Mom has been gone for years
but just now I was brought to tears
from a poem about my childhood piano playing
and how she patiently listened, probably pained
Mom told me she loved hearing me play soft or loud
and ‘twas the one thing I could do to make Dad proud.

Replaying years of hurt for mistakes they made
bound me in shadows and shade,
but now late in life I again recall
the character of their care for my soul
and cherish the humanity of these two
and their suffering that got me through.

the tempest rages
a storm is all it can be
nature is absolved

the piano you played for me
their keys light like the sun
in your eyes gently playing me
a song we wrote between shared cups
of tea, picked flowers in the field
shoved into a pocket always big enough to fit
both of our hands.

Writing music is the sweet pear dream
I plucked from a choir in springling years.
Back then I also dreamt of mermaid kisses
and reality television.
Why would a beast wish me music now?

One place, from just one place,
resounds these sounds, unbound for all around.
The feathery sound of the heavens can not escape,
as it’s notes crescendo to its highest peak.
No nor the deepest depths of despair its range,
as notes played so dreary, it escapes all theory.
Painted plains and the rolling hills,
mountains and the watery deep,
no love story, no loss too great,
for this wonderful instruments array, to portray.
A walk through a forest,
running through fields,
even outer space is touched with it’s grace.
Yes for every moment this masterpiece,
designed by magicians,
has just the right beat.
Although immobile it’s not ignoble,
yes the piano quite contrary, is not stationary.