We will make music when we can,
Although it might seem strange,
To play with our realities
And such extended range
And yes, I know it’s vanity,
And we’re all made of dust —
But we make music everywhere:
We do because
We must
Tag: Music
Loves Music
Of course she loves music –
It is the one friend
Who’s always been there for her
To share is human:
My Long Best Friend
My long best friend and nemesis
Whom I have loved for many years –
But who a fickle heart displays
To tease me as she does —
Through long depression, years of hurt,
She’d touch me when I would touch her;
And I would like to think that, still,
It is the way it ever was
The decades go, my long best friend:
The tunes we think will never end
They leave our fingers and our ears
And melt into the wilting years
And loyalty goes unremarked
Until at last, it all goes
Dark
To share is human:
Visions Fugitives
It was 1977 –
I was in an old country chapel
And fifteen years old
There with a “youth group”
Up early, to come and play
The old, battered piano
This is what I was playing
Because
This piece of music
Was (and is), somehow, me —
https://soundcloud.com/janusmarcus/20-visions-fugitives-for-piano-op-22-i-lentamente-boris-berman
I sit down now,
39 years later
And play another piece
From the same set of pieces
Called ‘Visions Fugitives’
Because this piece, too
Is
(and was)
me
https://soundcloud.com/janusmarcus/20-visions-fugitives-for-piano-op-22-xviii-con-una-dolce-lentezza
Music is not always a uniting force;
But love of music is
Or should be
To share is human:
my closest friend
music (for years) has been my closest friend,
too intimate, too shy to show or share;
in covert moments / hours without end,
the heart wide open and the soul laid bare
for soloist and single instrument
as though within this very (sort of) room
becomes a touch between the shoulder blades
a shiver of excitement, doom, or gloom
sometimes, in black-and-white, with spare guitar,
and old harmonica across the plain,
the universe expands in lone acoustics
within its sonic, intimate domain
so much we do not dare to ever share
that changes lives
when no one else
is there
To share is human:
Cello and Piano
[Note: this might be a bit overdramatic, but it is how I feel. For what that’s worth. – Owen]
I miss the days of music with my daughter;
She’s older now, and put all that away –
I miss the sound of cello and piano;
I missed it back when there was a ‘last day’ —
A last day that we’d ever play together.
She says we will again, but then delays,
As months turn into years, and there’s no music –
There’s only one of two still there who plays.
To work so hard to get so very good,
Then carelessly leave all of that behind;
To leave behind the good in us for nothing,
And let the years spin by until we find
That when we’re ready duets to resume
The other half of them is in
Their tomb
To share is human:
Celtic Harp
We all have our dreams
Mine’s to learn the celtic harp
And play the old songs
To be one with my forebears
Along the ancient pathways
To share is human:
Harmony Singers
There is virtually no type of music
That wasn’t in my house as a child.
My parents, both musicians, both singers:
My father played over thirty instruments,
Everyone played the piano —
My lifelong love of classical music:
Of jazz, of church music –
Of every kind of music –
Started early, and will, I hope
Remain late.
But the music of unaccompanied singers
Was what we did best:
The five of us at times, or, often
Four out of the five in quartet.
We traveled the country,
Hearing singers, singing…
I was performing in front of people
With my family by age five.
My father’s favorite family memories:
Us singing together,
Not squabbling, or even laughing,
But singing.
= = = = =
Now, fast forward
To another point in the past:
Ten years ago, at
My father’s funeral.
Men my father sang with
Stood up to sing, unaccompanied:
My father had sung his whole life,
Directed choruses, arranged tunes,
And loved it all.
I know how people are about music:
I know how I am.
While we all love it,
We are not always touched by
What means the world to others.
Like languages we do not speak
The beauty of music whose style is strange to us
Goes unappreciated, or ignored.
But if you have the time
And some headphones
Hear this:
And know some of what
My father lived for…
(… inspired by this prompt …)
