Don't Give Up Music for Notes
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I softly fingered black-white keys, I could
not press a tune. So I’d just watch as They
would play, the fingers dipping clouds of white
like mist in valleys come to frolic here.
A hundred years it stood – now more. And I
convinced myself that it would never sing
for me. But then a bow was placed in my
right hand, and I was told to read the notes.
Oh how I missed the clouds of white. In time
I learned to read the circles – it wasn’t song
to me. But as I screeched the metal knife
(and just as sharp) across the strings, I cleared
the mist of black and white, then I began
to press the keys again. At first I read
The Autumn Leaves, then Cello Song and all
the paper I could find. But dots still seemed
a trivial thing – so then I played without
them. Skies, so dark would sing beneath my hand
as I imagined trains to Tokyo
and played the pentatonic scale. But soon
the miles of West Virginia sky glide by
and we arrived to sleeting rain and Mount
Rainier as I wrote singing-songs to pass
the time. The houses, years, they floated by
like streams. Then quickly I went out to learn
some mysteries. Like names of chords and tones
that lead and ways to jazz. I once haphazardly
began to trip, then I discovered those.
Those notes I still detest, make no mistake.
I once began to play for them and not
for you. But now I’m back, my friend, just keep
on showing me the way until I wend.