slide trombone…

‘Suzanne takes you down, to her place by the river…’

I don’t know why we seem to designate only one day or a month to an important cause, especially to recognize suicide prevention. As far as i’m concerned we could perhaps make sure we recognize each and every day. If you or someone is in need, please call the 9-8-8: Suicide Crisis Helpline will offer 24/7/365, trauma-informed and culturally appropriate suicide prevention crisis support in English and French by phone and text for everyone living in Canada.

Below, another poem i’m presently working on… x (((💜)))

looking down, photo by Brayden Prato on Unsplash

slide trombone

from grade eleven section right percussion
i remember liking a lot, your black curly hair

you the only one played slide trombone
on your own in the row of trumpets, blowing-mind

mesmerized by how you impeccably landed
honest notes, smooth sliding, your long trombone

i liked that you had such fun poking those in front
at times wittingly slide a little too far, big clang on the floor

class clown without warning making us all laugh though
you didn’t seem to care, never laughing along, seemed too quiet

i wondered why, seeing something in you, in me, held
feeling music, poetry, sharing your love of Leonard Cohen

with me, as ‘Suzanne takes you down’ to her place
oh so high, wide Lynn Canyon mists singing, come home, come home

mostly couldn’t bare, i didn’t even know, i sooo wished
i had caught it, that roaring river below welcoming soon, an end of song

of endless excruciating pain, others, we had no clue at all that
you stepped off, dropping out of this rock-hard middle world, free

gone, gone, beyond, shattered to hear of your loss, gone bleak 
Monday morning we sat silent, in band class, numb cold to the bone

some time later, i too stood shaking, feeling high crumbling, canyon walls
calling me from a deep sorrow deep feeling nothing, numb-ness, fragility

how many times over, brass magnet pulling, a letting-go nudging, begging
‘i want to travel with him and i want to travel blind’ so so, so close

peering over gingerly, to fathom how, why, i’m even here considering
teetering, i knew i could grab that slide of your long trombone extending

dark notes blowing, smooth glissandos mirroring, cascading
perhaps, another earthly body drawn down, that time, i stepped back.


—carol weaver © 2023