Allow me to set the stage:
The stage was set,
From strings to winds,
Percussion at their back.
Trombone scans the audience
Looking for familiar face;
Between strings and lights,
Though life-changing it could be:
Now is time to focus,
Now is time to play.
Trombone shifts to euphonium;
Focus, his shadow.
Back to trombone,
Clear the stage.
Brain out to lunch, shadow stays;
Trombone turns to talk to tuba,
Then bid farewell until next time
The orchestras combine.
Leaving the stage,
To retrieve his shell,
Returns from lunch.
"By the way,"
Trombone brain says,
Replaying the recording made
While out to lunch,
"Someone called out,
'Nice job on the trombone!'
While you were talking to the tuba."
It may have been that familiar face.
Already gone from the stage,
And minutes passed,
Picks up the pace.
Back on stage,
Putting instruments in case,
Trombone searches remaining audience,
Finds no familiar face.
To put all gear
In his car,
Then enters again
In search of that voice,
It was clear,
Trombone replayed the compliment,
To identify the voice;
Memory obscured by delay
Before the replay.
Time steals clarity,
'Til Trombone remembers it
As if compliment was heard when spoken,
Leaving Trombone with the guilt
Of ignoring the Complimenter,
And the effect,
But not the intention.
© 2023 H.K. Longmore
- Musings of a Kunderian Monster
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- Out to Lunch 1 March 2023
- The Impact of Therapy on Creative Writing 25 January 2023
- Closed-Captioning 7 September 2022
- Interconnected and self-governed? 15 July 2022
- Vulnerability 11 December 2021
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The Impact of Therapy on Creative Writing
I often write poetry as a form of therapy. But, I have found in recent months that, some events or feelings for which I would have written a poem, instead I have made a note of it, under a heading “to bring up with my therapist.”
It need not be this way. Longer ago, further back, I would write the poem, and then discuss the poem with my therapist.
One such event that I took to therapy without writing a poem happened at the end of October, after a concert I performed in, involving the delay my brain sometimes has in processing inputs. I talked about it with my therapist at my next therapy session. But as a result, there’s no poem. I’m going to rectify that soon, and will add the link when I do.
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Tagged cathartic, communication, therapy