his fingers move across the keys
to put words on a page
like the pressing of chords
to shape a spoken music that will carry
his reader away
lost for awhile inside the little story-tales
set somewhere between the pounding of drama
and the tinkle of love
softly played in words damaged
by a narration that does not master the language well
perhaps from a foreign land
broken english and musical speech
deficient but done as well as he is able
it is always a solo
but he tries to convey an orchestration
of the life that he leads
by writing it for you
speaking of places and moments
of the things he sees
through tiny sonatas in a stanza form
with variations
moving from thought
through fingers
to paper
passed to you for inspection
to pronounce what you read and felt
did he craft a good story
does the music of his words
resound inside your head
after he has left you
© Frank Prem, 2002
Frank Prem Poetry 
What a lovely bitter sweet piece Frank, it’s gorgeous 🎼 🎻
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Hi Steve.
Had to go back and have a refresher look to remind myself.
Thank you. It’s the wonder I wonder sometimes – if this is life’s work, what is it all for?
Still, we battle on, because we must.
Glad you enjoyed the piece.
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Very welcome, Frank. I’m definitely the wrong person to comment, but … I think that if I enjoy it, if there’s coffee, and if someone else gets something from it, then fair enough and good enough. There’s a lot of worse things I could be doing. 🙂
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Amen and quite correct Steve.
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