Short Grumblings Poems

First weekend of the summer when they're calling for no rain
It's almost August, the forecasters it must find it quite a strain
Hearing all the grumblings
Someone's been fumbling
Trusted with the forecast, have they been smoking up again???...

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The piano grumbled at his touch,
Playing fortissimo on command...
Nerves of steel snapping a string.

Ambitious to a fault, practicing the night into alarm,
Lizst spilled from the printed page
Like sour milk for a feral cat.

As he rose from the bench, music in hand,
An audible whispered relief rustled the curtains
And silence cradled the grateful room....

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