Going to the concert hall. The best way to get there? Practice, practice, practice! Do you play a musical instrument? Did you ever? Did you want to?

Write a poem about the instrument you play/played/wanted to play.

Don’t worry, we’ll hum along (unless we know the words). Give us a clue to the music in you! Make it lyrical, make it sing.

20 thoughts on “JULY COVID-19 P.A.D. – DAY 14 MUSIC MAESTRO, PLEASE

  1. Ukulele

    I picture an evening campfire
    on a beach in Maui, Hawaii
    and me strumming my ukulele
    with my friends singing with me,
    songs from silly to sacred, as I
    plunk, plunk along in my lessons
    with the cute smiling online guy.

  2. MAKE IT SING, by Walter J Wojtanik

    Make the notes sing,
    make the notes laugh.
    Tickle the “ivories”
    posed as plastic keys.
    Music lives within each breath
    that ebony and ivory breathes
    into the night sky.
    I try to make it soft and subtle,
    no rebuttal for this melody,
    eventually it acquires legs
    and begs to run wild.
    A departure from mild,
    an overture in style.
    I play a keyboard
    with all the passion my fingers can bring,
    making it laugh, making it sing.

  3. S


    Heaven forfend
    that my classes would end,
    because of Miss Reacher,
    my peach of a teacher.
    My parents desired
    that I be inspired
    to learn musical notes,
    though I had no votes.
    Though no valedictorian
    on the piano accordion,
    I stayed with Miss Reacher,
    that peach of a teacher,
    until she off and married,
    and my squeeze box was buried,
    and sports tapped my shoulder
    until I grew older,
    wishing in lessons I’d stayed,
    that today I still played.

  4. The Phone Rings

    late at night before the funeral
    in a day and a half
    Pastor telling me how the grieving
    widow is fine with the service
    music but has a request

    just one as she lays him to rest
    Pastor apologizing for the late hour
    this last minute request
    as I wait and wonder

    which old hymn she might add
    until he says she wants Danny Boy
    just that and I don’t know how
    to say no even as sheer panic

    rises in my chest not having
    a single sheet of music nor
    having ever played it and the gap
    of years between eleven

    kicking bobby socked legs above
    the pedals of the huge pipe organ
    in the church looming larger
    minutes ticking their own crescendo

    even as I offer to try, make no promises,
    understandably mumbling I’m sure
    before my own Irish kicks in and
    the games on and I’m prayin’

    to St. Cecilia our patroness of music
    and lost-cause, last-ditch musicians
    scores soon pouring from the printer
    and finally notes from the 1911 piano

    soon to transform into harmonies
    on an organ, tolling melodies across
    an Irish Sea, cliffs echoing the rise
    and fall of pipes and aching

    of the widow now and then
    lifting her handkerchief to dab damp
    eyes and only seeing his final resting
    place in the polished wooden casket

    the tiny chapel absolutely quiet
    except for the plaintive sounds
    calling and my fingers drawing forth
    one last gift for a wayfaring stranger
    and a widow with her simple request

    who would never know the frenzied cost
    of fulfilling her beloved’s last wish or
    that ‘twas only by the grace of the Virgin
    and all the Saints that nary a note was missed.

    • This was amazing to read, since the last funeral I attended in person involved the pastor singing “Danny Boy” at the request of the family and accompanying himself on the guitar! As a substitute organist at my childhood church, I loved the way this made me feel. Wonderful, Pat.

  5. A poem about playing the piano
    feels so pedestrian somehow.

    Doesn’t everyone plunk out a tune
    now and then? Perhaps, like me, with
    parents who paid for lessons, praying
    that the pounding would be prettified
    into a piece fit to perform for an
    appreciative public.

    Even as practicing felt like penance,
    there was progress to a point, but
    my playing was never perfect —
    Paderewski, I plainly was not —
    and, now at seventy-plus, I play
    only five easy pieces, no sharps

  6. Oh I think there’s nothing pedestrian about Women if a Certain Age nor their ability to still love those five easy pieces. Nice snapshot of still owning the skill!!:))

  7. I miss my Les Paul
    My stolen burgundy ax
    It’s just not a Strat

    Guitar Blues

    Way back in nineteen and seventy-nine
    It came time to reenlist
    So I took my bonus and bought a Les Paul
    And looked forward to some six-string bliss

    Then orders came down and I had to pack up
    From Germany to Japan I would move
    When I got there I waited for my stuff
    I was ready to start my Les Paul groove

    But with my shipment there came a notice
    My Les Paul had been stolen en route
    Heartbroken and mad I stopped playing
    And I sold my Twin Reverb to boot

    Looking back that was a big mistake
    I was in Japan after all
    If I’d only I’d just cleared my mind
    I could have picked up another Les Paul

    Forty years later and I still miss that thing
    There no better guitar in this world
    Event the Strat that hangs on my wall
    Can’t measure up that my old LP girl

    And being retired on limited funds
    A Les Pau’s just a dream, nothing more
    At least not a Gibson, but maybe a copy
    Or get lucky at a second hand store

  8. Pingback: The Piano in My Mind | purplepeninportland

  9. The Piano In My Mind

    I begged
    them to buy
    me a piano.
    Mom said they could not afford it,
    and besides, she exclaimed, I know you’d never practice.
    She may have been right, but I still daydream of playing jazz, blues, or
    classical music.

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