(Imagine this sung gently, almost spoken at first – then rising. Start with a restless, syncopated rhythm like city traffic. Voice alone. Then a single sustained tone underneath, growing warmer. End in soft, open harmony.)
The driver rolled down his window to let some fresh air into the cab of the truck. Being stuck in traffic was a daily grind. He was transporting production items from storage to the backstage door. Already boredom was setting in.
“These construction sites really put a grind in my gears,” Luciano reflected as he picked up a bottle of water.
As his ears detected snatches of music thumping from behind closed windows Luciano turned his focus towards his delivery. Thoughtful period pieces were needed to fill out the set. Before long he started humming a Libretto from last night's opera. He found himself pausing often, his eyes narrowing, his foot steady on the brake. Luciano looked left and then right, checking his mirrors for some unknown reason as different road sounds demonstrated the aching some people faced. Glancing in the distance he saw little movement.
An idea glimmered causing him to find words to explain the situation. Luciano opened his mouth and began singing.
Stuck in traffic I must confess
Is nothing short of a holy mess
Vehicles idling, droning noise
Adults playing with hand held toys
Breathing in much filthy air
Some drivers dream in vacant stares
Phones raised as in days of old
Discussions tense to be retold
Being alone has people scared
Their lives aren’t moving anywhere
Honking horns distract my song
I have to be moving on.
Luciano checked which gear he was in before releasing the clutch as thunderous applause filled the air. He looked around, first in shock, before waving at the gathered crowd. A young woman stepped onto the running board and said,
“I will see you at the Opera.”
He smiled as the line ingloriously inched forward.
“I just wish this would end,” he sang softly in Italian.
As he placed his foot on the brakes again, all hope slowly evaporated of an imminent arrival. Luciano turned his thoughts towards writing his next Libretto.
“Maybe being stuck in traffic isn’t such a bad thing,” he mused, taking in everything around him.
“I told you we didn’t have time for breakfast. The dress rehearsal is at nine sharp. We need to be there with the props. The makeup. The costumes.”
“I’m quite sure King Richard can warble without his humpback.”
“Dad! We don’t say that anymore. It’s scoliosis.”
“And you’re telling me a courtesan like Musetta can’t hit the high notes without being tarted up with greasepaint.”
“Dad! You know very well the proper term is sex worker.”
The older man looked down at his watch. “Don’t give up hope, my boy. You know what they say. ‘It ain’t over til,’ he raised a hand to waive away the inevitable objection, ‘the plus sized person sings’.”
England is a strange place
The royal seal sets the pace
And even an opera house
Like a silly little mouse
Wants to have that royal nod
Though all who walk on same sod
But it must be twilight
The lights are bright
Traffic is heavy in London town
And the sun is going down
Just got back from time on the beach
And now the ocean is out of reach
I don't mean to make fun
Of customs that people have done
And I am sure England laughs
At how America can be so daf
But let's be friends
So close to the end
Til Jesus comes again
And sets up a world without sin
So people can do what they want
But consequences will surely haunt
Everyone has a choice
God is the still, small inside voice
Thank you , Writer Pilgrim!
Thank you, Marpy !
Love the still, small voice 🙏🏻✝️🎵
Thank you, Bill !
Thank you, Scott !
“One Clear Note”
(Imagine this sung gently, almost spoken at first – then rising. Start with a restless, syncopated rhythm like city traffic. Voice alone. Then a single sustained tone underneath, growing warmer. End in soft, open harmony.)
Verse 1 (Chaos)
Horns are blaring, brakes are screeching,
Red lights stutter, engines preaching,
Double-deckers crawl and cough,
Black cabs curse, the sidewalks scoff.
Sirens weave and pigeons scatter,
Concrete canyon, angry chatter –
Bow Street jammed from here to there,
A river of red metal despair.
Pre-Chorus (Tension)
But something’s moving through the din,
A scarlet truck, quiet discipline.
Doors sealed tight, yet inside sleeps
The breath of flutes, the soar of leaps.
Chorus (The Note Rises)
Then one clear note – pure as morning glass –
Cuts through the chaos, sharp and vast.
It climbs above the horns and heat,
A silver thread, both strong and sweet.
No words, no fight, no push, no plea…
Just tone –
Just tone –
Just tone…
And suddenly the city breathes with me.
Bridge (Peace)
Scenery waits in velvet dark,
Swans and swords and broken hearts.
Tonight they’ll dance where engines roared,
Where one true note restored the chord.
Final Chorus (Soft, almost whispered, then open)
One clear note…
Rising calm through smoke and steel,
Turning traffic into something real.
Peace is not the silence after war –
It’s the music that was waiting all along…
Waiting…
In the middle of it all.
Being Stuck In Traffic
The driver rolled down his window to let some fresh air into the cab of the truck. Being stuck in traffic was a daily grind. He was transporting production items from storage to the backstage door. Already boredom was setting in.
“These construction sites really put a grind in my gears,” Luciano reflected as he picked up a bottle of water.
As his ears detected snatches of music thumping from behind closed windows Luciano turned his focus towards his delivery. Thoughtful period pieces were needed to fill out the set. Before long he started humming a Libretto from last night's opera. He found himself pausing often, his eyes narrowing, his foot steady on the brake. Luciano looked left and then right, checking his mirrors for some unknown reason as different road sounds demonstrated the aching some people faced. Glancing in the distance he saw little movement.
An idea glimmered causing him to find words to explain the situation. Luciano opened his mouth and began singing.
Stuck in traffic I must confess
Is nothing short of a holy mess
Vehicles idling, droning noise
Adults playing with hand held toys
Breathing in much filthy air
Some drivers dream in vacant stares
Phones raised as in days of old
Discussions tense to be retold
Being alone has people scared
Their lives aren’t moving anywhere
Honking horns distract my song
I have to be moving on.
Luciano checked which gear he was in before releasing the clutch as thunderous applause filled the air. He looked around, first in shock, before waving at the gathered crowd. A young woman stepped onto the running board and said,
“I will see you at the Opera.”
He smiled as the line ingloriously inched forward.
“I just wish this would end,” he sang softly in Italian.
As he placed his foot on the brakes again, all hope slowly evaporated of an imminent arrival. Luciano turned his thoughts towards writing his next Libretto.
“Maybe being stuck in traffic isn’t such a bad thing,” he mused, taking in everything around him.
The lorry crawled through rush hour traffic.
“We’re gonna be late.”
“Keep the faith, lad.”
“I told you we didn’t have time for breakfast. The dress rehearsal is at nine sharp. We need to be there with the props. The makeup. The costumes.”
“I’m quite sure King Richard can warble without his humpback.”
“Dad! We don’t say that anymore. It’s scoliosis.”
“And you’re telling me a courtesan like Musetta can’t hit the high notes without being tarted up with greasepaint.”
“Dad! You know very well the proper term is sex worker.”
The older man looked down at his watch. “Don’t give up hope, my boy. You know what they say. ‘It ain’t over til,’ he raised a hand to waive away the inevitable objection, ‘the plus sized person sings’.”