Gotta get the kinks out of his keyboard
warm up well before he performs
Like a fencer plays with the tip of his sword
sets his fingers to fly like a unicorn ...
Ah, but that's simple: it’s a pianist, you say
poets don’t speed along their way
Consider this, though, my newfound friend ~
poets race their thoughts as they round the bend
broken fingers of soft hands
linger and retract under fallen wands
A gifted pianist named Xavier
is known for some funny behaviour.
He likes to smoke hash
(which patrons find rash)
whilst playing Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier.
his talent kept hidden from the world
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
'greatest' is just a title that cannot take away your pain
I saw a pianist, his eyes raging with fire in pain
he had his sleeves rolled up, revealing his veins
playing the piano's ivory keys with passion,
pushing the limits, pouring his heart into melody
only for his fingers to bleed, painting the white keys red
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.
His voice has a face;
It has features of its own.
It gazes deep into my eyes
and delves deep into my soul.
His voice is a smooth ocean breeze
On a bright sunny summer day:
Fresh, fluffy, and dreamlike,
Sweet as a whisper of sunshine.
His voice is a pianist
Studying the keys of my heart.
It blazes against my skin,
And freezes me all at once.
His voice violently tears the darkness,
gently cradles my heart.
His voice is a luxury;
Five senses,
Seven sins,
A sky that holds a million stars. . .
It was said
that he had overlarge hands,
laborer's hands,
yet when he played
eagles swam up waterfalls.
No one knew where the music came from
or the dexterity of those thick fingers.
Slavic ghosts would weave and spin all night
getting those finger-webs ready to spread
far across a difficult score.
Rachmaninov had a strong piano,
unlike Beethoven,
who occasionally broke
his less stout keyboards.
Beethoven's indominable will
cut through acceptable norms
with a buzz saw and a bulldozer.
That Russian with his
deep-set chords
rained down upon us
both sweetness and sorrow,
the way a dark cloud
in a desert often brings life.
Melodies to break or mend,
and to be thread through
any listening ear.
Strangers but loved
aged pianist's hands
don't die in silence...
The old pianist watches
his hands ... learned
a secret... the music...
Even injured and with strength
touch still finds.
In silence his tips
dactyls hurt, suffer...
But the silence knows that
will speak in his ringtones...
dying toes
suck the last ones out of life
sighs...
The old pianist sweating,
cry dry tears...
But the blessed sound
the piano plays the music
holy, torn from
heart...
Homage to pianist João Carlos
Martins and his extreme pain in the
extremities hands and fingers...
This blind pianist can see or not see,
His plan was to collect cash and flee,
His hands can play piano on a free,
He could sense the encircling tree.
Pianist meets a girl through an accident,
She gets to know he was an job aspirant,
But never could catch the fake ambient,
The pianist was smart and very resilient.
He saw a murder with two naked eyes,
But to the police he completely denies,
As fake as the pink sun are his lies,
That can’t be caught by group of spies.
The girl see’s the pianist in london,
Singing song in club dark as dungeon,
She again fells for his fake tell of rabbit,
The pianist finally made London his inhabit.
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
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
Old pianola and still standing tall,
one hundred years old against the bearing wall.
Waiting silently for tender loving care,
an instrument or household ware?
Heavy to play and hurts her hands,
yet it still quietly commands ...
to be played- a note, a bar, a piece,
for hammers and strings are yet to cease.
Missing keys and keys not level,
though soldiers on for designed special.
Missing it's other, the pianist,
for with each other they are blessed.
When they're both together-make harmony thrive;
the piano and pianist, together alive.
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.
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' :)
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