Viol Whimsies

From the pen of Wayne Moss

The Search

The perfect chair is hard to find,
A gentle match for my behind;
Of course it has to be just right,
To match both length of leg and height.

It must not slope, it must not dip,
Or dig into my bum...or hip;
No edges sharp for me to hate.
While blood forgets to circulate!

If it's upholstered, not too smooth,
Please let ME choose when I will move;
In years of playing, I've tried scores,
The best I've found, alas...is YOURS!

Two for Christopher Simpson (or John Jenkins?)

Divisions mostly are quite hard,
And tend to go on by the yard,
They take a bow arm very strong,
And lots of times they end up wrong.

It's easy if you play them slow,
But fast is how they mostly go,
Oh dear, I'd like to run and hide,
Instead I'll sit here...and DIVIDE!

Divisions have notes that are faster
Than anyone ever can master,
There is always the hope,
That one barely can cope,
And won't end the attempt in disaster!

The Grip

The doctor raised his eyebrows as
He heard her tearful pleas,
"You want some Velcro implants on
The insides of your knees?
I've heard a lot of strange requests,
But this on'e really new,
I must insist on finding out
Just what it is you do!"

She gulped and sighed, then dried her tears,
"You see, I play the viol,
It slips around and tend to fall,
Which really cramps my style.
With Velcro on my knees, and some
Glued on the ribs, I could
Play up a storm...and never fear
That sliding piece of wood!"

To My Harpsichord

Bold synthesis of plectra, brass, and wood,
How pleasant is thy gentle sound to me,
I'd love thee more completely if I could
Rely on sensible stability!

How simple, at first glance, thy inner works,
Ingenious blend of lever, key, and pluck,
But in thy maintenance disaster lurks,
That thou dost play at all is sheer, blind luck.

Adjustments great and small I needs must make,
Thy tuning is a constant, daily chore,
And precious practice hours I must forsake,
If thou art left beside an open door!

Sweet crate, whose magic centuries have proved,
Depletes my friendships...when thou must be moved!

To A Gut String

Oh innocent appearing simple thing,
What mystic connotations do we heap
On that essential to our craft...a string,
'Tis nothing more than innards of a sheep...

To Those Waiting to Perform at Workshops

There are some of us here who caroused with our beer
and slept blissfully, worries all gone.
But then there were others who called up their mothers
And tossed in their beds until dawn.

So folks, if YOU'RE sitting, relaxed with your knitting,
Have a heart for your jittery friend.
Though it goes without saying it's MUSIC we're playing,
It takes GUTS if you play at the end!