“On March 31, 1913, in the Great Hall of the Musikverein concert house in Vienna, a riot broke out in the middle of a performance of an orchestral song by Alban Berg. Chaos descended. Furniture was broken. Police arrested the concert’s organizer for punching Oscar Strauss, a little-remembered composer of operettas. Later, at the trial, Strauss quipped about the audience’s frustration. The punch, he insisted, was the most harmonious sound of the entire evening. History has rendered a different verdict: the concert’s conductor, Arnold Schoenberg, has gone down as perhaps the most creative and influential composer of the 20th century.”

Most “art”, whether it be music, painting, literature, poetry, or even a dissertation, if it is different from the norm at first, it will need a following or (learning experience) of the general public and must either shine or fall from the quality, art and the appreciation of the general public. I must admit that I am a bad example of this. When it comes to “art” I am a very eclectic in my life. You will find visual art all the way from preemptive to ultra modern hanging on my walls, my furniture dates from classic family heirlooms to modern IKEA, you will see books of all types of writing, but mostly factual, the music I listen to is anything except “rap” (which I still feel is not music); poetry is still something I am working on as you will see later. Oh in my yard you will see from cactus to water plants, passing through tropical to desert plants. Little paradigm can be found here except in my liking all of it.

I remember going to the Carnegie Hall in New York City in the late 1950’s to hear Dave Brubeck and immerse myself in “Modern Jazz”. This was not the Jazz that I grew up with, which came to be called “Bebop” and many others. I was still in the process of training my ears to like this “modern” music, which later became so kind and loving to my ears. Again when the Beetles were swarming America, I was not here, I was in South America where Nat King Cole and even Harry Belafonte were popular, plus I picked up a fine appreciation of the Latin beat. So I did not get the base of this music as well, until I met Shirley and she introduced me to them, today I consider them great and very talented. So it may not be the art you see or hear so much as learning to appreciate that art.

I still find some music, amateurish and not to my liking, sometime the attitude or life style of the “artists” tend to color what I think about them, good or bad. There are several famous “artists” who I feel (are) faking it, and because I grew up with little amplification of music, I find a microphone stuck down their throat an indication that they just do not have a voice, I was taught that it should come from down within~! I also have several paintings of “Cave Art, very old church art, and on my refrigerator door even some kids art.

Oh and one more thing I am still working very hard to learn why I can not understand what some poets write and call “poems” that do not rhyme. I admit that this is really my fault and I am working on it. Some I find very nice and some say nothing, show nothing, and are as artistic as those drawings on my refrigerator door.

So here I go repeating a poem of long ago about a singer who bought her fame.


This pitiful rich lady just could not sing,
and when she did, your ears would ring.
She had the drive, she had the bling,
but none of the talent that God could bring.

Her dad was wealthy old Charles Foster,
from Wilkes Barre Pa, with money, not lost on her.
But like his name on the trivial, he did not foster,
not even on her, his favorite daughter.

Her dad said no, you can not show,
in opera houses, of that I know,
or off to Paris, money I will not blow,
on a folly like this, it’s so much dough~!

She played with music on the piano,
but her desire was truly to sing soprano.
While on the keys she made that box go,
from lowest keys to high in vibrato.

That type of musical talent she had was great,
but that desire was not to be her fate.
The higher goal, for now must wait,
but with a special man she had a date.

Now Florence knew she had another
way to her career, one that she’d rather,
be with this man, who liked to hug her,
and did not know he was “her sucker”.

She married him but without knowing,
he had a fault that was not showing,
but soon the signs began its growing,
his disease was worse than clap,,, ongoing.

So she dumped this man, but kept his name,
a divorce was out, separation the same,
and from this break she was never the blame,
when in later years she came to fame.

With an actor friend, from upper crust,
she and he lived a life on the bust,
and it may have been just based on lust.
Till her parents died, leaving a sizable trust~!

Oh the time has now finally come~!,
and off to New York, they did quickly run,
No time for love, no time for fun,
a singing carrier had just begun.

The performances she gave were at the Met,
She wrote herself as the heroine, the best, you bet,
she designed her wardrobe, and even the set.
With all the glory that money gets.

And to these venues the elite would go,
The top of performers even praised her show,
with even allocates from folks like Caruso.
though after the act, earplugs fell like snow.

For no one wanted to admit,
that she had not even a voice of limit,
of the tone, volume, and texture of spit.
And worse of all, Florence would not quit.

Of all the people throughout the land,
even those who would clap and stand,
would not admit, even with a band,
a performance by her was not in demand.

Now Florence, though she did try,,
with all her money that she could buy
her fame, her fortune died by and by,
for she was tone deaf you see, though she did try.