This is the worst sound I have ever heard! Why isn’t this in tune? screamed the director. We can’t have our rehearsal with those wretched sounds coming out of that horrible instrument!
It’s the only piano in the place, I whispered, trying to hide behind the curtain.
Mary
A grand piano sat in the middle of the airport, unplayed. People were rushing to and from various gates, paying no attention to the marvel that stood alone in the middle of the place balanced on three wooden legs, perfectly tuned and ready to create comforting, soothing sounds for all those within earshot. Hundreds upon hundreds of years were put into perfecting this mechanical music making box; thousands of years into the development of the tones it could produce (represented by the first seven letters of the English alphabet [almost comically simple]). But there it stood, black and alone, while people walked by without notice.
The piano, a magnificent piece of life that has a beating heart…a beating heart that only lives when its touched. A beating heart in the shape or black and white rectangles.
lalo
I wish I would’ve learned how to play piano,
maybe it would’ve made me more cultured.
But I don’t have the patience
to memorize the notes
and play the keys.
I guess sometimes you gotta
sacrifice some things
for your own sanity.
a piano is a musical instrument. you play it with your fingers. people are taught to play the piano after school and at the weekends. a piano can be big or small, electrical or not. a piano has keys. some keys are white, some keys are black. i know how to play very basic piano music. my faviourite is the entertainer.
cat stoboe
the piano was her only instrument that she could speak through. It wasn’t that she lacked the ability, it was that she could not express raw human emotion without it. She felt superficial without her piano, her instrument of total human emotion. She loved but could never say “I love you”. She hated, but she could never spite her enemies. All she could do was play her love and her hate, her every single feeling, through her piano.
Michael Sedillo
The jangling keys of the piano set her teeth on edge. Scott Joplin, she thought; why does every pianist in every restaurant have to play Scott Joplin?
She sat by the window, watched the rain flood the windows. Raindrops smudged the ‘piano’ from the half-written poem which lay naked, next to the window. She had the fondest memories about her first piano; the smell of its wood still came back to her, every now and then, catching her by surprise. That potent smell, which almost burst like a bubble next to her, incensed her.
I like the piano. my daughter plays it beautifuuy;.
Steve
piano, piano piano piano – don’t get played. that’s grand black keys white keys and that foot peddle used to do the storm – light tinkling drops, then thunder then a torrent of banging notes soon tailing off into the tinkling again. wait, that wasn’t quite right and again until my dad hustled into the room to end it
Pianos. The main medium of much music which spreads across the world today. I consider the movement of fingers across the embonies and ivories of history to be a talent that have preserved much emotion, culture and traditions across the centuries. When someone has the ability to simply pick up a piece of music and turn dots and squiggles across a page into a story, a movement of complexity and ideas they are an artist. Piano. A window to a persons soul.
sarahsarahsarah
The wind howled outside, blustery gusts relentlessly throwing rain and sleet against the windowpanes. But inside Magnalinia Hall, it was warm and bright with festival goers reveling in every delight. The Duke of Callington guffawed at somewhat that The General had said and young courtiers giggled and blushed as Prince Lexan strutted past them. I daresay he enjoyed the attention all too much. With tables groaning with the weight of food, beer and wine flowing freely and merriment all around, no-one was thinking of the war. They had come here for respite. To forget. Even if it was only for a little while. Earl Dankar pulled up a stool to the grand old piano and started to play a happy tune and before I could get caught up in a somber mood, I got whisked up into a line of dancing men and women. Well and so, let me forget then, but just for tonight.
Pia! What do you do when you see her? Your heart says “no” but your mouth utters “yes.” And then, when you finally gather all your courage to refuse her and her monstrous orders, she will still make you believe you just want to play her a song.. So you sit next to the piano and obey her once again. Pia.. no..
happyrabbit
I miss the keys dancing under my fingers as a minuet or etude comes to life on my ears, I miss feeling my emotions rage as words can no longer express my feelings. I miss talking through music, trying to reach your heart. But you’ve already turned your ear away to listen to a melancholy tune, even though I am right next to you snatching for your friendship
Piano keys beckon
Ivory and black sounds fill the air
With old, many-fingered memories that reside in the dust.
Light filters into the room, making dust-dancers
Piano keys beckon.
Come play with me.
I wish I knew how to play the piano. I could learn how to by watching how-to videos on Youtube, but I don’t have the heart for it. So does this mean that I don’t have the heart to learn to play the piano, or it’s simply a wishful thinking of mine to play a musical instrument?
Meow
“You can’t play the piano!”
“Haha, how do you know? You’ve never seen me play on a piano before.” His fingers stumble over invisible keys and Petunia can hear the ding-ding-ding each time a finger stabs down.
“Well, I…would have known.” She finishes lamely. But Elijah smiles and moves and his hands are caught in a ghost rhythm, forever held in place by a song she cannot hear. She knows almost everything about him, she thinks. Doesn’t she?
“Are you sure about that?” Elijah keeps playing the piano and Petunia, despite her best efforts, hears nothing.
my fingers hurt, I’ve been playing my piano for far too long.
sparkling notes come to life under my fingertips
only after hours of hard work, says mama.
too much hard work, too much time.
I never thought I’d get such a pretty word to write poetry about, though.
back, back — be like Beethoven, be like Bach,
don’t question, just drive forward. keep working hard.
sophrochronia said I should stop.
well I’m keeps on, let me do so, because I love my piano, my piano is my soul, my pieces, my tying rope.
she is the instrument of my despair and love.
poet
The long line of keys made the world simpler. A simple flick of the black or white would make a noise that would make the room vibrate with a gentle prod, and slowly die away in a dissipating echo.
The piano crashed down the stairs, making the most beautiful music she had ever heard for just a moment before scattering ebony and ivory teeth across the stairwell floor.
At first the notes were so lovely, smoot legato tones. But as she continued, the notes began to melt into a disharmonic jumble. She banged out the dissonant notes. Those near enough to hear covered their ears and grimaced at the harsh sounds. The girl at the ppiano turned around, a wide grin on her face. “Didn’t you like it?” She asked sweetly. She turned back to the piano and played one more unearthly chord. All within a five foot radius collapsed.
The piano in granny foyer was the oldest thing in the house. She rarely played it. Instead she chose to brighten it up with beautiful flowers she’d buy every week.
The piano had become her solace. She played 24/7, beautiful tunes that caused others to have the urge to dance, or weep, or sing. Her slender fingers danced across the ivory keys, taking her mind off of the issues in her life. When she played, nothing mattered. She was in her happy place, the place where nothing could hurt her.
Emily
The lid over the piano keys smashed across her hands. Bits of bone and ivory scattered in a macabre symphony of snaps.
Black and white
Major and minor
High and low
Grand and daughter
Classic and Jazz
So different
Yet so same
So beautiful
Music
Bobert
I play piano. I have playing piano for 6 years. I like to play piano. I am good at piano. Still, I am not VERY good at it.
ken
The piano keys pressed smoothly under his fingers and I wondered if they knew what a master he was at this art. Music played into the air like a summer’s breeze, gentle yet strong enough to carry the heat of the moment across your skin. Goosebumps raised gently on the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine that made my toes curl inside my pointed shoes. I felt as if I could see the music notes dancing in the air, heavy upon the smoke that lingered from the fireplace. I stared into the fire, lost in a piano’s dance.
The black and white keys seemed to float in and out of her consciousness as she lost herself in the music. It was easy for her to become lost in the eighth and sixteenth notes, and often she found that the quarter notes were equally mesmerizing when placed in the right spots.
The keys that create a symphony. Simplicity that turns into complicated and lively music. Black and white make a rainbow of sound. Tuning the fine instrument takes time, a delicate process. The magic cannot be rushed. When completed and played, a piano puts one’s mind at ease with the press of a key. Several keys together and you have changed a mood, a life, a world.
Lexis
I see her sitting playing her piano, a beautiful melody, an enchanting song. Such a beautiful girl plays piano with such beautiful fingers. Those same fingers could tell a story, play a story. Sing the audience a lovely song with the voice she hides away. The girl speaks through her music and I believe I may be the only one in the room who hears her story. Does the audience feel the sadness? Could they ever feel the pain? Are they taken away by the beauty that is played on the piano? I start to wonder if I went to the piano after the performance, if I could feel the imprint of a tortured soul. I was once like the audience, there was a time when I couldn’t feel the sadness. There was a time when I couldn’t feel the pain. There was a time when I could listen to the girl’s music and not cry.
As I listen in this concert hall, at this very moment, I find my hand brushing away a tear. This particular song tells the story of a heart broken girl. Typical this may sound, yes, but I assure there is something more to the broken hearted girl…
It begins on a summer day, a day made perfect by the gods for two young souls to fall in love. The summer breeze blew through her long blowing hair. She looked like a mirage. She was far to beautiful to be real, yet she was. One would asked to be pinched, it must be a dream. Although starring at her for long enough anyone would accept and ask not to be taken away from the beautiful sight.
My eyes swelled with her beauty. I was lost in the sight, and I wanted to stay lost forever.
Kara Kamieniecki
She plays me like the shining white keys upon which her silvery tones roar with unexpected tenderness. Staccato black accents ring out in shrill, ringing beats, and I am left upon the doorstep yet again, the pedal holding her last notes in an ominous moan.
Deep into thought it takes me, every delicate and precise touch of a key, to the day of sweet romance, dancing with the beauties of beauties oh how I miss that homely smile. Now the tune changes, I’m running, chasing foxes weaving through fence holes and jumping fallen branches. When he plays the piano, there is no where I couldn’t go. Nothing I couldn’t be.
Jose
He played each person perfectly. Each to their own tune and each right down to the last note. There wasn’t much he couldn’t play and tonight he was going to meet that someone. She would be the first. The first and only.
This is the worst sound I have ever heard! Why isn’t this in tune? screamed the director. We can’t have our rehearsal with those wretched sounds coming out of that horrible instrument!
It’s the only piano in the place, I whispered, trying to hide behind the curtain.
A grand piano sat in the middle of the airport, unplayed. People were rushing to and from various gates, paying no attention to the marvel that stood alone in the middle of the place balanced on three wooden legs, perfectly tuned and ready to create comforting, soothing sounds for all those within earshot. Hundreds upon hundreds of years were put into perfecting this mechanical music making box; thousands of years into the development of the tones it could produce (represented by the first seven letters of the English alphabet [almost comically simple]). But there it stood, black and alone, while people walked by without notice.
The piano, a magnificent piece of life that has a beating heart…a beating heart that only lives when its touched. A beating heart in the shape or black and white rectangles.
I wish I would’ve learned how to play piano,
maybe it would’ve made me more cultured.
But I don’t have the patience
to memorize the notes
and play the keys.
I guess sometimes you gotta
sacrifice some things
for your own sanity.
plays music, pretty, white.
Hyperbolicsyllablicsesquedalymistic.
Play me music
Play me songs
Play me feelings
Play my soul
the human brain is biologically conditioned
to perceive motion,
to find life.
we see the ocean crash against the shore
and think, /look how much the water
loves the rock.
they kiss for every second they’re apart./
the sun and the moon are rarely in the same sky
so we interpret eclipses as we please.
/they’ve been chasing each other for so long,
they refuse to share light
for the ten minutes they’re allowed
to simply stand still./
maybe the tree’s branches aren’t arms
stretched out in prayer,
maybe monkeys don’t really know how to embrace.
logically there isn’t a piano in the room,
but when you came in i heard the music anyway.
a piano is a musical instrument. you play it with your fingers. people are taught to play the piano after school and at the weekends. a piano can be big or small, electrical or not. a piano has keys. some keys are white, some keys are black. i know how to play very basic piano music. my faviourite is the entertainer.
the piano was her only instrument that she could speak through. It wasn’t that she lacked the ability, it was that she could not express raw human emotion without it. She felt superficial without her piano, her instrument of total human emotion. She loved but could never say “I love you”. She hated, but she could never spite her enemies. All she could do was play her love and her hate, her every single feeling, through her piano.
The jangling keys of the piano set her teeth on edge. Scott Joplin, she thought; why does every pianist in every restaurant have to play Scott Joplin?
She sat by the window, watched the rain flood the windows. Raindrops smudged the ‘piano’ from the half-written poem which lay naked, next to the window. She had the fondest memories about her first piano; the smell of its wood still came back to her, every now and then, catching her by surprise. That potent smell, which almost burst like a bubble next to her, incensed her.
The notes fill the room and I cannot believe it is your fingers caressing the keys that make such wonderful music.
“When was the last time you heard music?” she asked as she sat down at the piano.
“There was the mix tape that the bus driver played nonstop for ten hours,” he replied.
“I’m guessing it wasn’t Chopin.”
“I’m pretty sure it was a soundtrack to his own personal movie. Mostly about love, I’m figuring from the tone of the duets.”
She opened the keyboard and sat down. “Mostly about love,” she said, her fingers tracing the keys. “Must happen to you a lot.”
I like the piano. my daughter plays it beautifuuy;.
piano, piano piano piano – don’t get played. that’s grand black keys white keys and that foot peddle used to do the storm – light tinkling drops, then thunder then a torrent of banging notes soon tailing off into the tinkling again. wait, that wasn’t quite right and again until my dad hustled into the room to end it
Pianos. The main medium of much music which spreads across the world today. I consider the movement of fingers across the embonies and ivories of history to be a talent that have preserved much emotion, culture and traditions across the centuries. When someone has the ability to simply pick up a piece of music and turn dots and squiggles across a page into a story, a movement of complexity and ideas they are an artist. Piano. A window to a persons soul.
The wind howled outside, blustery gusts relentlessly throwing rain and sleet against the windowpanes. But inside Magnalinia Hall, it was warm and bright with festival goers reveling in every delight. The Duke of Callington guffawed at somewhat that The General had said and young courtiers giggled and blushed as Prince Lexan strutted past them. I daresay he enjoyed the attention all too much. With tables groaning with the weight of food, beer and wine flowing freely and merriment all around, no-one was thinking of the war. They had come here for respite. To forget. Even if it was only for a little while. Earl Dankar pulled up a stool to the grand old piano and started to play a happy tune and before I could get caught up in a somber mood, I got whisked up into a line of dancing men and women. Well and so, let me forget then, but just for tonight.
Pia! What do you do when you see her? Your heart says “no” but your mouth utters “yes.” And then, when you finally gather all your courage to refuse her and her monstrous orders, she will still make you believe you just want to play her a song.. So you sit next to the piano and obey her once again. Pia.. no..
I miss the keys dancing under my fingers as a minuet or etude comes to life on my ears, I miss feeling my emotions rage as words can no longer express my feelings. I miss talking through music, trying to reach your heart. But you’ve already turned your ear away to listen to a melancholy tune, even though I am right next to you snatching for your friendship
Piano keys beckon
Ivory and black sounds fill the air
With old, many-fingered memories that reside in the dust.
Light filters into the room, making dust-dancers
Piano keys beckon.
Come play with me.
I wish I knew how to play the piano. I could learn how to by watching how-to videos on Youtube, but I don’t have the heart for it. So does this mean that I don’t have the heart to learn to play the piano, or it’s simply a wishful thinking of mine to play a musical instrument?
“You can’t play the piano!”
“Haha, how do you know? You’ve never seen me play on a piano before.” His fingers stumble over invisible keys and Petunia can hear the ding-ding-ding each time a finger stabs down.
“Well, I…would have known.” She finishes lamely. But Elijah smiles and moves and his hands are caught in a ghost rhythm, forever held in place by a song she cannot hear. She knows almost everything about him, she thinks. Doesn’t she?
“Are you sure about that?” Elijah keeps playing the piano and Petunia, despite her best efforts, hears nothing.
my fingers hurt, I’ve been playing my piano for far too long.
sparkling notes come to life under my fingertips
only after hours of hard work, says mama.
too much hard work, too much time.
I never thought I’d get such a pretty word to write poetry about, though.
back, back — be like Beethoven, be like Bach,
don’t question, just drive forward. keep working hard.
sophrochronia said I should stop.
well I’m keeps on, let me do so, because I love my piano, my piano is my soul, my pieces, my tying rope.
she is the instrument of my despair and love.
The long line of keys made the world simpler. A simple flick of the black or white would make a noise that would make the room vibrate with a gentle prod, and slowly die away in a dissipating echo.
fingers slide over
pale flesh, beautiful
rhythm; your forte
The piano crashed down the stairs, making the most beautiful music she had ever heard for just a moment before scattering ebony and ivory teeth across the stairwell floor.
At first the notes were so lovely, smoot legato tones. But as she continued, the notes began to melt into a disharmonic jumble. She banged out the dissonant notes. Those near enough to hear covered their ears and grimaced at the harsh sounds. The girl at the ppiano turned around, a wide grin on her face. “Didn’t you like it?” She asked sweetly. She turned back to the piano and played one more unearthly chord. All within a five foot radius collapsed.
The end.
The piano in granny foyer was the oldest thing in the house. She rarely played it. Instead she chose to brighten it up with beautiful flowers she’d buy every week.
The piano had become her solace. She played 24/7, beautiful tunes that caused others to have the urge to dance, or weep, or sing. Her slender fingers danced across the ivory keys, taking her mind off of the issues in her life. When she played, nothing mattered. She was in her happy place, the place where nothing could hurt her.
The lid over the piano keys smashed across her hands. Bits of bone and ivory scattered in a macabre symphony of snaps.
Black and white
Major and minor
High and low
Grand and daughter
Classic and Jazz
So different
Yet so same
So beautiful
Music
I play piano. I have playing piano for 6 years. I like to play piano. I am good at piano. Still, I am not VERY good at it.
The piano keys pressed smoothly under his fingers and I wondered if they knew what a master he was at this art. Music played into the air like a summer’s breeze, gentle yet strong enough to carry the heat of the moment across your skin. Goosebumps raised gently on the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine that made my toes curl inside my pointed shoes. I felt as if I could see the music notes dancing in the air, heavy upon the smoke that lingered from the fireplace. I stared into the fire, lost in a piano’s dance.
The black and white keys seemed to float in and out of her consciousness as she lost herself in the music. It was easy for her to become lost in the eighth and sixteenth notes, and often she found that the quarter notes were equally mesmerizing when placed in the right spots.
The keys that create a symphony. Simplicity that turns into complicated and lively music. Black and white make a rainbow of sound. Tuning the fine instrument takes time, a delicate process. The magic cannot be rushed. When completed and played, a piano puts one’s mind at ease with the press of a key. Several keys together and you have changed a mood, a life, a world.
I see her sitting playing her piano, a beautiful melody, an enchanting song. Such a beautiful girl plays piano with such beautiful fingers. Those same fingers could tell a story, play a story. Sing the audience a lovely song with the voice she hides away. The girl speaks through her music and I believe I may be the only one in the room who hears her story. Does the audience feel the sadness? Could they ever feel the pain? Are they taken away by the beauty that is played on the piano? I start to wonder if I went to the piano after the performance, if I could feel the imprint of a tortured soul. I was once like the audience, there was a time when I couldn’t feel the sadness. There was a time when I couldn’t feel the pain. There was a time when I could listen to the girl’s music and not cry.
As I listen in this concert hall, at this very moment, I find my hand brushing away a tear. This particular song tells the story of a heart broken girl. Typical this may sound, yes, but I assure there is something more to the broken hearted girl…
It begins on a summer day, a day made perfect by the gods for two young souls to fall in love. The summer breeze blew through her long blowing hair. She looked like a mirage. She was far to beautiful to be real, yet she was. One would asked to be pinched, it must be a dream. Although starring at her for long enough anyone would accept and ask not to be taken away from the beautiful sight.
My eyes swelled with her beauty. I was lost in the sight, and I wanted to stay lost forever.
She plays me like the shining white keys upon which her silvery tones roar with unexpected tenderness. Staccato black accents ring out in shrill, ringing beats, and I am left upon the doorstep yet again, the pedal holding her last notes in an ominous moan.
Deep into thought it takes me, every delicate and precise touch of a key, to the day of sweet romance, dancing with the beauties of beauties oh how I miss that homely smile. Now the tune changes, I’m running, chasing foxes weaving through fence holes and jumping fallen branches. When he plays the piano, there is no where I couldn’t go. Nothing I couldn’t be.
He played each person perfectly. Each to their own tune and each right down to the last note. There wasn’t much he couldn’t play and tonight he was going to meet that someone. She would be the first. The first and only.