A blog is an autobiography written as you're reading it.

It is an Ivory Midnight

This poem’s been percolating almost since before my first poem, and originally began its life as prose, but then seemed to merge well with a poem I was trying to write about my love for music. Anyways, here it is. Get what you will out of it.

My feet stand on a vast sheet of burning ice,
I listen to the crystal hue of my own breath.
The ice surrounds me like frigid attire;
Feel the cold, freezing fire in my veins.

My eyes come to rest upon the handiwork.
Slender legs float just above the frigid surface.
A curved black wave presides over rows of keys;
Know that this place has been made for it alone.

With trembling finger I caress its keys,
And open my mind to the secrets held within.
The polished alabaster and ebony keys gleam,
Beckon me to take another step, further in.

Through them I have heard the songs of angels,
And I will it to blossom into song once more.
The keys beg me to release their music,
Breathe the honeyed air of passion and belief.

A single note pierces the frigid silence;
I withdraw a hasty hand; what have I done?
The ice rears up, breaks its bonds; the ground
Resonates with the beauty and life of spring.

Out of the warmth I see a maiden, tall and pure,
And now I realize that she has always been.
It is she who sings the notes, cherishes them,
Bears the song, and gives the gift of life.

From her lips flows what I long to create
The piano is the dream, she, the reality.
I open my mouth – I must call to her.
Hear the vibrant song through her lips.

But the maiden of spring returns again,
To her bondage underneath the terrible ice.
Fading as the sun, which slips below the horizon,
Engulfs the piano in an orange sunlit flame.

Andrew Joyce

Photo Credit Todd Rains