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
Simultaneously
While talking over the loud music
Our obnoxious distractions didn’t faze
It wasn’t so much that he created
Rather, he channeled creativity
Multimedia
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
createdavidt 
Wow, David. The world is definitely poorer without him. Wonderful tribute.
Thank you for the prompt that inspired this Susan! I remember him every time I enjoy his art, which fills my house.