Piano Lesson by Carol Barrett

Pavel Danilyuk

Piano Lesson

Music never failed to move my father

who would lift his baritone and hold

a note until breath was out, and sound,

a memory of notes he took in hand

to show his love of life, his care

for all of us who touched his heart.

He urged me to let my heart

dictate the piano score. My father

would sing the lines to show his care

for how a simple melody could hold

joy or sorrow in the same hand,

could make of notes an angelic sound.

For him there was nothing so sound

as a phrase spun by the heart.

The upright shook in my hands

as I leaned with the song. My father

would listen as I practiced, holding

his face uplifted with gentle care.

And as I played, Beethoven’s careful

lineage of notes rang out. The sound

of love in triumph would hold

me transfixed on bench, my heart

in fullness, grateful to my father

who showed the way to glory’s hand.

There’s always a chord to take in hand

to echo the true musician’s care

for what passes understanding. My father

would yield his voice to the sound

of truth, of life, of love. The heart

must sing to release its treasured hold.

© Carol Barrett

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Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett began writing poetry to support the widowed women she was counseling. Her most recent book is READING WIND. Currently living in Oregon, Carol supervises creative dissertations for students at two universities.

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The Bridge by Laura Rodley

 

Clément Proust

The Bridge

Mike’s long fingers moved fast as fingerlings

zooming through tidal waters

just a little up and back

as though caught in waves,

landing on notes from his bagpipe

that zoomed into highland heather,

his long Talmudic beard

not catching on the bagpipes

bladder nor on the keys

his hair shorn as would be

the sheep that nibble the fields.

It was his 21st anniversary

but his wife Fiona must wait,

he’s playing with his band

adoring crowds his date

band members tapping boots,

then tall whimsical guitarist sings

the song “Leaving Indiana,”

laying down more steps

on the curved bridge

covering the Atlantic

about a couple returning to Scotland

as were so many others in that room

going back to their homeland

to thatch-covered houses,

burning peat, air difficult to breathe in,

so cold, only the tempo,

the lament of the bagpipe,

keeps you going, nourishment

for the blood just as much as supper.

© Laura Rodley

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Laura Rodley

Pushcart Prize winner Laura Rodley's latest books are Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Press, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and Ribbons and Moths Poems for Children, winner of the Children's Nonfiction International Book Award and medalist for the Moonbeam Book Award for Children's Poetry. 

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Poetry by Linda Imbler

 

Pixabay

Dry-cleaning the Suede Guitar

My heart extolled, 

discovery by the eight-year-old boy 

of the Spanish guitar;          

setting his watch 

by the chants of the world

before coaching endless births        

of wooden, acoustic bodies.

My heart joined             

at childhood’s end;

his dare of cosmic laws               

waiting to be broken.

Walking endless struts               

with midnight at his back,

to never rule the silence           

with hollow, electric bodies.

My heart communed,                

as he split himself in two,                             

yet remained

one—double-sided tape.

Magnetic, yin and yang,            

din and whisper,

magick fingers divining        

dancing, sweating human bodies.

My heart mourns                   

as now through the firmament;

his will becomes law                          

as what once happened here,

his own unique frequency                     

absorbed within 

the invisible strings             

of spherical, spinning bodies.

The Conquering

It

was planned.

Centuries’

blight and decay

curbed by such true, perfectly produced love.

© Linda Imbler

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Linda Imbler

Linda Imbler is the author of eleven paperback poetry collections and four e-book collections (Soma Publishing). This writer lives in Wichita, Kansas, with her husband, Mike the Luthier, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. Learn more at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.

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Harp Musings by Michael Brockley

 

Jan Brndiar

Harp Musings

The harpist plays “Hotel California” during the first Rock the Arts benefit fair. You struggle to write a poem about Joni Mitchell at a poems-on-demand table while the fair vendors around you ply t-shirts, handmade earrings, and mocktails. While the aerial silk dancers weave scarves around their graceful bodies as they pose in mid-air. Mitchell wrote “Both Sides, Now” after reading about Henderson the Rain King’s airplane trip. About seeing clouds from above as well as below. She never finished the novel. You buy a stuffed peanut butter cookie from Coop’s Creations and discuss Wile E. Coyote and poets laureate with a descendant of French flag bearers.You skim through a poem by Dean Young on your iPhone. Fiddle with a fine-point pen until you break it. The harpist plucks the first strands of  Mitchell’s “The Case of You.” Mitchell willed herself to walk when she had polio. Was named Sparkling White Bear Woman by the Saulteaux Nation on her 75th birthday. After an aneurysm, she learned to sing again. Around you, the harpist is singing about living in a box of paints. About the woman who knows a lover’s devils and deeds. And you’re sitting in the front row at a Sparkling White Bear Woman concert in a Joni Mitchell aloha shirt while the reckless daughter herself spends the evening singing to you.  

© Michael Brockley

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Michael Brockley

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His prose poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Doublespeak Mag, and Keeping the Flame Alive. In addition, Brockley's prose poems are forthcoming in Bay to Ocean Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark VI, and Stormwash: Environmental Poems, Volume II.

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The Shakuhachi Knows by Robert Okaji

 

Patrick Jadulco Tillada

The Shakuhachi Knows

Silence pours through itself

and huddles against the light. 

Unsure, I exhale and a tongue 

of air flickers through  

the openings, bearing questions 

whose answers I cannot shape 

into words. Who stands there 

singing? What is the color 

of love or a shadow's weight? 

When will this begin to end?

Originally published in Midwest Zen and included in Okaji's first full-length collection, Our Loveliest Bruises (3: A Taos Press, 2025).

© Robert Okaji Enjoy other posts by Robert Okaji HERE.

Robert Okaji

Two years ago, Robert Okaji was diagnosed with late-stage metastatic lung cancer, which he found annoying. But thanks to modern science, he's still living in Indianapolis with his wife, poet Stephanie L. Harper, stepson, cat, and dog. Recent publications include Our Loveliest Bruises (3: A Taos Press, 2025) and His Windblown Self (Broadstone Books, 2025).

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Poetry by Mary Bone

Min An

Music Healed Me

Music healed me,

reaching into my innermost thoughts.

My soul was touched by a violin

playing in the distance,

drawing me out of sadness,

replacing the emptiness with joy.

Vessels of God’s Grace

We are all vessels of God’s grace,

serving others,

across the human race.

Fill us up, Lord,

to over-brimming.

Pour us out, Lord.

Show us your face.

The hand of God

rests on us all.

He will pick us up when we fall.

Nostalgia

I had wild cravings in a forest,

while searching for the jam of life.

A clarinet plays in the distance.

Nostalgia of another time.

© Mary Bone

© Mary Bone

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Mary Bone

Mary Bone has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood. She has written two books of poetry. Some of her poetry has been published at Masticadores USA, Poetry Catalog, Literary Yard, Spillwords, The Oklahoma Today Magazine, Literary Revelations, Blaze Vox Spring 2025 Issue online, and other places.  Recent poetry is upcoming at eMerge Magazine and Zest of the Lemon.

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After Vivaldi by Kushal Poddar

 

Josue Velaquez 

After Vivaldi

The last note, born orphan, falls 

from the violin and loses its way

in the thick red carpet. It knows

the value of mutism soon. 

'The Four Seasons' has ended.

The violinist, still in trance, breathes hard

and stares at us, but we're nothing 

more than a broad stroke speckled 

with shades and values of the dark.

Almost near dawn she finds herself alone

in her pittance of a balcony veiled in smog.

Sky, black, claps. Too late, there won't be 

time for an encore. Sky claps. Rain follows. 

She bows, and then remembers that note 

left in the dim auditorium. It doesn't know 

what to do in front of the emptiness.

© Kushal Poddar

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Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being A White Can For The Blind Lane, and his works have been translated into twelve languages. He is a co-editor for Outlook Magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing. He does illustrations and sketches for various magazines.

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Call and Response by Patricia McCue

 

SHVETS production

Call and Response

 

Trills and whistles at first light.

Are there patterns in this music?

A secret language

or just the sound of joy?

 

Each summer musicians gather 

to learn ancient tunes passed on by ear 

from our ancestors.

 

Mountains covered in fleeting clouds -

a fitting backdrop for fiddle music.

 

As the sun approaches its high point

early morning birdsong evolves

into a more muted soundtrack

accompanied by an audible breeze.

 

There is beauty in simplicity.

A basic jig, unadorned,

rivals more complicated reels.

A song sparrow of muted colors

has one of the sweetest calls.

 

“Let’s start with a jig,

a lovely old tune.”

He plays a phrase.

Fingers move deftly across strings.

We answer - not quite there.

 

“And again.”

We mimic his call.

Catbirds in a circle defending a nest.

 

The exchange continues.

From fiddles and assorted beaks,

exquisite notes soar in unison 

carried Home by the weeping willow.

This poem was first published in Otherwise Engaged: A Literature and Arts Journal (Volume 12)

© Patricia McCue

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Patricia McCue

Patricia McCue is a retired teacher of middle school science. Her poems have appeared in Woods Reader, Poetry Breakfast, Nature of Our Times, and various anthologies.  In her free time, she studies and plays Traditional Irish Music on the violin.

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