Long Piano Poems
Long Piano Poems. Below are the most popular long Piano by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Piano poems by poem length and keyword.
“I am somebody’s child, and I need attention, I am somebody’s child and I need affection, I am somebody’s child and I need love and devotion”, she murmured as she walked through the door. She wasn’t sure where she was going when she left the house; she wasn’t sure about the next encounter, but she walked for five hours until she reaches the border.
The speed, at which she moved, left everyone confused but she was determined to make a point just to stay alive. She did not plan a journey she just wanted to live, and hang out with the daffodils but the trap was already set before they made the bet. She could sense it from within and so she had to learn to swim; with strength in her arms and strides in her feet, she made it through the dark before the break of dawn.
They searched everywhere for her, but they could not find her, the public became aware of it and they start to build a myth. Officer Jones devised a plan to begin the search mission he knew what he had up his sleeve, because he was so hard to please. He had laid the ground work to start digging up dirt, to catch the big fish and throw them back into the ditch, the climate was right and the alibi was riding high in the sky.
The search went on for days with no sight of her abducted in the bush or held captive by the brook; it was just one of those situations where you have to keep on top of things before the universe done you in.
The cheese, and the pie, the crown and the dye were just too reveling so they had to search for another meaning, and the sky was their only hope to keep sailing on the boat and so the narrative changed to give her all the blame.
Was it a crime torn area or someone lost their way and bumped into a criminal flattering in the sky that is a one-hundred-dollar question from a village miner who could not fit the pieces together for the director or the operator.
And so, the question remains, whose back was she trying to cover? My mind wander and wander and it didn’t look like a deal that turned sour, neither was it a set up by gate to discover something before it was too late. Everything seems to be in perfect harmony with the guitar, the piano, the band and the musical director.
The great Gatsby would have won the case if Tom Buchanan had not shot him in the pool over the death of Myrtle Wilson his darling wife. "I am somebody’s child," she screamed.
Infallible
I fall into the rain, beneath me;
My sky a glittery dust to thee,
Calling the joy I hath not met,
Thou cometh sweetly, but late.
I fall into the cold, and just me;
Only I understand the clouds,
Oh! I cannot seek that ‘tis so loud,
Too much noise, sickly around me!
Those fallen tears around my head;
The soundlessness of one’s fate,
And hark, in such quietness,
The decrepit being of hotness!
Those ragged stars about my hair;
Closing in on me, and my air,
With hues dyed in drowned sunshine,
But proud still, in its dried signs.
For such heat hath closed me;
Hath sifted me away from you.
For such guilt hath haunted me;
Hath kept me away anew.
For such a love, that thou felt;
But not yet felt again, today,
The gaze that I once beheld,
The words my heart cannot say.
Wherefore art thou, my beloved;
For t’is passion is tainted but pure,
To behold, to instill, to demure,
The meaning of this first love.
Wherefore art thou, my paint;
These poems hath not been said,
I see chaos, and not a flesh of fate,
I hath been loving in vain.
Wherefore art thou, my gaze;
Why cannot I see you through my face,
To hear such a bountiful voice,
To be about thee, in this bliss.
Wherefore art thou, my voyage;
I cannot stay this sober longer,
And hysteria, turning into sobs,
Like death, as my heart throbs.
Wherefore art thou, my colour;
Bestowed on thee my honour,
And age, with my fleeting skin,
Waiting in haste, to be seen.
Wherefore art thou, my winter;
Having too many doubts in summer,
Awaiting a lover that lasts,
By the moonlight and stardust.
Wherefore art thou, my rain;
And the sung that sings again,
To release my midnight, its pain—
To be my beloved, then.
Wherefore art thou, my kiss;
I can see your solemnity,
A thousand unsung melodies,
To bless, to make love to me;
Wherefore art thou, my art;
Too much of me is in my heart,
But none with a charm like thee,
Like the poet in fire, that in me.
Wherefore art thou, my sword;
I am bland now, and unheard,
Unheard as the rain that falls,
Amongst the sheltered walls.
Wherefore art thou, my piano;
The sound that arriveth late,
But not late to be my memento—
To remove all conscious hate.
Wherefore art thou, my word;
Improvised but reckless, my Lord,
Ah! Calm but poisonous, like me,
A fastidious silver, like thee.
After finishing a seminar based on demand and supply,
I walked out to the street and hailed a taxi going by,
and as I sat down in the seat, the taxi driver said to me,
‘my, my, your timings perfect, you are just the same as Terry.’
I must admit he had me thinking, so of course I answered ‘Who?’
‘Terry Parker’ said the cabbie; a bloke it’s obvious he knew.
‘Yeah, anything that Terry did, he was right on every score,
he lived with perfect timing and Terry never had one flaw.’
I had never met a bloke like Terry, so I’m wary of the fact,
so I subtly gave me answer in a way most would react,
‘None of us are perfect mate,’ but the cabbie did insist
That Terry, he was faultless, and so few like him exist.
I heard that Terry was an athlete with the most amazing skills,
His golfing matched the pros, and his tennis playing simply thrills,
he could sing like Johnny Cash; and even better so I’m told,
he danced like Fred Astaire; his piano playing…simply gold.
I could only think he must be special, this Terry Parker bloke,
and the cabbie uttered ‘hang on,’ and once again he spoke,
‘there’s more to Terry yet, you see his memory never failed,
he remembered every birthday, and every one detailed.
‘He was a connoisseur on beer, and knew everything ‘bout wine,
He knew how to serve the finest foods; all simply pure divine.
And if anything needs fixing, then Terry was your shining light,
he was streets ahead of me, ‘cause I can’t do nothing right.
‘He could always read the traffic, and you’d never find him stuck,
not like me when I am driving, for I had none of Terry’s luck,
and I ought to mention women, and how he made them feel so good,
he was the ideal gentleman; he treated women how I should.
‘Terry would never answer back, even if the woman’s wrong,
he was a charming butler, and his charisma it was strong,
he kept his house immaculate, as no other person can…
no one could measure up; Terry Parker was the perfect man.’
When I reached my destination but before I stepped outside,
I paid the driver what was due, and then I thanked him for the ride,
but I thought it best I mention, at more or less a parting whim,
‘this Terry Parker is remarkable, how did you get to meet him?’
The driver took my money, and then he muttered deep and slow,
‘Actually I never met him, but I’m married to his widow.’
Long ago, in an estuary formed by the erosion of a fjord,
There sat a piano made of petrified wood with ivy cords.
It was created by a council of beavers, which governed the waters,
Who used local flora and stones to build it, with help from the otters.
For these marine rodents had once heard a human strum a guitar,
And they wanted their own music to impress the humans from afar.
The piano's fifty-two lower keys were made of refined kyanite,
While its thirty-six raised keys were made of black hematite.
Its pedals were donated by some dories from the sea,
Who shaped them from coral plucked from a barrier reef.
As the instrument was built from aquatic and natural material,
It could stand through the torment of torrents and decay of bacteria.
When the piano was finished the beavers and otters stood proud,
And pounced on its keys, which made sounds that were only loud.
The rodents soon realized that none of them knew how to play,
The piano without fingers, so they gave up on music the very next day.
Fraught in their efforts, their hard work had been for naught,
Until a beaver found a boy squatting on a bank looking distraught.
"Why the long face, my dear child," said the beaver to the boy,
Who responded: "I've failed my parents, now I'll never know joy.
Today they bought me a beautiful baby-grand piano to celebrate,
The years of piano lessons they paid for, on my thirteenth birthday.
After seven long years of lessons and tutelage,
My ability to read notes is still way below average."
So the beaver brought the boy to what the animals had built,
To help the boy overcome his feelings of failure and guilt.
The beaver said to him then: "Play not that which you see but hear,
For music is a melodic and emotional sensation that you feel in your ears."
So the boy closed his eyes and rested his hands on the keys of gemstone,
And listened to what he heard and played the loveliest music he'd ever known.
For the boy could never read the language of music that others had wrote,
But learned he could play any sound heard, when his fingers struck the right notes.
So the boy played away to the sounds that he heard,
The current of water, and pecked songs of a bird.
As he played the animals danced with heads bobbing and nodding,
And when the boy opened his eyes he saw his parents applauding.
Music is an undying
art of soul ~
an abstract eden, where,
euphonious unicorns
glide in strawberry sonatas,
amplifying rhapsody in
ballads of flight,
when fuchsia feathers
tease those
jingling breezes,
infusing breaths
in every lifeless aroma;
where I can soar
beyond the
brushstrokes
of symphonies that
planktons sing to me,
in the requiems of
forsaken pearls,
crooning with
silenced shimmers
beneath wavy blues.
Maybe,
I'm a songwriter
without words,
and my electric fingers
trace the tunes
of serene strings,
when guitars weave
a sonorous guilt
midst ruby runes
of regrets.
I wish to keep
swinging in a
cosmic cadence,
where celestial notes
choreograph
themselves in the
moonwalking
mellifluence of
lunar legacies.
I gossip with
neon nightingales,
laced with neutrinos
and compel them
to chant those
healing incantations
of love and glory,
like the forlorn
princess - Rapunzel,
desiring to feel
the glow of
familiar lanterns,
winged with
hazy syncs of
unsung yesteryears.
I wonder if,
I'm not meant
to compose
crystal canticles
in a Disney duet,
for, I believe,
I'm a soul searcher
in the flesh of
a soloist, concocting
an elixir of my
existence through
cinnamon anthems
of mystical
moonrises, as
they softly unfold,
a million
unheard tempos,
within tranquil
memoirs.
I'm the 'maiden of music'
resting as a floret on
every sepal,
yearning to become
a unique acapella
of nature,
where empathy
has an ethereal
dialect of
nurturing spirits
and tinkles
of magical waterfalls
whisper in
gentle lachrymose lulls
of our ambrosial Mother.
When the harmony
of my voice,
kisses those
ivory keys of
the heart-shaped
piano, they
echo a tipsy secret
in my sunset skin,
making me
believe ~
"I'm everywhere
in the essence,
yet nowhere
to be found...",
like the sweet
scents of
hummingbirds,
smiling behind
that first dusky star.
"In each husky hallelujah
of ribboned halts and replays,
life is a song ~
where every lyric,
phrases an ember of end,
and when passionate heartbeats
shall knit sombre medleys,
I will hum in the last 'chef-d'oeuvre'... "
Hello God, I know You are the Almighty Father, the Creator of all heaven and earth. And I
thank you for all that You've ever done for me. I give You all the praise, honor, and glory,
that you so rightfully deserve. You are worthy of all my praise. Thank you for my wife and
two sons Lord, my mom and all of my family. They are such blessings to me. There are a
few things that I need to discuss with You though, Lord. My oldest son is bi-polar as you
know but won't take any medication. Why God won't he help himself and take some
medication to help clear his mind. He is so handsome, intelligent and tallented but pitiful and
mean at the same time, schizophrenic I believe people call it, and says he hates You. I
know that You understand that he is sick and I know that you help us as much as you can,
but I sure do wish he could find some help somewhere down here on earth! There seems to
be no one to help these poor sick people. Some have even gone into schools and killed
teachers and students because they wouldn't stay on their medication or they couldn't get
their medication right for them. Others have killed parents and grandparents. It's so pitiful
Lord. I also thank you for my Church family and the tallent you have given me for playing
several musical instruments. I love playing piano and hope that many people are blessed
from it, but mostly I want you to get all the honor and glory. Another thing Lord, I want to
ask You to touch and heal my mind. I thank you for my wonderful physical health but I've
had a problem or a "thorn in the flesh" I call it, just as Your Servant Paul had. I don't know
what was wrong with Paul but I know I need a special touch from You. Sometimes it's very
confusing. I know Your Word says seek and ye shall find, but I've been seeking for an
answer or for help or healing for many, many years. I've ask for healing so many times and
I know You're probably tired of hearing it. But You tell me to pray without ceasing and to
bring my partitions to You. If I must go on the way I am, I don't want to be a slave
anymore or to hide my true self from society anymore. I don't want to be that "someone, no
one knows" anymore! I know if I pray to You, that You will keep me in Your Way. Please
Lord make my mind whole and normal. so that I can cope with each day.
2025.05.13
Today, not as any other days,
When I always was the first arrived at this place,
Waiting for the piano to be available,
For me to clean and press on the keyboard,
To break the sound of silence
Of the well lighted open space.
Not far away, there was a chimney
Covered under a huge cone,
They were the centre place's icons.
Some of the personnel of this Centre,
Like the security guards, the cleaner,
The maintenance workers, the new train station constructors,
The goods deliveries staff and the train commuters,
They rushed and walked pass me.
Few stopped to pay me compliments.
Lately, I could not play the piano well.
There was one other reason
But I preferred not to mention.
Have I cheesed off with the piano?
Or was I fed up with the same old songs,
Played in the last 10 months.
Lately, my memory failed me badly,
I could not play new songs at all.
Normally, I was able to remember
How the music went
After listening to them over and over again,
But, now I could not do that any more.
My emotional pain supposed to settle by now,
But some how, it flared up again
When I saw him on the Mothers' day evening.
I was sure why he was there,
What a painful excuse for him.
Once a year to show your appreciation to a person,
Who carried you inside her womb,
Especially in his case,
A single mother to raise four young children.
Also according to his descriptions,
His mother was the slowest person in the world
When learning and understanding new things.
It hurt me when hearing those words.
The way he perceived his mother,
As a person who has low IQ and not intelligent.
To me, he appeared to be a very handsome,
Fit, strong and wise mature person.
Then why he remained being unattached.
After three decades of adulthood.
Well, it was because he was too picky.
I was not suitable for him, not even as a friend,
After all, I met only 66.66% of his requirements.
We had same level of intelligent,
Shared lot of common interest,
Strongly believed in healthiness,
Had 90% of the same passion
And point of view in life.
If that was not good enough in friendship
Then I had no idea what it should be.
Good luck to him in soul mates searching,
Good luck to him in finding a soul mate with chemistry,
Last but not, in finding a partner in life and having a family.
as the fresh morning utilized the Moons net
one last time before she turned in
while her other face puts on make-up
eagerly she waits to kiss...
Sunsprinkled showers of light
that frolic across the
ESH
R O
H L
T D
greeting me with interlocked
Rays of Righteousness
confirming my selfless request
IT WAS ANSWERED
meaning
a release of agony
will be
confiscated
by the soft breath
of the
Cosmos Canticle Clouds
wearing perma-smiles
since the moment
Creation
began...
they were given the responsibility of tickling dreams
subconsciously sleeping
as prosophobia promised physical penumbras
a chance to meet a mystical madrigal
that merged with a marvelous Merkaba
that was spinning...
On The Sultan Sea watching solarbears
swimming with spirituality...
they were there that day...
LEARNING...
to heal hearts
by offering a sip
from
The Fountain Of Youth...
letting go of this worlds reins
as this world prepares to let go of us
So sad really...
yet, in a beautiful way...
like bidding farewell to family...
AND WE'RE ALL FAMILY...
this too shall pass...
into portal pools of the past...
solidifying our memories that become...
shared stories through the communities stereo...
skipping like a silly star across the galaxy
SHINING...
supremely sharing their spirals...
through supersonic sound...
ECHOING...EChoinG...EChoIng....echoing...
through the Universe in unison
ushering energies to take a seat on leather stars...
THANKING US...
for our pin-cushioned patience...
PLEADING...
US...
to play the pastel piano
known to spray kinetic knots
knitted atop the night
by a kind knight...
as the notes could be seen leaving the first clouds property
taking in the changes of the song....
that became beautiful bolts
of bronze blessings...
blanketing the Earth
in brimstone pinecones...
that disintegrated into driftwood gatherings
Gathered by the Elect and The Elite, and their earsoothing
acapella epitaph...
causing rest...
might as well rest up for the next rendezvous...
my apologies I'm unable to stay...
for some reason its always been like this
and I wouldn't want it any other way...
I just Pray when I return I'm able to remember
MY ORIGINAL
NAME...
Rest In Peace
P.S.
see you in the trees
Being in the NOW
This is a simple secret of happiness. It is so simple, that one may wonder, “How something like ‘Being in the NOW’ can guarantee eternal happiness?” But it can. It is a sure way of living with peace and joy.
It’s a big challenge
While it seems so simple, being in the NOW is a big challenge. We are slaves of our mind and we rarely achieve this state of being in the NOW. The fault is not ours. The fault is that of our mind. Before we know it, it slips into a thought of the past. Gone, our NOW is kidnapped! By the time we catch the kidnapper, the mind, and bring it to the table, it gently jumps into the future. It hijacks our life to a new destination. Yes, it holds us to ransom, and the biggest problem – we don’t even know it. It is a big challenge to be in the NOW. But if we can, we can be assured of peace and happiness.
The NOW is peaceful and blissful
Just for now, focus on this moment. Breathe some fresh air, as you count your blessings. Just look through your beautiful eyes and enjoy the nature you see. Stop and hear some amazing music. Don’t think. Stop your mind from drifting away. Just be in the NOW and do what you love to do. Maybe it is making love, but don’t let your mind think of how your heart broke when you made love last year.
Being in the NOW
Just enjoy the present moment. If you prefer, just sink your teeth into your favourite fruit and enjoy the moment. For you, it may be just playing the piano. Whatever makes your moment blissful, just for now, do that. You will find so much joy and peace.
Why lose this moment?
When the NOW can be so beautiful, why lose it? It is sad that we don’t even realize that we are losing moments, moment by moment. The NOW is ours, but somebody robs it and the NOW is gone. We let our NOW get destroyed. Not just that, instead of being happy and peaceful in the NOW, we permit our NOW to be filled with misery and sorrow. What a shame! We must resolve not to lose this moment. This moment belongs to us, it is ours. It is our biggest treasure. It is this moment and the next and the next that actually constructs our life. Moments create days, days create weeks, weeks create months, months create years and all of these create our life. If we lose the moment, we lose life, a life that was meant to be peaceful and joyous.
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.