November 27, 2011

World of Hearing                                                             

There's something about the piano. 

Simple lyric-less expression into keys
Notes like post-its everywhere I turn my face
surrounding me
reminding me of a simple world,
Simplicity returning to a tired mind
Falling into lullabies...
There's something about the piano. 

Sometimes
Eerie weary tired sounds
Reverberating once and twice and again
Beckon--
Singing invitations
to slip inside a world 
where echoes softly play
and cover wounded hearts

A place where tears are old clothes
Worn and worn into wasted rags
But nobody cares because
     The norm is emotional. 
The regular passerby wave
 in somber contemplation
 lost in secret melodies,
  Dreams running free,
  Effortless imaginations. 

Carried here in my willing heart
I am moved
This resting place holds me
Gentle like a hammock swaying,
 back and forth,
Swaying this body 
 moving me,
 slowing my breath into trance-existence 
and singing the eyelids shut,
   Yes, there's 
    something about the piano. 

Something about the swift motion on ivory
sweeping melodies into my consciousness
Like I never had a choice
Those fingers, graceful and swift,
 somehow so ignorant
Perhaps intentionally oblivious to
 open hearts, real words, and Lyric.
The secret whispers of
Thoughtful silence in a mind 
  that weeps another tragedy,
Are heavy ringing for the world,
Yet shut in a closed room.

After
Dancing softer sounds
slow and come to an end
Honey tasting rhythms,
Haunting thousands of my years,
Bow and retire

  I emerge.

Sweet bliss is stolen 
And reality reminds me,
 Consequence
hits me like a frontal car collision.
Fluidity turns blunt like truth 
to innocent ignorance
and the careless swimming of my thoughts
ceases to yield a pleasant wonder.

In honest sadness I go
 And when I do
I want to take him with me
Where haunting never dares
To weigh down the hopeful heart
And eternity
Sweeps hopeful dreamers off their feet
And into so much more than sleep,
Sweet moments of new life
Reality sweeter, warmer, better than a hot mug
Bringing comfort 
On the wings of notes
 sung in creativity with a purpose
Knowing that no matter the task,
completed here now whenever,
Doing doing doing becomes 
rest in written freedom,
giving reasons to run and

A sweet newness awaits.
it will beget wisdom 
in the refining of learning
 because theorizing is dead 
  locked away with the keys 
   played forever and ever
And 
in the 
arms of peace and
melodic enlightenment
we listen hear and know


it is finished.




2 comments:

xkiimi said...

great.. i feel just the same when i play the piano. (:

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