Remembrances=Pat, Mike, Crystal, Joyce = Day 18: aaduna's NPM Celebration

Piano

This nine foot grand piano has logged many miles

Seen many transformations

Gave so much to us all

Originally spirited from New York City from Mitch Miller's practice studio,

she made her way to a Syracuse music store

Where very poor newlyweds discovered their first prized possession

Off this prize went to our small farmhouse

Where the floorboards creaked and moaned in protest

Supports were soon placed in the basement

So she could rest safely on the first floor

Still, her sturdy structure left her marks

With dips and swells, bumps and scratches

"Watch your step" became our constant mantra

We had a farm, but my husband was first and foremost a musician

Classically trained and immensely talented

He didn't hesitate to rush home after his Dad's passing

To become man of the manor

Countless hours of Chopin and Mozart

Piano students in and out of the house

Soon, he'd be teaching his favorite student, our baby daughter

Who blossomed under Poppo's tutelage

Later, The Muppet theme and The Rainbow Connection

Became part of his repertroire

Holidays and celebrations

Were centered around this -

Our fifth family member, the heart of our home

Then, the economy turned sour

The "small family farm" was becoming extinct

Finally, painfully, we sold the farm and moved eight miles away

But a world apart

Marty began selling pianos

Eventually buying his own store

And for fifteen years, we did well

Once again, the economy declined, this time more severe

Folks weren't buying luxury items

And piano lessons weren't top priority

But never did we consider selling our piano

To offset expenses

Suddenly, illness struck the pianist

So catastrophic that the music stopped in our house

A good day was marked by the familiar sound of beautiful music

We could all breathe for a moment

When he passed, it seemed that this lovely giant mourned, too

But she stood proudly paying homage to her master and friend

Now, after eight years, she will travel to Albany where she'll live

In my daughter's Victorian home.  Circa 1905

There, she may someday teach her child about music

And her dad and tradition

© 2017 Pat D’agostino                                   

Auburn, New York 
                

Pat D'agostino (photo provided)

* * *

Writer's Almanac

This Blaise Pascal guy

was pretty heavy

back in the day.

Imagine air having weight.

He did. I can't. And that is why

there's vacuums. Pressure exerted

on a fluid in a closed vessel

sounds equivalent to oppression

if you ask me. And perhaps Pascal

didn't roll that way but

that's how probability goes:

Hostilities mount

between God and numbers.

Right angles, and Heaven's

coefficients.

© 2014 Mike Jurkovic                        

Wallkill, New York                

 

Mike Jurkovic (photo provided)

* * *

Until the End

Sometimes it’s the first few notes of a piano played with nimble fingers

that shatter the calm of a lonely drive on a winter’s day

the sky dark while I rage and pound the steering wheel

remembering the moment I heard the words telling me you were gone.

Sometimes it’s the first few cords wrung with heartrending beauty

from a black and silver guitar like the one that you used to play while I lay beside you

lost in a world only we could know, clinging to one another

wishing the whole world would fade away

and sometimes it’s a whisper on a night that’s dark and long

when I watch the shadows play along the wall

and listen to the wind carry you voice from a lifetime away

Who could have known there’d be no goodbyes when we promised each other forever.

Tearstained anniversaries and a million regrets,

a hundred questions, a thousand what ifs, and a single image of a mocking grave.

They could bury your body but I’ve seen your soul in an endless string of highway signs

screaming to me from ocean waves like you’re still out their surfing, and laughing, and showing off.

How could you be gone when I still see you in the shadows of every room you used to walk?

How can I forget that I was yours long before I was anything else that mattered?

If a whisper in the night could bring you back then I’ll listen for every whisper

until the end.

© 2014 Crystal Berche                                   

Osage, Virginia

Crystal Berche (photo provided)

* * *

RACE DELAYED

“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This is a world in arms.”   

--Dwight D. Eisenhower “Chance for Peace”

                                                           

Did we put all the money in the packets?

At the beginning of the line where everyone was lined

Up horizontal and even for the dash—

did everyone have the same amount in the packets we stuffed?

We’ve never done that

though we heard that if we did the same

people would end up with extra

packets again; the same two-jobs, back-

to-back, mortgage-problem people with slobber-sick-kids

with fewer packets.

Everyone elected would come in

first. Everyone already in would come in

again, first,

everyone with most of the packets says.

Yet

it would be fun stuffing

the packets evenly

once.

                       

© 2014 Joyce Miller                           

Cincinnati, Ohio                     

Joyce Miller (photo provided)

 *   *   *

aaduna - a timeless exploration into words and images - is a globally read, multi-cultural, and diverse online literary and visual arts journal established in 2010.  Visit us at www.aaduna.org where we put measurable actions to our words.

Help us build community!  Share with your friends,  "like" our Aaduna-Inc facebook page and follow us on twitter @ aadunaspeaks !  

 aaduna-Inc  Visit regularly for updates !

 @aadunaspeaks