THE MAGIC OF OUR SONG

THE MAGIC OF OUR SONG
By Charles Robert Lindholm

I Was Drawn
Back Into Childhood Memories
As I Listened To The Wind
Whispering Through The Trees

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My Piano and Me

I taste iron as I swallow hard,
nerves making me grind my teeth together.
There’s a faceless crowd, swamped in darkness, waiting.
Shut them out? Forget them? A hopeless endeavor.

I sit and smell freshly polished wood.
I inhale that heavenly, calming scent
as I feel all my stage fright flutter away.
I no longer feel the subject of an event.

I set my fingers down on the keys,
feel their smooth texture underneath my skin,
giving under the small pressure of a touch,
sending vibrations down to my soul, deep within.

Winter’s Nocturnes – A Sestina

He sits down.

Melodies unfurl with a twitch, a light trill,
And the man leans back, savouring every note
Cloaked in black, and stained with tears,
Winter’s gifts a forgotten sight. Under the stars,
He bows his head, straightens his back, and the haunting
Begins. He slams on the piano keys, sorrow a dark cloud.

He remembers lying down, watching the clouds,
He remembers the chirping birds’ magnificent trill,
He remembers her – her bright green eyes haunting
His own. Her hand, knotted
With his. He remembers lying down, watching the stars
As each twinkled, then faded, merely a tiny tear.