The Piano

The Piano prose poem

Photo by Hoder Slanger

In front of me are eighty-eight keys,
Waiting in anticipation for music to be made.
Gently, I place my hands on the ivory,
And arpeggios and scales alike flow like a river.
My grandmother sits beside me,
Beaming like the sun at my musicality.

At the age of eleven,
She waits at the schoolhouse.
Her mother worked hard to pay for her lessons,
Selling butter and eggs.
Twenty-five cents is all that can be given.
As she practices from the hymnal at home,
Her mother sits in the corner,
Beaming like the sun at her musicality.

In an old church,
She waits for her teacher to arrive.
Her father did everything he could to find music for her.
She opens up an old hymnal,
Playing chord after chord.
Although the room is empty,
She can feel a warmth moving through.
She smiles as she looks down at the keys,
Beaming like the sun at her musicality.

Although this gentle black beast can be tamed in many ways,
It has been the one thing that has brought my family together.
For four generations,
We have gathered around to listen to the hymns of old,
Or even savor in the newer arrangements.
But, no matter where we were,
Or which piano we were gathered around,
Our Father stood in the corner,
Beaming like the sun at our musicality.

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Kathryn Sain

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I've been writing poetry ever since middle school, but I've never really thought about releasing my work to the public until coming to college. Currently, I am studying music as my major and English as my minor.
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Piano long poem

Room full of candles, casting shadows on the French doors, in a gust of wind they swing open and the leaves blow in. In the dead of the night the Piano plays our song, all by itself. Almost scared to