On the precipice

This weekend I stand poised on the brink. The next two weeks are going to be just nuts! On Sunday we begin rehearsals for the Fibonacci Chamber Orchestra, a small group put together by a good friend. The concert is the following Sunday. Immediately after that I begin week of nightly rehearsals in Winston for the Symphony concerts the weekend after that. And of course, somewhere in there I actually have to learn all of that music... yikes. But tonight I am taking time to catch my breath and prepare, meaning rather than sitting in a practice room right now, I'm updating my blog. Tomorrow will be soon enough to take life seriously again; for now I'm content being lazy and a bit silly. On that note, I have a rather silly but beautifully put together poem for you...

Any prince to any princess

Adrian Henri

August is coming
and the goose, I'm afraid,
is getting fat.
There have been
no golden eggs for some months now.
Straw has fallen well below market price
despite my frantic spinning
and the sedge is,
as you rightly point out,
withered.

I can't imagine how the pea
got under your mattress. I apologize
humbly. The chambermaid has, of course,
been sacked. As has the frog footman.
I understand that, during my recent fact-finding tour of the
Golden River,
despite your nightly unavailing efforts,
he remained obstinately
froggish.

I hope that the Three Wishes granted by the General
Assembly
will go some way towards redressing
this unfortunate recent sequence of events.
The fall in output from the shoe-factory, for example:
no one could have foreseen the work-to-rule
by the National Union of Elves. Not to mention the fact
that the court has been fast asleep
for the last six and a half years.

The matter of the poisoned apple has been taken up
by the Board of Trade: I think I can assure you
the incident will not be
repeated.

I can quite understand, in the circumstances,
your reluctance to let down
your golden tresses. However
I feel I must point out
that the weather isn't getting any better
and I already have a nasty chill
from waiting at the base
of the White Tower. You must see the absurdity of the
situation.
Some of the courtiers are beginning to talk,
not to mention the humble villagers.
It's been three weeks now, and not even
a word.

Princess,
a cold, black wind
howls through our empty palace.
Dead leaves litter the bedchamber;
the mirror on the wall hasn't said a thing
since you left. I can only ask,
bearing all this in mind,
that you think again,

let down your hair,

reconsider.