The Maestro Eyebrow of a Deep Purple Tint

The violas were flat, the violins snoozing
the bass drum booming a doleful beat;
the marimbas were staring into empty space,
the harp, in dreams of a far-off place;
the tubas- depressed, the flugelhorn guessed
that the band had fallen into a blue-note key…

The band needed rescue, something to lift
the piccolos and flutes out of the depths
the woodwinds were wimpering in, the brass was buried in,
that the strings were simply attempting to flee…
what could this unlikely rescue be?

The conductor, a master, had, as usual, an answer,
though today the darkness came quick in disguise,
and no one could catch it, no one could lift
the waning spirits from the orchestra's eyes;
they’d have left in dismay having had a bad day
if i' twere not for the conductor’s spontaneous surprise…


With baton in her hand, she spun toward the band
and issued instructions to be performed on cue-
they would follow her eyebrow, her new purple eyebrow
that would embellish the crescendos, the fortes, the mutes;
it would stamp pizzicato upon the legato,
force a few flitters within the vibratos
and bring out deep meaning from the smallest of toots…

They sat up straight, nimble, the trombones, the cymbals,
the mites that were resting on the piano key glint;
they paid close attention, rapt in anticipation,
all eyes fixed on the eyebrow of a deep purple tint…

The eyebrow raised! the band roused up, played!
The cellos were never more soulful that day;
when the eyebrow fell, the orchestra knew well
they must find pianissimo and then softly sway…


When the piece was done, the audience, hung
on each note the eyebrow commanded, conveyed
burst into applause, the band was in awe
of the eyebrow adorning her fiery gaze-
that purple-hued eyebrow- that heart-piercing eyebrow-
that left all in wonder, and the critics, amazed…!