In Spain, the teacher wilts under the treeless sun. The white buildings pile up into the hills and even the birds complain of it — life beating down on their wings. The teacher thinks of what lesson this is.
Ilonka
waves his feathered arms
he can’t fly any more but
godammit he can create
sweeping sound and piercing cry.
his tattered coat tails fan the vowels into place
He was a maestro… The kind you would bump into in a busy coffee shop in the middle of winter… Your nose red and your curiosity boiling like the coffee you hheld in your hand.
robyn burton
Music floated through the air, the notes dancing around the heads of everyone present. At the very front if the room was the orchestra led by the maestro. And in the corner, the girl absorbed the music and
F
E
L
L
FallenFromGrace
The boy painted repetitive pictures of the girl he dreamed about. No he was not a maestro at his work but you can tell the passion he had for her with in the art.
Emily Cregger
When we made love it was like we were making music. He knew how to play me. His hands glided over my body like a violinist guiding the strings. He was my own private maestro.
she raises the baton before the chorus, and the sea of smiling faces gazes back at her, steady their fidgeting feet and hold their little paper books in front of them. the childrens’ choir prepares for its last performance of the year. with one measure of silence, the children come in, their eyes following her baton as it rises and falls in time.
Cats kittens hellions and spaghetti and meatalls heroin parks and birthday boys sunglasses rflection veering stand still and listen for the static
melissa
he was a maestro at frying bacon. the bacon sizzled in the pan. he stood by the stove, early morning sunlight streaming in, lighting his dark hair a golden brown. he wore a green apron. he smiled as he flipped the bacon. red-flowered cacti sat on the shelf above the sink, basking in sun.
Shimmona
A man or a women conducting the crowd. Moving them to tears or to cheer out loud. Listen to what he conducts, and you will be amazed or proud. Just remember who conducted this crowd. Maestro, often times forgotten, but never not seen.
Stephanie Johnson
There is a scarf wrapped around her neck, in one, two, three loops, winding around.
A thick tree trunk, a slight hemp rope, all of these things call her there. That same scarf hangs from the lowest branch, and she reaches up once, twice, thrice, to grab it with her hands.
any word that has an a and an e together makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. this is only my second entry so i am still feeling a bit rusty. hopefully tomorrows word wets my imagination.
This word does not sound like it is spelt. I hate words like that. The world would be a much simpler place if every word was said exactly how it was written. (End of rant)
Ken Takanishi, Dave’s lawyer, rang him, sounding excited. “We’ve made a breakthrough! The adoption papers weren’t the only thing your wife faked your hanko on. She transferred all your joint bank accounts to her name, claiming that you had left the country. Since we can prove from your passport that you were here when it happened, we can prove fraud on her part!” Dave was exasperated; “I don’t care about the money…” – but Ken cut him off; “I know. But this means we can prove that she faked documents, and that makes the adoption papers shaky too. Your in-laws’ lawyer, Kobayashi, is a maestro at manipulating the judges emotions, but this will pull the rug from under him.” Sensing his client wasn’t convinced, he pressed on; “Dave, this is it! This is the big break we have been waiting for!”
tonykeyesjapan
There was a little boy that lived in the house next to me when I was younger and I would always call him maestro. I used to peak across the fence into their backyard sometimes and see that he had arranged all his toys in a row, commanding them with a stick. The sheer concentration on his face would instil in me a uncontrollable urge to giggle hysterically.
Grainne
Yuck…sometimes the stories just come to me with ease, other times I need to dig deep to think of something creative. Given the time constraints, “maestro” will be one that stays buried. Sorry…
I think the treble cleft had left
A tiny impression, a soundbite
On the corner of your lip as you spoke.
In the evening I will say goodbye
And hear what your floating voice has to say.
Jon
The maestro begin to play and the audience was mesmerized. The music sounded so beautiful that no one could move….we simply sat in awe….how could something so wonderful come from someone so small? We didn’t care….we loved it.
Tamila
We were sitting on the couch just looking at nothing while silence wrapped the whole atmosphere. A sigh from him first break it followed by connected movements we both have to do to finally break it. He asked me if I want something, I answered with a slight movement of my head from left to right. He shrugged followed by stretching of his legs. He offered water to continue the conversation. I took an effort to answer ‘no’ but my voice seems so small I think he hardly hear it. He moved closer, at first a little but as he let out a raspy groaned he pulled me in with such fury I didn’t tried to strangle. He kissed me hard with no intention of letting go. I grasp for air and looked at his face with a thought in my mind: Ages is not variable now, as long as he make me feel this way, I don’t care I’m in love with my Maestro.
It is the leader of the art. As I listen to Neil DeGrasse Tyson I can only make the comparison. The Maestro of science. What is my niche, where I could be maestro?
Joshua
The music was thick in the air, infusing the entire room with a sadness whose depth pierced the skin of even the maestro conducting the affair. It would be the last time he would perform for her.
ah, the click of fingers and a twirl of your thumb and i am playing that same song i always do, lilting off your toes and tingling off your lips. soft like morning, gentle like stars, a lullaby for any tiredness. i would sing it again and again if you asked me to. but you never ask. so i never do.
the flick,
the veins
lining a sweaty hand
like a released dove
his hands soar-
delicate movements,
and yet bold
M
maestro is a kind of foundation i think. Its another thing too, but foundation is the first thing that comes to mind. thats a little fucked up. dont you think thats kind of fucked up? i think thats fucked up.
A maestro is defined as a classical musician or an object that is disfigured. In life we are all maestros in a way or another, some of us born to create beautiful works of art and others to find a way to fit in, in this disfigured world of ours.
Keanna
“Maestro, if you please!” joked Earl, only to be struck dumb at the sound of the orchestra. What came after that, however, was even more awe-inspiring. It was as if the waves along the coast where the musicians played became more and more agitated, growing in size and providing their own percussion to those symphonies roared out by horns, pipes, keys, and strings.
Belinda Roddie
“M-E-”
He stopped. That wasn’t right. The word had, like, this really weird double vowel in it.
There wasn’t any maestro to be seen in the fields that surrounded the auditorium. He had disappeared prior to the performance, making his way with baton in hand, conducting the grasses and otherwise causing the weeds to react in vibrato to the wave of his musical wand.
“…and this is Phillipe Gerard, the maestro extraordinaire of our ragtag little orchestra,”
She took his proffered hand, her smile becoming forced as he pressed his lips to the back. “Charmed,” he said, his voice oily. It made her skin crawl and she barely resisted the urge to shudder.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she muttered, all but yanking her hand away.
What is maestro? I don’t even know what that means!!! Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to ramble then. So maestro, rhymes with something, that I also can’t think of at the moment, because I’m being timed, and I don’t like being timed. Why am I doing this to myself. I don’t know. I don’t know.
A single, sweet note bounced through the air as he pulled the bow across the strings. He stood on a darkened stage in front of a crowd of hundreds. They saw him as nothing more than a statue- a producer of sound. To them, he wasn’t a musician. The violin was.
The fierceful spikes rattled up and down with no certain order. His hands lead the entire group of musicians, everyone following those gentle powerfuul hands.
Clarissa
He plays at night.
His violin sings to the moon.
The gondolas rowing smoothly stop to listen.
The water ripples when the notes reach it…they are strong.
His bow stings the strings and his fingers fly.
Maestro.
Amalyah
Valerie let him play with the pots and pans in part because she was imagining him years from now–hair too long, but she’d allow it (would have to because he’d been an adult, sleeves pushed back, dramatic arms–how he’d be someone. In charge. And partly it was because she was in charge for now and wanted to be able to hear what he was doing from the kitchen.
Good/average at so much, but master of nothing. Lack of drive? Lack of ability? Lack of focus? What can I do to change?
In Spain, the teacher wilts under the treeless sun. The white buildings pile up into the hills and even the birds complain of it — life beating down on their wings. The teacher thinks of what lesson this is.
waves his feathered arms
he can’t fly any more but
godammit he can create
sweeping sound and piercing cry.
his tattered coat tails fan the vowels into place
He was a maestro… The kind you would bump into in a busy coffee shop in the middle of winter… Your nose red and your curiosity boiling like the coffee you hheld in your hand.
Music floated through the air, the notes dancing around the heads of everyone present. At the very front if the room was the orchestra led by the maestro. And in the corner, the girl absorbed the music and
F
E
L
L
The boy painted repetitive pictures of the girl he dreamed about. No he was not a maestro at his work but you can tell the passion he had for her with in the art.
When we made love it was like we were making music. He knew how to play me. His hands glided over my body like a violinist guiding the strings. He was my own private maestro.
she raises the baton before the chorus, and the sea of smiling faces gazes back at her, steady their fidgeting feet and hold their little paper books in front of them. the childrens’ choir prepares for its last performance of the year. with one measure of silence, the children come in, their eyes following her baton as it rises and falls in time.
maestro? not today. Just a humble grandma waiting for the next time we get to be with our grandson. Priorities sure can shift.
Cats kittens hellions and spaghetti and meatalls heroin parks and birthday boys sunglasses rflection veering stand still and listen for the static
he was a maestro at frying bacon. the bacon sizzled in the pan. he stood by the stove, early morning sunlight streaming in, lighting his dark hair a golden brown. he wore a green apron. he smiled as he flipped the bacon. red-flowered cacti sat on the shelf above the sink, basking in sun.
A man or a women conducting the crowd. Moving them to tears or to cheer out loud. Listen to what he conducts, and you will be amazed or proud. Just remember who conducted this crowd. Maestro, often times forgotten, but never not seen.
There is a scarf wrapped around her neck, in one, two, three loops, winding around.
A thick tree trunk, a slight hemp rope, all of these things call her there. That same scarf hangs from the lowest branch, and she reaches up once, twice, thrice, to grab it with her hands.
any word that has an a and an e together makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. this is only my second entry so i am still feeling a bit rusty. hopefully tomorrows word wets my imagination.
This word does not sound like it is spelt. I hate words like that. The world would be a much simpler place if every word was said exactly how it was written. (End of rant)
Ken Takanishi, Dave’s lawyer, rang him, sounding excited. “We’ve made a breakthrough! The adoption papers weren’t the only thing your wife faked your hanko on. She transferred all your joint bank accounts to her name, claiming that you had left the country. Since we can prove from your passport that you were here when it happened, we can prove fraud on her part!” Dave was exasperated; “I don’t care about the money…” – but Ken cut him off; “I know. But this means we can prove that she faked documents, and that makes the adoption papers shaky too. Your in-laws’ lawyer, Kobayashi, is a maestro at manipulating the judges emotions, but this will pull the rug from under him.” Sensing his client wasn’t convinced, he pressed on; “Dave, this is it! This is the big break we have been waiting for!”
There was a little boy that lived in the house next to me when I was younger and I would always call him maestro. I used to peak across the fence into their backyard sometimes and see that he had arranged all his toys in a row, commanding them with a stick. The sheer concentration on his face would instil in me a uncontrollable urge to giggle hysterically.
Yuck…sometimes the stories just come to me with ease, other times I need to dig deep to think of something creative. Given the time constraints, “maestro” will be one that stays buried. Sorry…
I think the treble cleft had left
A tiny impression, a soundbite
On the corner of your lip as you spoke.
In the evening I will say goodbye
And hear what your floating voice has to say.
The maestro begin to play and the audience was mesmerized. The music sounded so beautiful that no one could move….we simply sat in awe….how could something so wonderful come from someone so small? We didn’t care….we loved it.
We were sitting on the couch just looking at nothing while silence wrapped the whole atmosphere. A sigh from him first break it followed by connected movements we both have to do to finally break it. He asked me if I want something, I answered with a slight movement of my head from left to right. He shrugged followed by stretching of his legs. He offered water to continue the conversation. I took an effort to answer ‘no’ but my voice seems so small I think he hardly hear it. He moved closer, at first a little but as he let out a raspy groaned he pulled me in with such fury I didn’t tried to strangle. He kissed me hard with no intention of letting go. I grasp for air and looked at his face with a thought in my mind: Ages is not variable now, as long as he make me feel this way, I don’t care I’m in love with my Maestro.
It is the leader of the art. As I listen to Neil DeGrasse Tyson I can only make the comparison. The Maestro of science. What is my niche, where I could be maestro?
The music was thick in the air, infusing the entire room with a sadness whose depth pierced the skin of even the maestro conducting the affair. It would be the last time he would perform for her.
ah, the click of fingers and a twirl of your thumb and i am playing that same song i always do, lilting off your toes and tingling off your lips. soft like morning, gentle like stars, a lullaby for any tiredness. i would sing it again and again if you asked me to. but you never ask. so i never do.
I fell in love four months ago. Nothing has changed.
the flick,
the veins
lining a sweaty hand
like a released dove
his hands soar-
delicate movements,
and yet bold
maestro is a kind of foundation i think. Its another thing too, but foundation is the first thing that comes to mind. thats a little fucked up. dont you think thats kind of fucked up? i think thats fucked up.
A maestro is defined as a classical musician or an object that is disfigured. In life we are all maestros in a way or another, some of us born to create beautiful works of art and others to find a way to fit in, in this disfigured world of ours.
“Maestro, if you please!” joked Earl, only to be struck dumb at the sound of the orchestra. What came after that, however, was even more awe-inspiring. It was as if the waves along the coast where the musicians played became more and more agitated, growing in size and providing their own percussion to those symphonies roared out by horns, pipes, keys, and strings.
“M-E-”
He stopped. That wasn’t right. The word had, like, this really weird double vowel in it.
“I’m sorry, let me start over. Maestro. M-A-E-S—”
The clock shuddered really loudly.
There wasn’t any maestro to be seen in the fields that surrounded the auditorium. He had disappeared prior to the performance, making his way with baton in hand, conducting the grasses and otherwise causing the weeds to react in vibrato to the wave of his musical wand.
“…and this is Phillipe Gerard, the maestro extraordinaire of our ragtag little orchestra,”
She took his proffered hand, her smile becoming forced as he pressed his lips to the back. “Charmed,” he said, his voice oily. It made her skin crawl and she barely resisted the urge to shudder.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” she muttered, all but yanking her hand away.
What is maestro? I don’t even know what that means!!! Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to ramble then. So maestro, rhymes with something, that I also can’t think of at the moment, because I’m being timed, and I don’t like being timed. Why am I doing this to myself. I don’t know. I don’t know.
A single, sweet note bounced through the air as he pulled the bow across the strings. He stood on a darkened stage in front of a crowd of hundreds. They saw him as nothing more than a statue- a producer of sound. To them, he wasn’t a musician. The violin was.
The fierceful spikes rattled up and down with no certain order. His hands lead the entire group of musicians, everyone following those gentle powerfuul hands.
He plays at night.
His violin sings to the moon.
The gondolas rowing smoothly stop to listen.
The water ripples when the notes reach it…they are strong.
His bow stings the strings and his fingers fly.
Maestro.
Valerie let him play with the pots and pans in part because she was imagining him years from now–hair too long, but she’d allow it (would have to because he’d been an adult, sleeves pushed back, dramatic arms–how he’d be someone. In charge. And partly it was because she was in charge for now and wanted to be able to hear what he was doing from the kitchen.
The banging suddenly stopped.