Category: Poetry (Page 8 of 12)

Sitting down in a classroom

I looked around at students hungry and young

Suddenly

All about us sat instruments

Of the musical tongue

There were oboes and flutes

And trumpets and violas

And every kind to suit

Every whimsy

With a stern look the teacher said, “Choose!”

“Which will be your musical muse?”

But all was silent

None said a word

Until the teacher eyed my smirk

And was clearly disturbed

“I choose,” said I,

“that lonely accordion there.

The one in the corner

Sitting without care.”

Laughter abounded

But still

I smiled

And thought of the organ-like tones

I lifted the box full of notes and air

And placed my hands on its side

The shiny red buttons (when pressed)

Would bare

All the music my soul could no longer hide

I squeezed my squeezebox

My dusty old bellows

And out came a beautiful sound

Music rose and rose

From that shaky old bellows

Music rose all around

Every student and even the teacher

Stood and began to dance

At the sound of my squeezebox

And shiny red buttons

No other instrument stood a chance

So my bellows sang out

And the classroom was a street

In the Old Country markets

And merchants sold silk and trinkets and meats

So I played my accordion in another time

Coins fell into my cup

A monkey sits on my shoulder

He dances too

So do all

Young and even older

As a parade goes by

My music plays on

And my bellows sing tunes

Low and high

Off hops the monkey

But now the monkey is a child

And he begs, “oh, just one more song.

Play another bellows song slow and mild.”

I play for the children at my feet

In my old age the accordion plays on

But the scene is fading and shrinks away

I can no longer remember the songs

The classroom is empty of the markets and children

And the teacher rambles on

Students make notes on boring subjects

I raise my hand only to cover a yawn

No one says a word

So I sit quietly without my bellows

Forever my accordion music

Will go

Unheard

anthony forrest