Black, white, wooden. Create serene music to sooth my fears and comfort my pains. Sweet Debussy. Melodic Mozart. Fast to sleep I go with a moonlight sonata in my mind.
The music flowed like melted butter. So pristine and beautiful. Yet it was so very simple. He could not place where he had heard this before. It was so very beautiful. So very dear to his heart. He began looking through every room of the house trying to find the source of the music. After checking the third room, he remembered the piano he had in his private office. There he found her playing one of his music sheets. No wonder it had sounded so familiar; he had written it himself. She had yet to notice his presence.The music put him into a trance-like state. He accidentally made a sound, startling her. She stopped playing immediately. He broke out of the trance when she began to speak.
“Oh my! I am deeply sorry for entering your private office. I just wanted to play the piano ever since you told me it was here,” she said, her voice slightly above a whisper.
It took him a moment before he could speak. “Oh no, I don’t mind, though I would prefer you tell me first,” he said, regaining his posture. “Would you mind playing the previous song? It sounded amazing coming from your hands.”
Instead of answering, she began playing once more. He found himself falling once more into the trance-like state that only her beautiful music caused.
I remember coming home, and playing piano for the first time in
five weeks
I had cried when I had come to sit in my room.
Then, playing, I felt as if I would never be sad again.
The deepest ebony black
And the purest snow white
The tenderest touch on the keys
Sends chills running down my spine
And melodies rumbling deep from my throat
I love it when you make me beautiful
Dressing me up with your words and your music
I weep your absence
And long for your return to my stool
Without you I collect cobwebs
And with you I become much more
The piano in his living room was just there–a way to remember his past. The way he enjoyed spending his afternoons playing childish tunes while his mother smiled and corrected his notes when he played the wrong ones.
Those days were long gone.
Still, the piano stayed; not the grand from his childhood home, but a baby one that he polished whenever he had the time, but still barely played on. He wasn’t sure what was stopping him. It just felt wrong to use it.
He couldn’t let it go, either. The space would be empty without it. And still, it just sat there, waiting for the day when he was able to let it go, or when he would find the courage to play once more.
Very few people know how to actually play the piano. Now, when I say play, I do not mean that they just tap the keys to make pretty little sounds, no I mean that they put their heart and soul into making something beautiful. Sounds are just sounds when played by someone who cares nothing about them. What really makes music music is how people experience it. Some people cry, some people laugh, there are so many emotions that can go into a piano, and when you feel one of those emotions, that’s when you know you can actually play the piano.
The piano fell through the floor, confirming George’s theories about the flimsiness of the shack’s construction. This would not bode well for the refrigerator and the safe which were now making their way up the stairs from the removal truck, and he knew they would have to call the Humane Society about Grandma’s pet elephant. Moving house, he sighed to himself, could be so stressful!
Anxiety came in the form of pressing a single key in between brief pauses of silence. Finally, Raul snapped, and he smashed his hands down onto the keys, creating harsh dissonance.
I played for no one else but myself.
Yet it was never enough.
Practicing had nothing to do with perfectionism.
Composing was an exercise in letting the demons out to play.
Fruitless hours later when the energy was almost spent
Under pressure, the mounting strain: chorus and refrain
Counting beats like pleasures
Keyed to chords and slipping fingers
My will to hit the final note became
Enriched by laying into the pedal for one last lengthy sustain
She could hear the piano in her ears. She could feel the drums pounding in her heart. She could feel the guitars strings reverberating in her throat. She didn’t look out into the faces of the millions of people she was standing in front of. She just opened her mouth as the notes came out.
Are the keys easier to navigate through with their monochrome color scheme? Would color(just imagine a piano with a rainbow set) distract or detract the quality of one’s playing?
frederick played the piano in his death and a song was wrote. his spirit kept playing and everything went together. he dreamed up a world of musical terms and characters seeped out of every crack. he saw every brick in the building and every blade of grass was easily spotted
My fingers dance across the keys, composing melodies and counter-melodies and arias so complex, so graceful, that the rest of me can only struggle to keep up. If only, I think for a moment, if only my body moves as quickly as my clever fingers. If only half the grace I can pour into the music would find its way to my knobby knees. Then, perhaps, when I danced I’d be graceful. Be beautiful.
Pianos are instruments which create a gorgeous noise when you play them. My brother used to make the most gorgeous noises with the one our mother bought. She saved up for years to get that old, beautiful machine. It made the strongest sounds that could tickle my ears or pound on my soul. My brother was so talented. My mother would sit down next to him on the raggedy bench, me situated on her lap, and just listen to the notes that poured out of his finger tips. I miss those days. I miss them.
The final notes of the piano faded away into the distance. Opening her eyes, she took her fingers off of the keys and looked around, as if noticing the world around her for the first time. Every time she lifted the dusty wooden keyboard cover and began to play, she returned to the world of the “living” as if she had just been born.
The ebony and ivory keys slid under her fingers as they gracefully made their way across the piano. The more keys she manipulated the more beautiful the music.
The woman was truly an artist who could, and would, capture your heart and force whatever emotion she wanted you to feel on a whim.
It was, by far, the most exquisite time the man had ever had. A time and melody he would never forget; nor would he soon forget the face of his voiceless siren.
My brother plays piano. I remember seeing black and white every time I went in his room. Just like our skin. Black and white. Black and white. I remember getting fun of for being a piano.
A small trickle of sunshine shone through the gaps between the heavy purple curtains, giving light to a room that would be dim otherwise. Bony fingers traced the rusted surface of the keys. He stood, gazing remorsefully down at the temptation before him. He swallowed, his throat tight with feelings that threatened to be vomitted, to be poured out of his pores, his very being. He struggled, and resigned to his fate, to his urges. This was his final moment, so he might as well make it worthwhile. And so he sat, and performed his last.
the keys are like teeth beneath my skin when I remember them for the things I was forced to do. you dragged me with dirty skin under your nails to the one place where I was truly alone. there was an old man, a tape recorder in the corner and a piano against the mirrored wall where I could stare for an hour at how terrible I was. and that’s where I learned to hate myself.
Sounds of the piano floated up from below. My father called it “saloon music.” I called it beautiful. Piano sounds have a way of calming me. As the notes sift through my ears, I can feel my mind resting and my muscles melting. Maybe this is the only escape I’ll ever need…
she played with an exceptional grace, and the notes pouring forth as her delicate fingers danced over the keys were nothing short of exquisite. the haunting quality filled the air as her song, mournful and yet comforting, like a certain kind of embrace, left no heart untouched and no eye without a tear.
I touched the keys gently, placing my fingers on the notes. A, B, C, D, E, F, G and then we begin again. I placed my feet on the pedals, trying each one out. This faded instrument still sent out a few good bellows.
He see’s the piano before the door is even open all the way. The sun shinning through the window and millions upon millions of dust particles float carelessly through the air. The woman stands aside and allows him to pass as he swiftly saunters over to the grand piano. He runs his figers along its side and a thick layer of dust is removed as he goes along. He timidly taps a few keys. “It’s in tune.” She says softly as if reading his mind.
The little people showed up one day to play the piano. Each one of them operated one key, and they played Back or Beethoven as well as the next concert pianist. There were kids, too, hugging the ivory keys, flinching under all the vibrations.
It was very inspiring. I never thought a little person could play the piano. Old Ralph’s armspan is barely three keys wide. But I guess when one person can’t do something, fifty people can.
The ivory keys feel cool and pleasant under my smooth fingers that so desire to play a tune. I laugh as my fingers dance of their own accord and spell out a melody in their wonderful freedom. Nothing compares to the feeling of being able to make music, for my hands, my fingers, my mind to work to make an inanimate object glimmer and sparkle as the notes float in the dusty air.
Piano man, don’t sing me that song. I hate it. In fact there aren’t many piano songs I like. How many elephants died so poachers could sell their ivory tusks to piano makers? Poachers kill elephants today for their ivory.
His delicate fingers danced across the stripes. black and white, black and white. A chord here, a note there. His eyes sparkled with love and passion and focus. I was standing next to him, but he wasn’t even in the same universe with me. He was in the galaxy of passion and the planet of music. He looked at that piano while he played like a lovestruck man looks at his perfect woman, or an artist looks at the Starry Night. Or maybe the way I look at you.
Her hands trembled as they slid across the keys, his eyes burning into the back of her neck She knew if she stopped he would hurt her, knife slashed across her neck. But she could not play any longer. And he could not wait
She was standing on it with every ounce of core strength left in her after the hour long performance. Knives supplanted in her ballet shoes could have killed the audience. Some older gents would have welcomed death. But her drive was to stay alive. Her message of perseverance would last a gut wrenching 5 minutes. Beauty falls short of her endeavor.
Strumming the keys full of black and white,
Ever so lightly, tone so bright.
Making melodies to fill the air,
Formal atmosphere, as a debonair.
Harmonies intertwine with the melody so,
Emitting fast then fading slow.
All of this just for an ear’s desire,
Capturing passion like a rampaging fire.
Thin fingers pressing down on those beautiful ivory keys, making a sound. Making a sound that makes the people sing and the birds chirp. It is the sound that brings a smile to ones face. It is the sound of music. The beautiful sound that fills the sweet, crisp september air, crisp like a freshly picked apple.
Black, white, wooden. Create serene music to sooth my fears and comfort my pains. Sweet Debussy. Melodic Mozart. Fast to sleep I go with a moonlight sonata in my mind.
The music flowed like melted butter. So pristine and beautiful. Yet it was so very simple. He could not place where he had heard this before. It was so very beautiful. So very dear to his heart. He began looking through every room of the house trying to find the source of the music. After checking the third room, he remembered the piano he had in his private office. There he found her playing one of his music sheets. No wonder it had sounded so familiar; he had written it himself. She had yet to notice his presence.The music put him into a trance-like state. He accidentally made a sound, startling her. She stopped playing immediately. He broke out of the trance when she began to speak.
“Oh my! I am deeply sorry for entering your private office. I just wanted to play the piano ever since you told me it was here,” she said, her voice slightly above a whisper.
It took him a moment before he could speak. “Oh no, I don’t mind, though I would prefer you tell me first,” he said, regaining his posture. “Would you mind playing the previous song? It sounded amazing coming from your hands.”
Instead of answering, she began playing once more. He found himself falling once more into the trance-like state that only her beautiful music caused.
I remember coming home, and playing piano for the first time in
five weeks
I had cried when I had come to sit in my room.
Then, playing, I felt as if I would never be sad again.
The deepest ebony black
And the purest snow white
The tenderest touch on the keys
Sends chills running down my spine
And melodies rumbling deep from my throat
I love it when you make me beautiful
Dressing me up with your words and your music
I weep your absence
And long for your return to my stool
Without you I collect cobwebs
And with you I become much more
He hadn’t played the piano in a long time.
The piano in his living room was just there–a way to remember his past. The way he enjoyed spending his afternoons playing childish tunes while his mother smiled and corrected his notes when he played the wrong ones.
Those days were long gone.
Still, the piano stayed; not the grand from his childhood home, but a baby one that he polished whenever he had the time, but still barely played on. He wasn’t sure what was stopping him. It just felt wrong to use it.
He couldn’t let it go, either. The space would be empty without it. And still, it just sat there, waiting for the day when he was able to let it go, or when he would find the courage to play once more.
Very few people know how to actually play the piano. Now, when I say play, I do not mean that they just tap the keys to make pretty little sounds, no I mean that they put their heart and soul into making something beautiful. Sounds are just sounds when played by someone who cares nothing about them. What really makes music music is how people experience it. Some people cry, some people laugh, there are so many emotions that can go into a piano, and when you feel one of those emotions, that’s when you know you can actually play the piano.
The piano fell through the floor, confirming George’s theories about the flimsiness of the shack’s construction. This would not bode well for the refrigerator and the safe which were now making their way up the stairs from the removal truck, and he knew they would have to call the Humane Society about Grandma’s pet elephant. Moving house, he sighed to himself, could be so stressful!
Anxiety came in the form of pressing a single key in between brief pauses of silence. Finally, Raul snapped, and he smashed his hands down onto the keys, creating harsh dissonance.
I played for no one else but myself.
Yet it was never enough.
Practicing had nothing to do with perfectionism.
Composing was an exercise in letting the demons out to play.
Fruitless hours later when the energy was almost spent
Under pressure, the mounting strain: chorus and refrain
Counting beats like pleasures
Keyed to chords and slipping fingers
My will to hit the final note became
Enriched by laying into the pedal for one last lengthy sustain
She could hear the piano in her ears. She could feel the drums pounding in her heart. She could feel the guitars strings reverberating in her throat. She didn’t look out into the faces of the millions of people she was standing in front of. She just opened her mouth as the notes came out.
Are the keys easier to navigate through with their monochrome color scheme? Would color(just imagine a piano with a rainbow set) distract or detract the quality of one’s playing?
frederick played the piano in his death and a song was wrote. his spirit kept playing and everything went together. he dreamed up a world of musical terms and characters seeped out of every crack. he saw every brick in the building and every blade of grass was easily spotted
My fingers dance across the keys, composing melodies and counter-melodies and arias so complex, so graceful, that the rest of me can only struggle to keep up. If only, I think for a moment, if only my body moves as quickly as my clever fingers. If only half the grace I can pour into the music would find its way to my knobby knees. Then, perhaps, when I danced I’d be graceful. Be beautiful.
pianokeys
Please do not play the piano like you are trying to mash the buttons of a video game controller.
Pianos are instruments which create a gorgeous noise when you play them. My brother used to make the most gorgeous noises with the one our mother bought. She saved up for years to get that old, beautiful machine. It made the strongest sounds that could tickle my ears or pound on my soul. My brother was so talented. My mother would sit down next to him on the raggedy bench, me situated on her lap, and just listen to the notes that poured out of his finger tips. I miss those days. I miss them.
The final notes of the piano faded away into the distance. Opening her eyes, she took her fingers off of the keys and looked around, as if noticing the world around her for the first time. Every time she lifted the dusty wooden keyboard cover and began to play, she returned to the world of the “living” as if she had just been born.
The missing piano keys reminded me of the gaps between her teeth. She found a companion in that incomplete piano.
The ebony and ivory keys slid under her fingers as they gracefully made their way across the piano. The more keys she manipulated the more beautiful the music.
The woman was truly an artist who could, and would, capture your heart and force whatever emotion she wanted you to feel on a whim.
It was, by far, the most exquisite time the man had ever had. A time and melody he would never forget; nor would he soon forget the face of his voiceless siren.
My brother plays piano. I remember seeing black and white every time I went in his room. Just like our skin. Black and white. Black and white. I remember getting fun of for being a piano.
A small trickle of sunshine shone through the gaps between the heavy purple curtains, giving light to a room that would be dim otherwise. Bony fingers traced the rusted surface of the keys. He stood, gazing remorsefully down at the temptation before him. He swallowed, his throat tight with feelings that threatened to be vomitted, to be poured out of his pores, his very being. He struggled, and resigned to his fate, to his urges. This was his final moment, so he might as well make it worthwhile. And so he sat, and performed his last.
the keys are like teeth beneath my skin when I remember them for the things I was forced to do. you dragged me with dirty skin under your nails to the one place where I was truly alone. there was an old man, a tape recorder in the corner and a piano against the mirrored wall where I could stare for an hour at how terrible I was. and that’s where I learned to hate myself.
Sounds of the piano floated up from below. My father called it “saloon music.” I called it beautiful. Piano sounds have a way of calming me. As the notes sift through my ears, I can feel my mind resting and my muscles melting. Maybe this is the only escape I’ll ever need…
She sat at her grand piano in her living room and played as her heart spoke to her, not knowing he listened to her music from the porch outside.
There are so many beautiful things in this world. One of them includes the sound of a passionately played piano.
she played with an exceptional grace, and the notes pouring forth as her delicate fingers danced over the keys were nothing short of exquisite. the haunting quality filled the air as her song, mournful and yet comforting, like a certain kind of embrace, left no heart untouched and no eye without a tear.
I touched the keys gently, placing my fingers on the notes. A, B, C, D, E, F, G and then we begin again. I placed my feet on the pedals, trying each one out. This faded instrument still sent out a few good bellows.
He see’s the piano before the door is even open all the way. The sun shinning through the window and millions upon millions of dust particles float carelessly through the air. The woman stands aside and allows him to pass as he swiftly saunters over to the grand piano. He runs his figers along its side and a thick layer of dust is removed as he goes along. He timidly taps a few keys. “It’s in tune.” She says softly as if reading his mind.
The little people showed up one day to play the piano. Each one of them operated one key, and they played Back or Beethoven as well as the next concert pianist. There were kids, too, hugging the ivory keys, flinching under all the vibrations.
It was very inspiring. I never thought a little person could play the piano. Old Ralph’s armspan is barely three keys wide. But I guess when one person can’t do something, fifty people can.
The ivory keys feel cool and pleasant under my smooth fingers that so desire to play a tune. I laugh as my fingers dance of their own accord and spell out a melody in their wonderful freedom. Nothing compares to the feeling of being able to make music, for my hands, my fingers, my mind to work to make an inanimate object glimmer and sparkle as the notes float in the dusty air.
Piano man, don’t sing me that song. I hate it. In fact there aren’t many piano songs I like. How many elephants died so poachers could sell their ivory tusks to piano makers? Poachers kill elephants today for their ivory.
His delicate fingers danced across the stripes. black and white, black and white. A chord here, a note there. His eyes sparkled with love and passion and focus. I was standing next to him, but he wasn’t even in the same universe with me. He was in the galaxy of passion and the planet of music. He looked at that piano while he played like a lovestruck man looks at his perfect woman, or an artist looks at the Starry Night. Or maybe the way I look at you.
Her hands trembled as they slid across the keys, his eyes burning into the back of her neck She knew if she stopped he would hurt her, knife slashed across her neck. But she could not play any longer. And he could not wait
She was standing on it with every ounce of core strength left in her after the hour long performance. Knives supplanted in her ballet shoes could have killed the audience. Some older gents would have welcomed death. But her drive was to stay alive. Her message of perseverance would last a gut wrenching 5 minutes. Beauty falls short of her endeavor.
The piano stood against a white wall along the longest wall in the room. It’s black top glistened under the gray light of the window above it.
Play your love like piano keys. Classic, whole, resonating.
Strumming the keys full of black and white,
Ever so lightly, tone so bright.
Making melodies to fill the air,
Formal atmosphere, as a debonair.
Harmonies intertwine with the melody so,
Emitting fast then fading slow.
All of this just for an ear’s desire,
Capturing passion like a rampaging fire.
Thin fingers pressing down on those beautiful ivory keys, making a sound. Making a sound that makes the people sing and the birds chirp. It is the sound that brings a smile to ones face. It is the sound of music. The beautiful sound that fills the sweet, crisp september air, crisp like a freshly picked apple.
piano, people peas pink purple pumpkin, person,paints pan pain plan plants pork pig plum push pull poke pinch press pump punk pin pen
Piano are a very classical instument that take alot of practice to make beautiful music. Anyone can learn to play tthe piano.