
you end up in Bahrain
The Pianist
I flick through the TV channels. It is football
and football, except on Fox News, but they
are so insane there I rather watch sport.
I played the picturesque game once as defender
but I grew up and it was at the same time
as I stopped believing in god and that he looked
like the pianists in Alfred´s cafe.
I have often missed the pianist, not long ago I
saw him in Faro, followed him along the promenade
I fell over a pollard; he helped me up and said:
“Once and for all I´m not your father.”
I once saw my father on the bus, he was an enigma
a shell that gave nothing away except being drunk.
Totally unlike the pianist who wears a beret, alpaca
jacket and a yellow silk scarf.
Being handsome alone is not important. Having talent is. Quote by poet.
Bewitched, her fingers flew,
keys pressed, sound vibrated
song sang assonance in perfect pitch.
He tried, he fumbled,
closed his ears, a cacophony of
vulgar barbarism. He remembered standing up
disgusted, turning, looking in a mirror,
a nauseous narcissus.
He could not help but admire
his sapphire eyes,
the clean, well-shaved chin,
his perfect figure...
all useless, for he lacked
her talent, her special gift,
her poise;
but not her face
where ugliness triumphed.
It was then, alas, that he felt
the death of music in his soul.
I am attracted by
Virtuous notes
A capable sound
From a Steinway & Sons grand piano
A mighty orchestra
Unknown melodies
A child prodigy at the keyboard
A Gift of Peace
The hammer that strikes golden strings
Of a grand piano.
Bravo. Hurrah.
A Laurel, a performance hardly heard
Attentive spectators rejoice
The vaults of the concert hall
Reflect corpulent sounds
Gershwin’s Allegro or Lento
'Scherzo Con Brio' without hardship
The child pianist
That angels also listen
Of a talent that inebriates like wine
And the key to a distant remembrance
It is now a choral
Then a horn sound
Of at an Imperial Andante
Then the violins all around
Fiery Rondo. Dreamy adages.
Arpeggio and a madrigal
Finally, the Grand Finale
Without hesitation
'The Pianist and the Senorita'
Of tobacco and perfume was her scent,
She of beauty without relent,
She of soul full-blooded,
In body and spirit,
My immortal beloved.
For her I compose
Sonatas and nocturnos,
In the hope my strings and hers will entwine,
So that my heart I may consign
To her, the Spanish seductress, comely by design.
Shhhh! Quiet!!!! Listen!!!
Can you hear her?
Can you see her sitting there?
Sitting in the mist of darkness, surrounded by a sea of pain from yesterdays gone by.
Can you see her as she positions her fingers?
As she adjusts her soul, the very essence of her being?
Shhh!!! Listen!!!! Watch!!!! Look!!!
As she lifts her eyes to the sky.
As she begins to play the parts of her broken heart.
Can you feel her? Her pain, her sorrow, her inevitable Joy?
Her notes ring out, crying in a loud voice, demanding to be heard.
Telling her story....
Of how she had lost herself somewhere in between the middle of night and day, somewhere in the middle of yesterday and tomorrow.
Of how she had forgotten who she was as her mind slipped away into a dark, dark place of depression caused by domestic violence; betrayal; emotional abuse…
She and her music becomes one
Embedded in a sea of agony that begins to move to Victory as she starts to heal, to mend, to
grow, to take control over her own life, as she begins to make the choice to choose her reactions to the things that life brings her way.
On she plays, ceaseless hours...
Notes of a woman beat down.... damaged...but now healing.
Tears falling from her eyes...
Crushing End, Halting Stop, Music Dies, Silence.....
No More Tears!!!!