A LITTLE TRANSCENDING MELODY

As if to break the fingers of my hand

Or the keys on which they pound,

I wrench a Koelling storm of notes

From the hapless piano.

Slamming out a bit of 1812,

Or Listz’ Hungarian Rhapsody

Instead of slamming doors

And breaking glass,

My fingers scream

My unspoken helpless rage.

“Yes,” I say when asked,

“Fortissimo is required –

See the double f’s?”

Pointing to where they are

Quite clearly marked.

The minutes pass,

While the neighbor’s windows shiver

From the tempest’s blast,

With errors,

(Not played with accuracy)

By fingers too angry to be true.

Till at last, a slightly lighter sound

As mezzoforte is found

And played as it is meant to be.

Then sheer force is abandoned

For the drama of the Harbanera,

The pulsing rhythm of an Ellmenrich,

A Ballade by Burgenmuller.

Softer, sweeter, slower notes sound

To ease the air

So savagely disturbed.

And then I, too, am subtly changed

The lightning flares fading from my eyes

In the way a lullaby woos a cranky child.

The desire to strike eases

Into a desire to please.

My heart once choked with thorns

And dark with rage

Has learned to sing again.