Adam Ward

The Piano

 

It’s as if my fingers had forgotten the piano,

or maybe my eyes drifted from the keys

to the ivory of her smile once too often.

Maybe the beer had slowed my knuckles,

and the turquoise sponge of her eyes

drifted to my hands to watch me play,

but the nerves rose through my chest

and gave up music, or hope perhaps.

 

As I played for the hollow home

somewhere beyond the rolling cloth

the creased quilt, dotted with sheep

bleating new accents in every field

she sat quietly, tongue small and thick

resting on a scarlet glistening pillow.

Her eyes stroked between my face,

my hands, and back and back.

 

But I shook the notes away,

each cadence a memory discarded,

an inhibition lost, an epitaph.

Every bar was a coda waiting.

Each coda could not begin a new refrain

for there was no melody for here and now

without a scale of guilt.  And those chords

would only accompany me to the gallows.

 

Yes the songs would end

the hammer ceased beating the strings

and her hands brushed mine

like a cotton bow upon airy skin.

Begin again her mouth would urge

and whipping hair of flame just once

to rest upon the lagoon she’d draped

around her hidden curves.

 

As the bitter night closed the light

and my hands caught the wind

reaching for hers, subtly.

She shrunk back into whispering black,

her elven feet carrying her home.

Back up the hill I’d drag my shoes

through gravel, gate, and upstairs

 

to play piano perfectly alone

 

A Rutlanders Yarn

 

In some wez shis wiser na.

Sh’c’n tell th’Jewsh, Christians,

th’Indoos oo’s right’ an’

seddle th’score on those what lied.

 

Tho still an’ dumb, th’eyes a closed

wi’sheckin’ thumbs, c’n see wha’ man

‘as killed ‘is brother uva, fer centries

in livin’ breathin’ blin’ness.

 

Jus’ las’ week shwas ‘ottin’ soup

an’ serm’nisin’ ‘rithmetic and revlations

to yunguns oo’d not utter a word

whils’ Mam’d wield th’ladel

 

Mu’ely, an’ withou’ force she

gev um each day their delly bread

an’leddem no’ inta temptation.

We mathed’er words to full bolls.

 

When Dad cemmum frum wuck

th’dug, cherishin’ ‘is face wi’

baptisms a slick slobber

shwud thank th’Lord furriz return.

 

 Shid sen’ God wee us, dan th’jitty,

up each tree wid climb, uva each stile,

an’ anywur ‘cross th’Wellan’ Valley

wid yomp wi’spirit accussom t’ yunguns.

 

An’ one day sh’open’d twa man,

seein’ only a bet’n gosp’l in wunand,

not th’knife ‘e ‘ung cashwul-like

‘aside ‘is fawny jacke’ an’ nea’ trousers.

 

Goodwill twall men, sh’ad ‘im in

sheckin’ wee a fruzzen gale.  Hid accep’

th’good char, of a good woman, wee th’

good book on ‘er oak tebbel

 

Frit tho’ shid be, a’th’ final plunge

a’d no’ won’er tha’ a final preh would

‘scap ‘er lips, ta God ‘oo fersucker

a’tha’ mumment, in ‘er dires’ of need.

 

Na cotched in slumber, in wood an’ chapel,

‘ands ‘cross her motionless ‘eart she knows

an’ sees th’frui’ ova life whisper’d on knees.

Bu’ sh’speaks not til’th veil’s drawn

 

 

Adam Ward can be found on social media in the following places. Twitter - @WardyBoy82
FB Page - https://www.facebook.com/AdamWardWriter. I last found him in North Gate bus station in Northampton, where I twisted his arm to give these poems to Beatnik. I think they're extremely good, for whatever my opinion's worth ~ Bruce.