He sat at our ancient stool
rubbing hands for warmth,
I watched him many times,
long fingers flexing, sadly bending
from the ageing disease.
He pecked at the keys
testing here and there
for quality and tone,
always a skilful ear.
All his paper music
he cast aside on Sunday,
the mood was his alone,
rhythms and refrain
spreading to his bones.
He swayed, he played,
something from Chopin,
A Souza March or,
a finger perfect rendition of
‘The Flight Of The Bumble Bee.’
When prompted to change his tune,
(mom wont be denied)
there was harmony in the air
and clapping, feet were tapping,
but he leaves us again.
Feet pump the pedals
fingers take the keys,
Jumpin’ Jack Flash
Good Golly Miss Molly,
Great Balls Of Fire.
Yee haa.
All too soon its dusk
the music slip’s away
and we all sit down to
a quiet Sunday tea.
Beatrice Evans
Author notes
This is a prewrite
A contest entry
- poetrandy Remembers! I want some memories of your bygone days! by poetrandy.
1000 points, ended October 10, 2008, 25 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Music in a house is a magic way to bring families together. I can just see a home come to life here with everyone singing alone to those timeless tunes. Well written and best of luck in the contest...alby
-
Very different!
Great poem! Good work, good luck in the contest!
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