Sunday, August 13, 2017

A Poem Called, "Keys"

This is a poem I wrote about my little son playing piano:

The correct notes played,
     the little mistakes.
               Straight back
Hands raised

Filling our house with rag,
now it’s classical,
now it’s jazz.
Now it’s something he made up.

All the players
the world has seen,
With these same notes,
These same keys,
And he makes something up -
       something brand new,
heretofore unheard.

An ocean finding a new way to wave.
An apple falling like never before.

It’s all black and white rectangles to me.
But to him,
this eight year old boy,
it makes sense.

-Derrick G. Wood
August 2017