Two Poems

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