He sits at our ancient stool
rubbing hands for warmth,
I’ve seen it many times,
long fingers flexing sadly bending
from the aging disease.
He pecks at the keys
testing here and there
for quality and tone,
always a skilful ear.
All his paper music is cast aside today,
the mood is his alone,
rhythms and refrain
spreading to his bones.
He sways, he plays, something from Chopin,
a Souza march,
or a finger perfect rendition of
The Flight Of The Bumble Bee.
When prompted to change his tune,
(mom won't be denied)
there is harmony in the air and clapping,
feet are tapping,
but he is leaving us again.
Feet pump the pedals, fingers take the keys.
Jumpin’ Jack Flash,
Good Golly Miss Molly, Great Balls Of Fire.
Yeee haa.
All too soon its dusk
and the music slips away,
we all sit down to a quiet Sunday tea.
Honorable winner
Adding your comment:
I love this poem because my Granddad did the same thing... He never took music lessons but he had a grand way of playing the piano that always made me grin! 
