The Maestro Performs

I spend some time around kids obviously.  The ones closest to my heart are the ones that don't quite fit into the crowd; it can get them into trouble.  I can't say the name here, but this piece is for this one particular child.

This day was special: the sun was shining very brightly, and the warmth of spring baked down upon the winter-weary earth.  You could see something in the way he walked across the roadway: proud, steady, head held high, chin up, and perhaps he had a prance or trot deep within his body.  This day, he wore his backpack (no backpack was going to rule this day).  He was in absolute control; yes, his public awaited his arrival.

He stepped up into "his space," looked about at all the seats that surrounded him and filled the "hall."  Without a doubt, this was his time to shine.  He sat down on the edge of his seat in perfect performer's form, back straight, no slouching.  He waited for his perfect moment, and then began.

As he and his audience passed the little supper club nestled into the bottom of Horace Hill: "Yo, yo, yo, yo," Up a scale; "meow, meow, meow," down an arpeggio or two.  Then, in pure angelic voice with clear, round tones came the lines of "Silent Night," his prepubescent voice giving light, glowing wings to the carol.  It floated about "his space" like fog in a light breeze in the bright morning sun, delicately touch the stocking cap heads held captive.  It was perfect for a white, crisp morning in February.  He stood up perfectly straight as a proper two by four and watched the last of his Christmas hymn disappear into the brightness of the day.  His first act, in the greatest concert ever performed, a success.

But wait!  Something was amiss.  Was that a conversation?  He cleared his throat loudly to say: how rude!  And then, there was a hand on his shoulder.  How dare the stage manager come out on to the stage and interrupt such a sublime moment of bliss...oh, wait.  It was the bus driver.  Sit down?  How dare?!....oh, alright.  The concert had just begun; there would be more.  And as the scenery outside the windows changed from country/woodland to a small subdivision on the edge of the village, it was the moment for his next great fete.

"Oh, say, can you see? By the dawn's early light?  What so proudly we made past the dwellings nearby..."

Ah, our National Anthem...as could only had been rendered by our fair Maestro, true, artful,...bold.  Wait, the last few lines...

"Oh, say, does that star sprinkled lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave".  Is that it?  Wait.  "Oh say does that star sprinkled...."  Yes, onward!  "--lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave."  And now, for the roar of the adoring fans.--

"Oh, man!  Enough.  You can only listen to it the first sixteen times!"

Perhaps, it was time to break out the piece of resistance, an aria from the little known Italian Commedia Del Arte Opera composer, Manfred Smellini, "I Must Fart Before I Explode."

"Fee-da-crizzi, da-mora-Penza, I must fart, I must fart before I explode!!  La la menni keelli, Must fart, must fart, I will explode.  I exploded-ed."

It was brilliant, such virtuosity.  Mozart, Hayden, Puccini, Verdi, and Rossini would have approved of such a wonder.

"You're so weird."

His audience rose out of their seats, then simply left.  Bah!  What do critics know?  It was a special day, and you could see something in the way he walked across the roadway.

28 February 2016. Roy Edward Power