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He also studied at the Conservatory "G. Centazzo, where he earned a graduate degree in Music Education and Accordion Teaching.

Maestro Soler, Poet of the Guitar demo

He attended many courses of musical interpretation in Italy and abroad, with famous musicians as C. Jacomucci, P. Soave, M. Hellegard and C. He recorded the album "Livin God", collection of poetic readings and songs inspired by sacred music, in collaboration with Regione Marche. He has been a featured performer and composer in many theatre shows inspired by F.

Lorca, D. Buzzati, L. Standing out from the crowd with every daring step he took. He left Epping full of fuel, just 90 miles away, so in about 5 minutes he was with us, fully loaded and, the weather was good. First up after lunch at half past one… he streaked across the crowded field. The ground shook! Mark T, our Mark, had the distinction of having two funerals, not just the one… More remains were discovered, analysed and found to be his!


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The injustice that eleven spectators or just passers by should die when the survivor, the off target driver, who sped too low from the sky, should, after a suitable pause in this ghoulish game, be exonerated and not take any blame. Thanks - genuinely - to the emergency services… Not just a little buck-passing… But the public often judged them. Arsing about - to cover their corporate backside. Of course! The 11 were either hit by the plane or roasted in a fireball caused when the jet flew too low and too slow. BUT, there IS a new memorial to the dead. There is also a very bitter taste, still today… that somehow This is a bit of a saga But I think it's worth it A loop the loop, too low and too slow.

The pilot lived and recovered from his injuries and was found not guilty of eleven counts of manslaughter by gross negligence. Robin Carretti Jan Nis Jun Siempre cambiante, nunca la misma subebajando en el horizonte. Verdadera mentira que perdura tras los siglos.

Christopher Poindexter: The Maestro of Words

Saliendo hacia la luz verdadera y tornando hacia la oscuridad traicionera. Creando un nuevo mundo igual a este, igual de distinto que este a si mismo. Imitando la certeza de lo incierto. Pretendiendo con falsedades llegar al verso. I wish my night were sunset of one hundred days and it lost itself like music in the tides. I wish my notes were fire which ran swift in your veins. I wish they would perfume itself in the air and gave meaning to the morning's sunrise. I wish they flowed like water softly curling the sky's redness.

I wish they were sturdy like rock and they plummeted next to my dead heart. I wish my face were jazz. Always changing, never the same.

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Tender and vibrating, always diffuse rising towards the sky with open wings. Sweet and salty, extern and intern, by osmosis entering through each pore. Heavy and rigid, solid and pure cutting through reality with its precise being. I wish my face were jazz being what it is not, not being what it is. In every instant of its space manifesting itself in every point of its time existing. One and indivisible, although hardly reachable.

The Maestro

True lie which endures beyond centuries. Satiric like elefant on its head giving birth to what always has been ours. Going out to the true light and turning to the treacherous darkness. Flying upwards and in a dive, scanning itself, eternal and true. Creating a new world equal to this, equally as distinct as this to itself. Imitating the certainty of the uncertain. Trying with falseness to reach the verse. I wish of every error a merit would come out, a hope, a virtue ever precise. I wish my face were jazz turning arcane art into a new being, even if false.

Into stupid epiphanies turning the act as a poet writing this verses. I wish to repit old verses in new tongues and to call myself an artist. Mere commentator and observer of what preceded it in time and space. Existing with only thinking of it, negating thought itself, implacable logic lying my visage, unnappealable contradictions lying my being. With mathematical precision being a lie, with the ethereality of art being the truth. I wish that like master con artist before your looking it turned itself into music to enjoy.

I wish my face weren't jazz. I wish I didn't have a face, nor anything.

Poetry ("Maestro", "Bailando", and "The Desert is My Mother") Essay Example

I wish only thinking of it made me blind, deaf to the music of my visage. I wish passing under a fallen ladder to not receive good luck. I wish austere or non-existant, like god looking at your vane philosophy. I wish my face were jazz, and it unified so many streams like it can embrace with its arms. I wish I could turn reality true with the mere act of thinking it, but I can't, but my visage shows itself impassible before such misfortune and continues onwards; golden rule among ivory nails, long chopsticks to eat the desvirtuated reality.

I wish my face were jazz and it revolucionised the world with its thinking and it disassembled heressies as true. I wish years later its fight would continue against the divine infidel until his death, and like a bearded monkey's it would turn itself against the father of modern science, and it taught him to think in dreams, to dream in life, to dream in death.


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  8. I wish my face were jazz and it repited itself enternally to my fortune, never changing, always present.