| General Poetry posted February 16, 2015 | Chapters: |
...15 16 -17- 18... 
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Free Verse
A chapter in the book Free Verse Collection
The Conductor
by tfawcus
A ripple rises as the lights are dimmed
that grows into a crescendo of applause. The great man appears. An Emperor Penguin, he sweeps across the stage and mounts the podium then turns, surveys his audience, and nods acknowledgement. The scene is set. His baton raised, he holds expectant silence in the air, then gently coaxes murmurs from the violins, a rising susurration of bees set free. He suppresses them with a gentle downward movement of his hand, turns his pointer to the larger deep-voiced strings, demanding their masculine response, an ominous drumbeat of rising sound that enforces interplay with melody. He draws music forth with an outstretched hand. The tempo quickens to the strident shudder of his jowl. He turns a white-tipped laser to the centre of the pit. It strikes, exploding brass, timpani and a kettle-drum before an opening blossom of cymbals stops their breath. Majestically, he cuts the air. Great swathes of sound escape, marshalled by his rhetoric into ranks. His eye is wild, he leads the charge as if on horseback, the rise and fall of his shoulders mimicked by a rippling surge across the silken blackness of his back. He cuts the sound away again, severing its roots with silence. A single flute dares defy him now. It mourns the melody with keening liquid notes. The maestro turns and coaxes once again the strings, drawing from their amber hearts accompaniment, a waterfall of sound cascading from Olympian heights. The final notes ascend. They float like butterflies returning to the gods. The audience erupts, washing the magic away in a torrent of sound. He turns, bows low, acknowledges the thunder of applause, then is gone. The orchestra subsides like puppets who have lost their puppeteer. Exchanging pleasantries, they pack their bags for home. The symphony is done. |
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