Best Maestro Poems
Maestro – 4-23-24
Dedicated to Dr. Stanley Chapple. Co-founder of Tanglewood. Conductor of the London Philharmonic. Head of the Music School University of Washington. Conductor of the University of Washington Symphony Orchestra. Beloved Professor and so much more!
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Maestro
Music flowed from his baton
Like water from his English wellspring,
Taming trills in the perfume of restless scherzos
Coaxing shy adagios into lyrical splendor
Charming sinuous rondos into sinuous symphonies
Coaxing Thalia from cobwebs into tarantellas
In tangled woods and brick paths lined with cherry trees.
Bewitching a young baton to rise
Like a cobra hypnotized in west side stories
In concert with souls of Glorianna and Appalachia’s spring
And arabesques of rodeos to fanfares voces
Riding on concertos beckoning for east to oceans west
To streets glistening in an hourly carillon cadence,
Rain showers so like the Old City’s rhythms,
He found sheltered rests beneath gothic eaves
Soaring with scores of venomous revenge,
And octaves in librettos of a butterfly’s death,
To crescendo young symphonic dreams and emeritus chords
Maestro, melodic mentor, gift and inspiration
Friend of Lenny, Ben and Aaron.
Composed, he walks towards the podium.
At first to applause, until a hush forms.
His heart beats like a water pump,
sweat drips - eyes fixed at his ensemble.
Audience anticipates,
as he stands at the nexus of musical creations.
With a brief glance - nods and closes his eyes,
baton in hand and a flick of wrist,
an oboe penetrates the silence,
violins trill and bass begin to roar.
His empathy connects with each note,
as his wand moves to the tempo,
conjuring symphonic magic,
softly then dramatically,
as emotions ebb and flow,
like waves weaving solo tones.
Spectators lost in imagination.
Gradually the melody flows faster,
as trumpets and trombones blow.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest,
as his pores drip like little rivers on his lips,
but he still guides the harmonic mood
with precision and clarity.
As the horns blare and percussions echo,
he loses grip of his baton - falls onto his knees,
clutching his breast - the music stops,
pianist plays her last key - audience gasp
he falls to the ground - curtains close.
“A maestro is like a candle. It consumes itself to light the way for others.”-
~~ The Poet ~~
Conductor of an art form, stands the maestro of the storm.
Instruments take their place, then the symphony begins.
Firstly, a tuneful rhapsody of woodwind with violins.
The sheer spellbinding rhythm builds increasingly strong.
A tinkling as the rain begins, he uses spiccato to bring the tempo along.
The piccolo sends notes scurrying for cover by the continued rain,
And introduces the flutes into the mix once again.
The cadence evolves, with heralding intensity to engage.
Notes follow the beat, to a crescendo of immense rage.
Now, as the kettle drums implode within their skins,
The conductor is in full control, as his baton spins
Music’s fury is reinforced by trombones, entering for the first time.
Cymbals clash, cellos and double basses offer a fortissimo effect, sublime.
The percussion again, joins, as the woodwind slows,
Notes soften, and the flute’s melody gently flows.
A solo of horns, a transition with the full orchestra, it springs.
In suspense of his melody, the piano takes us to strings.
Tempo lighter, airier which is juxtaposed with the timpani drums.
The soft gentle tones, once hurtled by deafening wind, silence comes.
Audience captivated, orchestra foregone. The maestro lowers his baton.
My Maestro, Oh Maestro,
the beauty of your love is a mesmerizing symphony
and like the performance of Pherekydes of Patrae,
you've led my heartbeats to a more perfect harmony,
with the passion from your heart's baton.
You set the tempo of our love as my Maestro,
and created the euphoric score of our lives,
when you listened to the sound of my heart,
and conducted an orchestra of eternal rhythm,
that fills the stage we share, with magical moments,
of pure delight...
maestro of crazed winds
seeks to have his music heard
challenges the waves
(February 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Early this morning, he sits hot front of my desk
Stared on him and questions accumulated,
Why this, why that, why you attract my eyes
With your tasty-brewed-hot aroma which makes me uptight!
Aged like the finest wine ever stacked
Distilled and refined from raw extracts,
Extract which waited days or years to pass
From the processing standard of a Master's touch!
Brewed and grinned in circles and continued pounds
After surviving the raging heat of consuming fire,
Fire that brings chemical reaction and releases heat and light
Which you consumed and made you master life.
Maestro...why I like you?
With my age, I am not supposed to be with you...
Yet you tasted good, you fill my cup
You excite me with what and how you being packed!
Inner Whispers
I'll instigate an incident
Exaggerate significance
Initiate a conflict
Purely form of interest
Consider me an *******
Although I'm considerate
Enough to let you speak
Until you prove that you're an idiot
I slip in unobtrusively
and take a seat in back,
the orchestra is tuning up,
I open up my pack
and take a rolled up magazine
with which to play along,
conducting is a passion
I have had since I was young.
The brass, the woodwinds and the strings,
the tympani and all,
play scattered notes and splattered tones
until the maestro's call.
The program is Stravinsky's 'Rite,'
an overture by Brahms,
and there am I gesticulating
wildly with my arms!
A cello player noticed me
and signalled to the Man,
"Come, make music! Step on down
and join this merry band!"
the maestro cried in strident tones,
then summoned me on stage,
with great excitement I obeyed,
as he turned back the page.
"From the beginning!" he enjoined,
and handed me the stick,
I tapped the podium and stared,
I started feeling sick!
But then the downbeat... hell broke loose!
the orchestra responded,
Damn! I guess I nailed the Brahms,
how glorious it sounded!
It was then that I awoke,
my closet was a tip,
I stood in my tuxedo
with a poker in my grip!
The famed Chicago Symphony
with Solti in the lead,
how graciously he'd chosen me,
what better dream indeed!
Tryouts starring musical prodigies
and/or an attendant conductor
attempt to approach ambient chorus
divinely exhibited from Gaia's handiwork
heavenly invoking kapellmeister's magnificent nonchalant outlook
piquantly, quintessentially, repertoire sensately striking
unmatched vast wisdom yielding, zephyr air albeit creativity
engineered from groundswell harmony
juxtaposed, kindled, linkedin,
manifesting noteworthy opulent philharmonic recording
transcribing universal veritable webbed wide world.
Wunderkinds yield Ziggurat acme approximated asymptote
bequeathing celestial Doppelganger Earthly emulations
formulating fractal glinting highlighting
ineffable joie de vivre jostling, keen kindling,
la la land legerdemain lifting logic
lording Ludwig (Josef Johann) Wittgenstein.
?
Yelping zoological apostle Al affidavit Gore handily
heaping hubristically invocation jolting kickstart measures
nipping nixed noblesse oblige opera
quickening quotidian rapid ruination sans supreme
teetering upended venerated wise with acumen
arithmetical Benoit Mandelbrot
chasing far-fetched ideas
lightyears menacing nihilism purging ogres opportunistically
resplendently ripping revered tankard tipping unstoppably
vanquishing varietal whipsawing wonderful wrapt yawning youngsters
warfare written wrought yanking zestfully crushing environmental family
granting Herculean instant karma
malevolent, opprobrious pronouncement
quiet riot silencing severely tragic ubiquitous vicious wreckage
yikyaks apemen cleft Earth.
*************************************************
Future foragers denounce capitalistic bamboozlers aggression
zealots wrought trashing quintessential naked kingdoms issue
flotsam coagulates zonal wastelands torquing quality NON
killing habitats Earth bleached yellowed voodoo ruins.
caught his eye, pursued me and we flirted ~ text him short and sweet poems.
2/25/21 Without Saying I Love You Poetry
JCB Brul
Used: How Many Syllables
The silence you note does not represent
drought. It is frozen words under his pen.
Witness his Greatness tapping thoughts
surfing the sea, sailing on heights that us mere
mortals imagine unreal. The ceaseless tapping
goes on and on.
The tap-tapping goes on into silence
broken by a pause – Saturday calls
Maestro, it is time to play. Words don’t play;
note the form, a line must be perfect.
Is this a sonnet? No no! This is an elegy.
That look. Stare death in his face,
Damn him and write. A line must be true
To the form. Those words won't die.
(For Wayne Brown, Caribbean poet)
When Johnny guzzled three ice-cold beers
There dawned on him a feeling of fear
He fled, but he couldn't hide
Crossed a river a mile wide
Burned out his motor ~ all in first gear
grand maestro performs
summer's overture in full…
mauve aromatics
AP: Honorable Mention 2020, Front Page Pick 2020
Submitted on July 9, 2019 for contest HAIKU-HUE sponsored by KIM RODRIGUES - RANKED 1ST
Dedicated to: (Maestro Marinero) Antonio B. Dublado
I could've been on the stage applauded by spectators old and young
A vibrant lad and appealing, so well I could sing and dance.
But when I saw a moving vessel in a horizon not so far
I could see myself a sailor than a renowned performing star.
I saw where the future leads me like the gleaming light on shore
With the throng of white go marching with the drums and bugle corp.
The anchor and the propeller are the insignia that I wore
A Maestro Marinero will one day knock at your door
On the ship that I and my ambitions will surely never ever stop
Though tears are falling; skin is soring or enjoying shorter naps.
When I, like a fool, could laugh remembering funny anecdotes
Perhaps it is a joke enough when laughing alone get caught.
So each day in my quarter with my tailored uniform
I can see the pride within me of such duty I perform
Dreams should not be clouded by dirty oils or the fumes
Not even by sea-sickness or by a strong wind or a storm
As I follow the plotted course in this voyage so-called life
Tempest may come so sudden; it could be perilous or slight
Shipwreck is so ghastly for any sailorman to think
To run aground is costly but it's far better than to sink
I equip myself with preparedness as we head to another shore
So wide-awake though deafened by the engine's endless roar
Let me sing my song to the ocean; to the surfs in a nearby shoal.
Soon another beauty I'll be seeing in another port of call
When it's time for me to disembark and set foot on the dry land
I'll be staying at the shore line to pay tribute to the ocean.
A mariner in the harbor where a lighthouse standing still
See fulfillment at his old age, Oh Lord! Let it be thy will.
Date & Time of Writing:
November 15, 2011
4:01pm – 4:47pm
Just another ordinary day. At about 3:00 pm, excursionists comprising of Marine Engineering students came into my shop to buy bottled water. Then I remember a cousin who devoted his life at sea.
I slip in unobtrusively
and take a seat in back,
the orchestra is tuning up,
I open up my pack
and take a rolled up magazine
with which to play along,
conducting is a passion
I have had since I was young.
The brass, the woodwinds and the strings,
the tympani and all,
play scattered notes and splattered tones
until the maestro's call.
The program is Stravinsky's 'Rite,'
an overture by Brahms,
and there am I gesticulating
wildly with my arms!
A cello player noticed me
and signalled to the Man,
"Come, make music! Step on down
and join this merry band!"
the maestro cried in strident tones,
then summoned me on stage,
with great excitement I obeyed,
as he turned back the page.
"From the beginning!" he enjoined,
and handed me the stick,
I tapped the podium and stared,
I started feeling sick!
But then the downbeat... hell broke loose!
the orchestra responded,
Damn! I guess I nailed the Brahms!
how glorious it sounded!
It was then that I awoke,
my closet was a tip,
I stood in my tuxedo
with a poker in my grip!
The famed Chicago Symphony
with Solti in the lead,
how graciously he'd chosen me!
what better dream indeed!