Monthly Archives: August 2012

Full Blue

Twilight walks

Bring the forest alive

Into different dimensions

With the dimming of the searching light of day

Apprehension of those movements in the underbrush

Grows with each diminuendo of the light

As the owls and the cougars go shopping

For a little something in the night

Exchanging glances

All of us

While I walk farther in and further up

To watch the full blue moon ascend

From a low rolling start on the horizon

Up, up, into

Frayed roseate ribbon

Violet light of the end of day

Pulling the blue along like the raising of a windowshade

Climbing the night

Full blue moon gleams

Follows me home

Down the darkening path

Keeping the light on


David Trudel  ©  2012






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Jenn’s Well

There is a well in Oklahoma

That pumps ink

Photons wrapped around dreams

Pixilates my screen

Through this ubiquitous pipeline

Refined at the source

Refined as a medieval princess

Weaving a tapestry of magical intrigue

Must be quite a rig in Oklahoma

To pump the riches that it does

Black letters that read like liquid gold

Texas tea isn’t always what it seems

Long way



David Trudel   ©  2012







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The Garden of Eden is so far away

Not that I ever believed in expulsion

Some distances are just too vast to leap

It’s always tempting

To consider Eden

Reclaimed innocence

Pure state of grace

Sharing fruits of the mind


Letting the juices drip from our lips

Then, using our tongues

To cleanse each drop

From wherever it fell

Unhindered by conventions

Which don’t apply in the garden

Where souls are unmarked

Where love rules


In Eden



David Trudel  © 2012




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My father would take me on his rounds

I was maybe three or four

The practice included the elderly

Chronic cases lying abed

I would study their wrinkles

As they responded to his gentle queries

Or not

I would sit on a footstool in the O.R.

As he stitched up some drunk

Feet cut up like hamburger

From barefoot dancing in broken bottle territory

Anglers with hooks embedded in their scalps

Woodsmen whose axes had slipped

The nurses would keep their eyes on me

Watching for signs of distress

I guess

But I was cool with it


Case by case

Then, housecalls

Yes, he did those

Driving fast down country lanes

In sportscars

The MGB took corners fast

From house to house

At some I’d be invited in to sit in the kitchen

Strange immigrants of dubious origin

Funny old ladies in Ma Kettle dresses

Would force me to eat dusty cookies

Petrified into cement

Or so it seemed

Tagging along

Waiting to move to the next mystery

The next round


David Trudel  ©  2012



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Some poems aren’t about beauty

Some poems don’t ascend into the light

Some poems aren’t about stained glass

Or uplifting

They are about the stains

The detritus

Of a life

Desperation takes a lot of forms

But at the end

The end

Somebody has to deal with it

Not vicariously

In reality, up close and personal


Or the absence of it




David Trudel  © 2012


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We wait

For all sorts of things

Like love and death

The paper

The next installment of some sitcom

Or the next storm on the horizon

We wait

To get picked up

We wait

In line

We wait

For our food

We wait

For things to start

We wait

When we should be doing

Actions speak louder


Waiting for the nevermore

Waiting for the forgotten

We wait for the phone to ring

We wait for the next email

We wait for you to change your status

Like that will ever happen

Like the cab will come on time

While we wait



David Trudel   ©  2012



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Document 36

Document 36

Apparently this is

What it is

Doc 36

What happened to the other 35

They left

Were abducted

Killed in the night

Took flight

Saved as others

Some of you got that

Not all

But I am not a number

I am a free


And this is document 36


Davis Trudel   ©  2012


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Calling Card

A calling card from Mother Earth

Rumbled through the air

Sonic power from the depths

Where fires rage and fume

Melting the stone

That swaths the globe

Marching rumbles

The booted feet of a mythic giant

Would sound like that, I thought

The giant turned away


It was just a calling card

Not an invitation to a dance

That’s in the mail

Still to come



David Trudel  ©  2012



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Reflection on a Tone of Voice

Your words carry meaning
With the inertia of truth
Soft as a pillow whisper
In the dark

David Trudel  (c)  2012

Here is a link to the poem that inspired this:



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When I Was A Suit

When I was a suit

I acted as an antibody

In the corporate bloodstream

Fighting off attacks of the seven deadly sins








When I was a suit

I smiled at the customers

Answered their questions

Told them answers to questions

They hadn’t thought to ask

When I was a suit

Kept my hair trimmed

Called myself an undercover hippie

Never did fit in

But I wore that suit

With style and panache

Played the part

Even believed it some days

When I was a suit


David Trudel     ©  2012







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