My heart is folded for every guy I’ve ever loved. Its this weird accordion that will always be this black hole. I’ll always need more love…but I do love back. Funny how that works.
Denouemont… Accordion? Lotte was intently focused on her French exam when the barely audible, lofty tune of an accordion being played interrupted her rational thought pattern. Her mind wasn’t much for wandering, she made certain of it. Whenever her thoughts meandered, Lotte was there, playing the role of a shepherdess guiding the thought-sheep back into their mind-pen with a barbed iron crook. The accordion’s music increased the more she tried to forget about it.
Denouemont… Accordion? Lotte was intently focused on her French exam when the lofty tune of an accordion being played interrupted her rational thought pattern. Her mind wasn’t much for wandering. Whenever her thoughts meandered, she was there, a shepherdess guiding the thought-heep back into their mind-pen with a barbed iron crook.
Play it or listen to it, it can be soothing or stressful, depending on the type of tune that is intended. Big and awkward to hold also. Makes you wonder if it’s trying to make your life easier or not?
I picked up the accordion, then flung it to the side, resentful of all it represented. I can’t remember the last time I heard accordion music and didn’t become inflamed with anger. I walked out the door, determined to never look back again.
The piece of paper was folded like that of an accordian. Each layer, she thought, was just one layer of life. There were many layers to this life that each of us were given to live. She was in the middle of these layers, compressed tightly between the folds and she wanted to get out.
I picked up the yellow toy accordion, and examined it closely…. It seemed to be made out of some sort of wood and paper. Then it slipped out of my hands, landing with a crash and the dragon behind me woke from his slumber. I ran to the gate in the wall and slammed it behind me just in time to escape his snapping steel teeth.
I fumbled on explaining… exactly, what I meant like a accordion. But thats when it happened! I just told the truth. It sounded so much better to myself and I believe in the end, to you. Thank you… for listening.
She stared at the dusty, broken accordion sitting on the shelf. She hadn’t touched it since he died. Well, he didn’t actually die, he just kind of left. He broke the accordion when he left. In a fit of anger he snapped the mechanisms and rendered it unplayable. He took sound with him and left in his wake silence.
The accordion players swooned in accordance with the song, on a low thrum he would dip down low to his right and vice versa. The people stared but all of them smiled at the jubilant and active man playing in his own subway stall.
my old volleyball coach once was yelling
no, actually, he yelled quite often
but this particular time
in his sweet Albanian accent
he attempted to make a metaphor about an accordion
which is rather self explanatory and easy to do
however, he accidentally was using the word “harmonica”
which therefore made his well thought out metaphor
rather void
language barriers and translation fascinates me
i wonder of all i will never be able to say or understand
knowing very little outside the English language
Twelvefinger Billy tied off his horse in front of the saloon and pulled the accordion off the back of his horse. One purpose brought him into town today and he meant business. He slammed through the saloon doors with a clatter. Pointing a menacing finger at Dirk Dansworth at the bar, he boomed, “Dirk, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us!”
Dirk downed the remainder of his whiskey glass as a hush fell over the room. The gentle clunk as he placed the glass on the oak bar top echoed against the walls. As he got up to face Billy, his waxed moustache twitched. The townspeople knew what was coming next and they upturned every table, cowering behind, but to no avail. Dirk flipped his poncho aside to reveal his road-weathered five-string banjo. Ears were going to bleed in Hoedown Gulch tonight.
The sweet notes and spindling notes of the accordion wind through their ears. The pasta topped with the tomato sauce tastes of Italy on their tongues, They glance at each other over the candlelit table and smile with flecks of red on their teeth.
The man played the accordion as he gleefully walked down the side walk. Snow was falling and his breath was visible in the freezing air. He had a big smile and his music was jubilant and joyful. I knew the song and hummed along as I passed him. He made my day.
The movement of the accordion was simple: out, in. Out, in.
Her life was not.
Her life was complicated, filled with good times and bad times, equal and all the same.
Out, in. Good, bad.
Call it what you would; fate, coincidence, some otherworldly diety. Whoever it was up there controlled her, and she had no way to stop it, no will power to prevent it.
Good, bad. Out, in.
As she listened the the man playing his accordion on the corner, that’s all she could think about.
Out, in.
Maybe someday things would get better, she though to herself as he finished with a drawn out note.
Jean-luc sighed as Data finished his first performance on the new instrument. To be sure, as always, the android had quickly learned how to proficiently play the thing. Piccard just hated to be the the one to have to tell Data that no matter how impressive the accordion may look, not everyone would appreciate it as much as the violin. He had to remind himself that his advice to the man with no emotions would not be met with disappointment.
My mind collapsed like an accordion
Foggy memories pulverized into dust
Sparkles and glitters filled the air
And they were gone just as fast as they came
A soft color drew the Silence
A Silence unlike any other
For it was too precious, too sweet in it’s delectable detail
And it all came back to me in an instant
Inflating with airy elation
The music returned to my silenced mind
He placed his hands within the worn leather straps. “Now, you pull, and it makes one tone,” he said, demonstrating, “and when you push back, it makes another.” The bellows flexed as he began to play. “This is a song my father taught me, and his father before him. We have had different instruments, different methods of playing, but the song remains the same. One day you will play it,” he said, as he began.
there was an old man who played the accordion, he loved the sound and was a very jolly old man! one day the music stopped, what had happened? the accordion was broken, oh no what was he to do? He scratched his head and thought for a long time…….until he remembered he had a magic screwdriver which would sort anything out at all!
He picked up the accordion and started playing. In any other situation, it may have been an annoyance. But here, at this place, it was a dirge. It rang out somber and melancholy, pining for those that were lost in the battle.
He played an accordion and he looked like one, too. All muscle, wind and teeth, but could make an audience move along with him. His music made him better.
One of the ideas my sister is kicking around for her senior project is learning to play the accordion. While I think it could be fun, I don’t think it’s really her. And while she’s surprised me in this regard before, I don’t think she’ll actually go through with it. She’s just too… I don’t know. There isn’t really a word for what she’s too much of to follow through with her accordion-playing scheme.
I wasn’t even sure what she was talking about, bu suddenly, I had to know. It was the msising twist, the final touch, the last key.
I couldnt’ believe I hadn’t seen it. I’d ignored it and overlooked it because I thought it was olfashioned. In my crazy young mind that ridiculous excuse of a musical instrument didn’t exist.
I’d never considered the ancient energy within would actually prove to be beneficial.
I suppose, that sometimes it helps if you don’t know what will kill you some day.
WTF..HOws that for the worlds most randomest word ever..Okay welll my great grandfather used to play the accordion when he was alive and pumpin blood and semen..okay one would call that innaproite and in response I would just call that me. hey he was passionaite about that and i am passionte about words..perhaps he is were I get my pulling to create music from ;D
The aged gypsy bent beneath the willow tree, whipped out the case and sat up, an accordion in her lap.
“A little ones, hear my story,” the old woman cracked a toothless grin and nodded. Strapping on the instrument, she beat out a tune as colorful as the scarf on her head. “This is life.”
The man sat on the Parisian street, a subtle lilt to his fingers as they brushed past gilded ivory keys. The heavy weave of melody drifted through open shops and streets, caressing open market places and tall standing lamps.
He shut the accordion binder that held divorce papers. Through all his nightmares he’d never dreamed he’d get a divorce. Especially not to the one woman who meant more to him than air. He loved her so much that he was giving into this request of separation because he valued her happiness over his.
When I was a kid some kids used to have accordions at school. I thought they were lucky to be able to play such an instrument. It wasn’t what I wanted to play. I wanted to play the piano but there was no money for lessons. At least my friends got to play an instrument. People today don’t think accordions are cool but they can be fun.
When i was a kid I had an accoardian. it was red and I would play it all the time i used to play instruments and sing in public because I always hoped that someone would hear me and make me famous. no one knows that. everyone just thought that i wanted the attention, but i really just wanted someone to think that it was the most beautiful thing they had ever heard.
he plays the accordion like my grandpa used to. and he loves their music too. the fold, unfold, the keys they press. together they make an amazing mess, of sound and older memories. he plays just like my grandpa used to.
Her red skirt swishes against her legs, long shapely things that she admires as she sways down the street. She’s a vain type of person, but, in the way of vain people, believes she has the right to be. She’s enjoying herself, until she hears the man with the accordion. He’s old, wrinkled, stooped, and spotted. His gnarled hands work the keys and produce a haunting, devastating melody. She hates him because he is ugly and his music unfashionable. (She hates him because he is beautiful and his music reminds her of her own ugliness).
acorns running down the street, heading towards the end on the block. Everyone’s silent, not a breathe goes un noticed and everyone stopped and stared as we didn’t realize what we were seeing. everything stopped in motion and I help my breathe till the nut touched the big green glowing foot.
accordions…my brothers roommate in college played the accordion. he also put a poinsettia on a shelf he made above his bed…one night there was a loud crash and my brother turns on his light, only to find his bizarre roommate covered in dirt and the remnants of the potted plant. strange kid.
My sister used to have a toy accordion. It was red and blue. It was really fun to play, and apparently my little cousin thought so too. Once when he was pretty young, we heard him on the baby monitor playing my sister’s accordion when he was supposed to be sleeping.
I pressed the accordion’s keys merrily, stomping my feet to go along with the beat. The party was getting rowdy, and so was my playing. I smiled secretly to myself. If only they knew.
My heart is folded for every guy I’ve ever loved. Its this weird accordion that will always be this black hole. I’ll always need more love…but I do love back. Funny how that works.
Denouemont… Accordion? Lotte was intently focused on her French exam when the barely audible, lofty tune of an accordion being played interrupted her rational thought pattern. Her mind wasn’t much for wandering, she made certain of it. Whenever her thoughts meandered, Lotte was there, playing the role of a shepherdess guiding the thought-sheep back into their mind-pen with a barbed iron crook. The accordion’s music increased the more she tried to forget about it.
Denouemont… Accordion? Lotte was intently focused on her French exam when the lofty tune of an accordion being played interrupted her rational thought pattern. Her mind wasn’t much for wandering. Whenever her thoughts meandered, she was there, a shepherdess guiding the thought-heep back into their mind-pen with a barbed iron crook.
Play it or listen to it, it can be soothing or stressful, depending on the type of tune that is intended. Big and awkward to hold also. Makes you wonder if it’s trying to make your life easier or not?
I picked up the accordion, then flung it to the side, resentful of all it represented. I can’t remember the last time I heard accordion music and didn’t become inflamed with anger. I walked out the door, determined to never look back again.
The piece of paper was folded like that of an accordian. Each layer, she thought, was just one layer of life. There were many layers to this life that each of us were given to live. She was in the middle of these layers, compressed tightly between the folds and she wanted to get out.
I picked up the yellow toy accordion, and examined it closely…. It seemed to be made out of some sort of wood and paper. Then it slipped out of my hands, landing with a crash and the dragon behind me woke from his slumber. I ran to the gate in the wall and slammed it behind me just in time to escape his snapping steel teeth.
I fumbled on explaining… exactly, what I meant like a accordion. But thats when it happened! I just told the truth. It sounded so much better to myself and I believe in the end, to you. Thank you… for listening.
She stared at the dusty, broken accordion sitting on the shelf. She hadn’t touched it since he died. Well, he didn’t actually die, he just kind of left. He broke the accordion when he left. In a fit of anger he snapped the mechanisms and rendered it unplayable. He took sound with him and left in his wake silence.
The accordion players swooned in accordance with the song, on a low thrum he would dip down low to his right and vice versa. The people stared but all of them smiled at the jubilant and active man playing in his own subway stall.
my old volleyball coach once was yelling
no, actually, he yelled quite often
but this particular time
in his sweet Albanian accent
he attempted to make a metaphor about an accordion
which is rather self explanatory and easy to do
however, he accidentally was using the word “harmonica”
which therefore made his well thought out metaphor
rather void
language barriers and translation fascinates me
i wonder of all i will never be able to say or understand
knowing very little outside the English language
Twelvefinger Billy tied off his horse in front of the saloon and pulled the accordion off the back of his horse. One purpose brought him into town today and he meant business. He slammed through the saloon doors with a clatter. Pointing a menacing finger at Dirk Dansworth at the bar, he boomed, “Dirk, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us!”
Dirk downed the remainder of his whiskey glass as a hush fell over the room. The gentle clunk as he placed the glass on the oak bar top echoed against the walls. As he got up to face Billy, his waxed moustache twitched. The townspeople knew what was coming next and they upturned every table, cowering behind, but to no avail. Dirk flipped his poncho aside to reveal his road-weathered five-string banjo. Ears were going to bleed in Hoedown Gulch tonight.
The accordion was what started the whole thing.
It was in France, six months ago.
It was great, so amazing, so beautiful.
Fast and free and wonderful and insane and a whirlwind of emotions.
All living alongside the sounds of the accordion.
Beautiful.
But then, as soon as it started.
Gone.
My grandpa played one.
The sweet notes and spindling notes of the accordion wind through their ears. The pasta topped with the tomato sauce tastes of Italy on their tongues, They glance at each other over the candlelit table and smile with flecks of red on their teeth.
The man played the accordion as he gleefully walked down the side walk. Snow was falling and his breath was visible in the freezing air. He had a big smile and his music was jubilant and joyful. I knew the song and hummed along as I passed him. He made my day.
The movement of the accordion was simple: out, in. Out, in.
Her life was not.
Her life was complicated, filled with good times and bad times, equal and all the same.
Out, in. Good, bad.
Call it what you would; fate, coincidence, some otherworldly diety. Whoever it was up there controlled her, and she had no way to stop it, no will power to prevent it.
Good, bad. Out, in.
As she listened the the man playing his accordion on the corner, that’s all she could think about.
Out, in.
Maybe someday things would get better, she though to herself as he finished with a drawn out note.
Bad…
Good.
Jean-luc sighed as Data finished his first performance on the new instrument. To be sure, as always, the android had quickly learned how to proficiently play the thing. Piccard just hated to be the the one to have to tell Data that no matter how impressive the accordion may look, not everyone would appreciate it as much as the violin. He had to remind himself that his advice to the man with no emotions would not be met with disappointment.
My mind collapsed like an accordion
Foggy memories pulverized into dust
Sparkles and glitters filled the air
And they were gone just as fast as they came
A soft color drew the Silence
A Silence unlike any other
For it was too precious, too sweet in it’s delectable detail
And it all came back to me in an instant
Inflating with airy elation
The music returned to my silenced mind
He placed his hands within the worn leather straps. “Now, you pull, and it makes one tone,” he said, demonstrating, “and when you push back, it makes another.” The bellows flexed as he began to play. “This is a song my father taught me, and his father before him. We have had different instruments, different methods of playing, but the song remains the same. One day you will play it,” he said, as he began.
According to my accordion I d’accord
Old fashioned, hand piano. Polka pulse creator. Dancing grandparents. Air-flow and piano keys.
there was an old man who played the accordion, he loved the sound and was a very jolly old man! one day the music stopped, what had happened? the accordion was broken, oh no what was he to do? He scratched his head and thought for a long time…….until he remembered he had a magic screwdriver which would sort anything out at all!
He picked up the accordion and started playing. In any other situation, it may have been an annoyance. But here, at this place, it was a dirge. It rang out somber and melancholy, pining for those that were lost in the battle.
He played an accordion and he looked like one, too. All muscle, wind and teeth, but could make an audience move along with him. His music made him better.
One of the ideas my sister is kicking around for her senior project is learning to play the accordion. While I think it could be fun, I don’t think it’s really her. And while she’s surprised me in this regard before, I don’t think she’ll actually go through with it. She’s just too… I don’t know. There isn’t really a word for what she’s too much of to follow through with her accordion-playing scheme.
Accordion?
I wasn’t even sure what she was talking about, bu suddenly, I had to know. It was the msising twist, the final touch, the last key.
I couldnt’ believe I hadn’t seen it. I’d ignored it and overlooked it because I thought it was olfashioned. In my crazy young mind that ridiculous excuse of a musical instrument didn’t exist.
I’d never considered the ancient energy within would actually prove to be beneficial.
I suppose, that sometimes it helps if you don’t know what will kill you some day.
I can see the headlines for tomorrow.
Death, by accordion.
WTF..HOws that for the worlds most randomest word ever..Okay welll my great grandfather used to play the accordion when he was alive and pumpin blood and semen..okay one would call that innaproite and in response I would just call that me. hey he was passionaite about that and i am passionte about words..perhaps he is were I get my pulling to create music from ;D
The aged gypsy bent beneath the willow tree, whipped out the case and sat up, an accordion in her lap.
“A little ones, hear my story,” the old woman cracked a toothless grin and nodded. Strapping on the instrument, she beat out a tune as colorful as the scarf on her head. “This is life.”
The man sat on the Parisian street, a subtle lilt to his fingers as they brushed past gilded ivory keys. The heavy weave of melody drifted through open shops and streets, caressing open market places and tall standing lamps.
He shut the accordion binder that held divorce papers. Through all his nightmares he’d never dreamed he’d get a divorce. Especially not to the one woman who meant more to him than air. He loved her so much that he was giving into this request of separation because he valued her happiness over his.
When I was a kid some kids used to have accordions at school. I thought they were lucky to be able to play such an instrument. It wasn’t what I wanted to play. I wanted to play the piano but there was no money for lessons. At least my friends got to play an instrument. People today don’t think accordions are cool but they can be fun.
When i was a kid I had an accoardian. it was red and I would play it all the time i used to play instruments and sing in public because I always hoped that someone would hear me and make me famous. no one knows that. everyone just thought that i wanted the attention, but i really just wanted someone to think that it was the most beautiful thing they had ever heard.
he plays the accordion like my grandpa used to. and he loves their music too. the fold, unfold, the keys they press. together they make an amazing mess, of sound and older memories. he plays just like my grandpa used to.
Her red skirt swishes against her legs, long shapely things that she admires as she sways down the street. She’s a vain type of person, but, in the way of vain people, believes she has the right to be. She’s enjoying herself, until she hears the man with the accordion. He’s old, wrinkled, stooped, and spotted. His gnarled hands work the keys and produce a haunting, devastating melody. She hates him because he is ugly and his music unfashionable. (She hates him because he is beautiful and his music reminds her of her own ugliness).
give and take. expand, retract. augment, diminish. the musical form of our relationships.
this is one big folk party isn’t it?
acorns running down the street, heading towards the end on the block. Everyone’s silent, not a breathe goes un noticed and everyone stopped and stared as we didn’t realize what we were seeing. everything stopped in motion and I help my breathe till the nut touched the big green glowing foot.
accordions…my brothers roommate in college played the accordion. he also put a poinsettia on a shelf he made above his bed…one night there was a loud crash and my brother turns on his light, only to find his bizarre roommate covered in dirt and the remnants of the potted plant. strange kid.
My sister used to have a toy accordion. It was red and blue. It was really fun to play, and apparently my little cousin thought so too. Once when he was pretty young, we heard him on the baby monitor playing my sister’s accordion when he was supposed to be sleeping.
I pressed the accordion’s keys merrily, stomping my feet to go along with the beat. The party was getting rowdy, and so was my playing. I smiled secretly to myself. If only they knew.