The first few notes, already she could tell Familiar chords in back and forth like chime As something she had practiced and then left, The high sostenuto drifting back in time: Her mother standing by the door, the keys Felt large under toy fingers, she was nine, To suddenly walk out as though displeased, Her eggshell heart already held with twine. But with her daughter’s playing she would try And keep away—just then to sneak a peek— Such music coming from a girl of five! Who must not think mom’s presence a critique. But things are different now, for are they not? How much more love we are allowed to show; And yet her mother loved her just as much— How little of a child’s heart we know. Will she resent her for her absence there, For holding one too little or too much, Require affirmation, guarded care, Or will all words lose meaning used as such? Like other parents do we then progress By reading off sheet music to refute An older generation, though we know Our instruments are sounding just as mute.
Hey there. It's always nice to get a response this quickly.
And yes I was annoyed at myself for writing another poem about the banality of childhood, or at least featuring it. My next poem is about a lake, so stay tuned for that!
Wow, It's always something different with you.
I think i can put 'unsentimental visions of childhood' as a theme tho.
Keep it up, i love it.
Hey there. It's always nice to get a response this quickly.
And yes I was annoyed at myself for writing another poem about the banality of childhood, or at least featuring it. My next poem is about a lake, so stay tuned for that!
Oh no i love it. I was just thinking how themes are beginning to develop in your work.
Terrifying prospect
Neat work. I prefer this sort of poetry to the ugly mess that free verse has become.