My Piano

by J. Edward Killalea

My father sometimes wrote under this name. Killalea is the maiden name of my father's mother. He probably used the pen name for this poem because he did not own nor play a piano.

You're just a piano that's made out of wood
And metal and felt and some string.
You haven't a heart and you haven't a soul,
In fact you don't know of such things.
You once wore a dress of gay varnish
In the days of the long, long ago,
But time has imprinted its tarnish,
And dulled your once radiant glow.

But time cannot deafen your music,
Those wonderful, sweet melodies,
That spring from the touch of the master
Who fondly caresses the keys.
Some keys that were white now are yellowed,
Like your case that is mellowed with time,
But oh the refrains, and the beautiful strains,
That make up your music sublime.

Tributes are pad to the makers of poems,
And laurel wreaths laid on the brows of the great.
Hosannas are sung in a glorified tongue,
Extolling the efforts of those who create.
But you're an inanimate, spiritless thing,
You haven't a voice and you can't claim your worth.
But, oh my piano, your praises I'll sing.
'Twas your harp that gave music its glorious birth.

I'm wrong, my piano, for you were enshrined
In the hearts of Beethoven and Schubert and Liszt,
And all of the masters whose thoughts were entwined
In the music they made, that the world might have missed.
But for your great keyboard, where melodies rare
Were discovered by those masters, whose infinite art,
Discovered a wealth of great harmony there
And gave us the music that gladdened the heart.

You don't need the medals that gleam from the breast
Of the pompous who strut in the world's fleeting fame.
Your glory's eternal, your worth is impressed
Intangible music is your holy aim.
You must have a heart and a soul and a voice,
The affection of myriad lovers of song
Proclaim you and name you their first choice,
And oh what a limitless throng.

My piano, I love you; engraved on my heart
Is that sweet, subtle something, that can't be expressed,
Only to say of my life you're a part,
My tribute is sacred and locked in my breast.
The craftsmen who made you; the masters who played you;
The lovers of music, world without end,
All echo the thoughts that I'm thinking of you,
No wonder I love you, piano. my friend.

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