I Could Have Played Piano ...

Once upon a time, my grandparents had a piano. I believe it was for my mother, but I never heard her play it.

It sat in our living room. I remember a piano tuner coming once to do his magic on it. But mostly it just sat. Oh, I plinked and plunked on it when nobody was looking. But, of course, I couldn't play it.

I didn't feel deprived, and I don't now. There was that imposing upright musical instrument which fed my imagination. I dreamed of playing it someday ... like I dreamed of many other things.

Then one day it was sold. Strangers came to move that magical creation carefully through the front door, down the front steps and into the truck.

And that was that ... except for the poem (be prepared for a slight twist with this one), originally published in Midwest Poetry Review:

I Could Have Played Piano

My long, skinny fingers

itching for things to do,

toes just barely reaching

the pedals, and my bottom

gripping the slippery edge

of the bench, I dreamed

of playing ragtime, gospel,

boogie-woogie, maybe even

some of that girl-pleasing,

tough, classical stuff.

What I did was what

seemed to come naturally.

With only one lesson,

I flung myself into all

of the old favorites,

playing each several times

before going exuberantly

to the next. Finally,

Grandpa admitted he was

sorry he had taught me

what could be wrought

with a comb and paper.

Oh, I could have played

piano, no doubt, but my lips

wouldn't feel all numb

and fuzzy, like they do now.

© 1997

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

I just might try those lessons, Meg ... even though I have visions of driving some poor, unsuspecting teacher up the wall. Meanwhile, I shall continue my listening. I'm a fan of piano, even when I don't know the title of what's being played. But violin is my favorite ... it has so many voices, can convey so many moods. Thanks for your suggestion.

***

Today's word: fuzzy

Summer Dancers ...

I thought you might not mind a summer poem today, a mini-break from what remains of winter.

I'm not quite ready for an abrupt plunge into summer weather, mind you ... I can take a transition to spring first. I do find myself thinking more of summer, though, in this opposite season. I don't tolerate winter cold as well as I once did, and shoveling has become more of a chore.

Of course, when summer really comes, I'll probably find myself thinking of crisp, cool mornings, the sun glinting on a new covering of snow ... my search for mittens and scarf.

Meanwhile, here's a glimpse of a place long, long ago and far away, originally published in Capper's:

Summer Dancers

Flecks of sunlight

descend through

the leafy canopy,

dancing on the path,

still dancing

after the breeze

has gone off

toward a hillside

lush with wheat

that slowly leans

and straightens,

as though hearing

soft music, too.

© 2001

***

Today's word: canopy

Been-Rejected Blues ...

I've got those

low down,
good for nothin'
been-rejected blues.

My meter seems fine.
My rhyme? Sublime.
So why, I whine,
this awful mess
I find myself in,
so sad and unseemly,
loaded with chagrin?

Beats me. I've just
got 'em. Bad as they
get, I guess,
those unexpected,
pain-injected,
stripped down nekked,
been-rejected blues.

© 2001

(received an honorable mention award in Ohio Poetry Day competition)

***

Today's word: unexpected

Letting Them Crawl ...

These words I write

are the embers

of a fire that has

smoldered far longer

than I had imagined

it would. How much

longer the sparks

will race among

the cooling ashes

of my past, I have

no way of knowing,

but I intend

to give them air,

let them crawl

as long as they will

on this journey

toward becoming

something that has

the sound of poetry.

© 1996

(originally published in ByLine)

***

Today's word: embers

Fickle Petunias ...

I have a nodding

acquaintance
with some petunias
who bob excitedly
when I walk by,
but then they
do the same when
a stranger passes.

© 1995

(originally published in Capper's)

I know ... I've gone a bit off-season with this one, but I like to do that sometimes ... to remind myself of those warmer days, no ice on the sidewalks, no spinning tires at the curb ... shirt sleeves weather, with the petunias bobbing excitedly when I walk by ... or merely hanging out together where they've been planted, envying the freedom of movement I have. Ah, those were wonderful warm days. And they will come again. Won't they?

***

Today's word: fickle

Solitary Candle ...

My candle sculpts

itself in its corner
of the room, flame
gyrating in the draft,
tiny avalanches
of wax slithering
into the maw,
a fungible, seething
mass that labors
back up the wick
to sacrifice itself
as a bit of light,
distant warmth. It
flickers, warning me
that I shall soon miss
the warmth, its quiet
companionship, gently
flowing memories, its
solitary, sustaining
work of holding
the darkness at bay.
© 1996
(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

***

Today's word: fungible

My Heart Listens ...

This winter night

like no other I have

known, trees glisten

with newborn snow,

shining armor that

seizes the moonlight,

sends it dancing

down the corridors

of my mind. Oh, this

quiet night, my heart

listens to the song

and dances, too.

© 2005

(published in Winter, 2005 issue of Brave Hearts)

This poem was written during a few quiet moments on Christmas Eve, 1997. You will note that it was published approximately eight years later. Patience, my writing friends. Patience.

During those eight years it received many tweakings (that happens almost every time I look at something I've written) ... and, because I keep track of such things, I note that I did seven major revisions.

It was sent out about twenty times, and came back to me, for various reasons. Patience, remember? Ah, but then it arrived in the right place at the right time, pleased an editor, and was published.

I glory in that, not because it will make me rich or famous, but because I believe poetry is meant to be shared. I am delighted that this piece is being shared with Brave Hearts readers, and now with you.

I don't remember the weather on the evening it was written. Wintry, no doubt, with cold winds and falling snow.

It reminded me of so many winter evenings when I was growing up. What beauty the snow brought to the countryside. What magic there seemed to be in that transformation. What music seemed to enter my being. How my heart danced at the thought of tomorrow.

And now, all these years later, my heart still "listens" ... and dances when it snows.

***

Today's word: newborn