The Pianist
The pianist sits composing
A piece
about his love
His tune is
cheerful but sad too
Outside the
window is a full moon night
And a lone nightingale trills out her song
The pianist
writes as if in a fever
Note after
note stains the page
And outside
the nightingale keeps him company
Singing her sad
tune
Candle wax
drips onto the floor
And
mosquitoes bite him
But lost in
the rapture of composition
Our pianist
is in a different world
For this is
his Bodhisattva
The piece he
was born to write
And God in
the form of a songbird
Sits in a
tree and watches him write
And the
moonlight sonata plays on
Home
It is fall and leaves litter the street
Of the town
where you grew up
You are
walking down the street that leads to your childhood house
Your neighbour has a swimming pool now
He finally
dug it
You walk up
the driveway, past the oak that was struck by lightning
And with your keys you
open the rusty locks
As you enter
the memories come flooding back
The wicker
basket in which your mother kept her knitting
The rocking
chair in which your father used to sit
Your old bedroom is just as you left it
Maybe
needing a coat of paint
As you
wander around you realize
That this
house is full of stories
And it is time
someone told them
The Bilge Master
