FALLETTA

Baton tapping,
a gentle rapping
to bring instruments at the ready.
Steady guys and gals,
she will dictate the pace,
this is not a race to the finish,
so don't diminish her worth.
Nowhere on earth has
the music sounded as sweet,
and she stands replete with looks
and style; a smile
that makes beautiful misuc
all by itself. Some great composers
have inspired her and the Buffalo
Philharmonic Orchestra hired her
to resurrect a great ensemble.
They follow her lead,
indeed JoAnn Falletta deserves
the accolades for the melodies played.

COMPOSER

Clips of melodic minutia sliced,
diced and restructured to sound
like the symphony in his head.
Dreading the chore, hoping to jam instead
but the first measure seems undone,
no fun until he gets to the bridge.
Crossing out a whole movement,
his groove seem gone and his hand
aches from pounding the same key
over and over hoping it catches fire.
His only desire is to rework "Chopsticks'
to sound like Handel's "Messiah",
So, he tinkles and trills,
until it fills his head with the
sound which he seeks. He peeks
over his shoulder to see if anyone's heard.
He dreams of airplay, and everyday
he is back to the grind, tired and bored,
hoping to find the lost chord.
It's in his head. It was born in his soul.
And he believes, when it gets into his heart
he will lose all control. Big dreams die hard.
He knows in the end, he will just decompose.

METRONOME

Tick, tick, tick-tick-tick,
the rhythm sticks in my head,
so sick, tick-tick-tick.

Kinda waltzy, always schmaltzy,
playing as backbeat to every feat
I attempt to conquer. In my ear

tick, tick, tick-tick-tick,
life at a metered beat, sweet
syncopation of this celebration,

high elation and a quick
tick-tick-tick. Slick in its
cyclical pattern, mechanical toe tappin'

Keeps me at an even keel, a real
chance to keep pace with the rat race
and face the challenges I pick,

tick, tick, tick-tick-tick,
the rhythm sticks in my heart
great way to start the day. Tick.

NED WOOD

Prestonesque, your fingers danced
across the ivory and ebony,
your now bony fingers, danced.

The ivory is the purity of life's page,
played simply and powerfully,
a tribute to your aptitude.

The ebony is the blackness;
the cursed cancer consuming you.
A tribute to your strength.

A musician and mentor,
like all of us, life's renter.
In decline, but inclined to play

every sweet note left in your magic hands,
harmonic, symphonic; an iconic sound.
One of the best around Buffalo town.

Awe strikes with each passage played.
Awe strikes with the courage shown,
never over-blown, gratefully, home-grown.

Ned, glad to have known you.
And yet, we hardly knew ye!


　

WALK LIKE A MAN (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons)

Striding, head held high,
a strong classic chin leading,
your breeding shows, and she knows it.
You smile, pearly whites, bright they are,
each a shining star in your oral galaxy.
Broad shoulders and a chiseled boulder
for a chest. You're doing your best
to display the package; a knack you've had.
It doesn't make you bad as you nod,
an acknowledgment to her passing.
A beauty in her own right, you fight
the urge to speak; a mysterious smile
guides your wile. You look back
and as she strolls away without fail,
you exhale. Your chest drops
as does your belly, lapping your belt
like a bowl full of jelly. Short and labored
is your breath as you struggle to retrieve it.
Who'd have believed it...that you still
thought that act would get you noticed.
You trudge away, another day in anonymity.

WHEN WE WAS FAB

 
Do you want to know a secret?
I want to hold your hand.
It won't be long, just eight days a week.
I wanna be your man, but I'm happy just to dance with you.
Girl, tell me what you see. I want to tell you, I need you.
Yesterday, or the night before...any time at all,
I will carry that weight. I want you.
I've got a feeling, Martha my dear,
that we can come together. Don't let me down.
In my life, this boy knows, all you need is love.
Oh Darling, good night.

P.S I love you.

 

WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

Lyrics by Walter J. Wojtanik - © 2011

Sitting here I watch your picture on the wall,
dancing to the gentle strains of melodies we knew.
Memories we've shared; the times that showed we cared,
fade away in thoughts of you.

All alone at night I wonder where you are
and I wonder if you think about me now and then,
thoughts inside my head are better left unsaid
since my heart fell from your hands.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now,
wishing somehow you still need me too,
the way you used to do.

Looking in your eyes was like a dream come true,
feeling all the little things I learned so hard to need.
But, now I look around and realize, I've found
just how much I need you still.

Where are you now,
now that I need you?
Where are you now?
I just don't believe in love anymore
since you've walked out my door. Now you're gone.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns
of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.
It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred
into a whir of activity. You possess a proclivity for
drawing upon the past long enough gone
to notate upon the staff of your life;
it is a song composed with ethos and verve.
Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown
and all are shown the power of your voice.
A flash-back to a day when music was an ally
to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured
in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,
born of elation for all your songs relate;
it is never too late to write your score.
The more you remember, more tender the melody.

DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

It snowed that day don't you remember?
It was a Monday in December.
I picked you up a half past three,
you were waiting by that maple tree.
The wind was blowing rather strong,
and I had you waiting far too long.
You thought you should have stayed in bed,
but came out in that cold instead.
We had some dinner, we saw a show,
and we made some angels in the snow.
I drove you home to get some rest
and offered to rub Vicks on your chest.
We finally got there after nine,
you said you had a real good time.
We chatted briefly while it snowed
and listened to the radio.
The announcer broke in with some news,
And a shroud of sadness covered you.
Don't you remember how you cried
that night we heard John Lennon died?

REMEMBERING LENNON

Remembering thirty years ago when a legend was silenced:

MEAN MR. MUSTARD

I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me.

A singing jester, a bloody fool;
one of those lads from Liverpool.

We came to America, land of the free,
our music grew, but it stifled me.

My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.

But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,

to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.

So a glad house husband I became
while Yoko worked to make a name.

And I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.

But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,

to feed this "Double Fantasy"
and brought the world right back to me.

But, a yellow bastard made his name
by stealing someone else's fame.

Mark my words David, he was a mean chap man,
crouching there with a steady hand,

I sang that, "Happiness Is a Warm Gun"
"Mr. Lennon?" bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.