Poetry Set to Music (?)

I like poetry.

I used to write a lot of it.

I was poetry editor of a publication in high school 

and helped edit in college too.

I don't write or read much poetry anymore.

Not even Dr. Seuss.

Which is a little sad.

Last night McDaniel had a choir concert.

The theme was Poetry Set to Music.

Yeah, that is McDaniel playing a turquoise ukulele.
More on that later.

Okaaaaay…

I can't say that we were excited.

The high school has a TON of talent, 

it really does. 

The fall concert was just amazing.

A jazz theme.

Jazz is intended for music.

It IS music.

We skipped the Christmas concert since it was one continuous song,

for 40 minutes straight,

done in Caribbean Mass style.

Did I mention it was also in Latin?

Yeah, we told McDaniel to call us when it was over so we could pick her up.

So we couldn't really skip this one.

I think parents only get one free pass a year
on these things, right?

Each poem was read first before they were sung.

I appreciated the readings--some were delivered very, very well.

But the singing of them?

It just didn't do them justice.

Some things were meant to just be spoken.

Like all the dialog in an opera.

And the French horn that was ill-played during the first song?

I had a very hard time controlling myself.

Because do you know what an ill-played French horn sounds like?

A goose who ate too many bean burritos at lunch, that's what.

And Monte told me a long time ago that farts
will always be funny to him.

Ellie was practically in a heap on the floor laughing.

So someone had to be the adult.

Thanks be to God and the program for keeping me from making a scene.

The program had pictures of each of the choral groups and ads from local vendors.

One ad was for a cupcake bakery with the tag line of:

Cakey. Cuppy. Yummy.

I was already suppressing a hearty guffaw when this struck my fancy.

I quickly turned the page to a fairly large ad for Port-a-Pots that boasted of a new cutting edge "super deep" bowl situation that sent. me. superclose. to. losing. it.

Really?  In the program for a high school choral performance?

I myself have always been happy with the

run-of-the-mill shallow bowl of a Port-a-Pot.

And by happy, I mean I will hold it until
I am blue in the face to avoid using one. 

Ever.

The concert included poetry about asking a cow, a goat and a hog their "take" on the meaning of life.

There was mooing, bleating and oinking.

That was fun set to music. 

But at least everyone else laughed too.

Dr. Seuss could've easily worked into the program.

I’m just saying.

When McDaniel's glee group started singing in German, 

I may have started to look at what Monte was looking at on his phone.

German isn't a flowy romantic language that lends itself to a snappy melody.

Side note:  McDaniel's choir director asked her last night if she was feeling okay.

She was.

This morning, during class, he said he was surprised to see her there
since she looked about ready to vomit last night, she was so pale.

Nope.

McDaniel is just that pale.

Hurry up, Spring Break!

Back to poetry.

Last week Ellie told me she was going to ask me some questions for something for school.

Whatever. Fine.

I was busy unloading and loading the dishwasher.

I answered a series of questions fairly absentmindedly.

Finally, I asked what it was going to be used for.

"I am going to write a poem about you."

I told her to read back my answers.

I begged her to change some of them.

She didn’t and assured me it was going to "work out great".

She handed me a rough draft last night.

If I may summarize,

for the sake of this being set to music one day and sung by a high school choir:

I am a small town lover of parties, cheesecake and Jesus.

I hate recumbent bikes, most movement and being upside down because it makes me queasy.

Big noises worry me.

(So that rules out ill-played French horns for accompaniment.)

I am superstitious of wearing white before Easter and after Labor Day.

(If you can call that a superstition).

I know my dinosaurs.

And the humiliation of wetting my pants.

If that doesn't one day force the parents in the audience,

the ones that already used their free pass for the year, 

to pray and look through the program 

to help suppress a hearty guffaw then,

I don't know poetry set to music.