When I First Met Harold

When I first met Harold

At the house he shared with my new friends

A place called Hippie Haven

He was working on multiple pieces of art


While talking over the loud music

Our obnoxious distractions didn’t faze

It wasn’t so much that he created

Rather, he channeled creativity


Music, art, performance

Whichever way the muse led, he followed

Not a musician, at least at first

Harold commanded the soundboard for the band

Lights came as a second nature afterthought

And if he dealt in prohibited substances

The profit kept the band afloat

Between gigs

Through the years the art kept flowing

Monumental, tiny, primal

He turned to sculpture

Turned old car parts

Even airline meal carts

Into metaphors and mysteries

Handpainted leather jackets

Joined a Taiko drumming troupe

Created and fathered

Fostered aural soundscapes in his basement studio

Eventually the worm turned

Selfdoubts and darkness crept in

The creative wellspring

That had flowed for so long

Shut down, dried up

Until one day

Moving day

The day when the family house became someone else’s

He made the ultimate move

Didn’t get out alive

But his work

Lives on


David Trudel   © 2012



Filed under Poetry

2 responses to “When I First Met Harold

  1. Wow, David. The world is definitely poorer without him. Wonderful tribute.

  2. Thank you for the prompt that inspired this Susan! I remember him every time I enjoy his art, which fills my house.

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