Monthly Archives: September 2012

So tonight I went to a concert at a house in the Fernwood district, (AKA a Haight Ashbury of this day and age).  The house is an example of a recent phenomenon, where homeowners run a series of concerts in very intimate surroundings, advertized over social media.  It’s like a house party with people you’ve hardly ever met before but as friendly as almost any party you can imagine.  The house itself was one of those early 20th century places; a front parlor with a bay window, lots of crown moldings and wainscoting, hardwood floors, and high ceilings. The living room and dining room were stripped of most furniture and filled with chairs, but the party milled into the front hallway and the bathroom and of course the kitchen.

Children wandered about and peered down from the upstairs through old fashioned heating grates in the ceiling.  The performer, J.P. Maurice

is the son of someone I used to work with, briefly, some years ago.  We reconnected last winter through the United Way and since becoming Face Book friends, I have become a fan of her son and his band, called eponymously, Maurice.  So it was very cool to meet him in such a casual and friendly circumstance.  I was there early and snagged the best, or at least an up close and comfortable seat; end of the first row, with the window ledge on which to prop my bottle of water.  But the prelude was a fun dialogue with J.P. and the other early birds and the host, in the dining room where the piano resides.  Eventually enough people showed up and we got going on what was a fundraiser for The Land Conservancy,  something J.P. is quite passionate about.  The first half was in the front parlor and I love being about a meter away from the music.  It is so immediate, and when J.P. powers up the vocals, it’s just, well, magical.  Later, after a break we relocated to the dining room and the final set included a great piano accompaniment by someone whose name I forget.  The last two songs included audience participation when a basket of maracas and tambourines and drums was passed around.  I scored one of the better maracas and by the second song was actually on the right beat.  Being Victoria, I met someone I had already met, one of the managers of my local raw food/vegetarian/organic grocery store, Ingredients.    I had, for once, anticipated the sale of cd’s and brought along some cash to pick up the discs, which then needed signing.  That gave me a chance to have another series of conversations with J.P., which was fun.  As I left the house and walked down the front steps, I noticed a few other audience members smoking out on the sidewalk.  I cried out a friendly goodbye and started to walk away, but one of them shouted, “Hey – you are awesome man!”  So loving attention as I do, and constantly in need of positive feedback, I went back and had a great conversation about music and performance and yes, poetry.  Apparently I have such an open face that my enjoyment of the music spilled over into the rest of the audience, and helped to fuel J.P., at least according to them.  So I felt heartened and full, as I walked back up the block to where I’d parked. There is something about music, in particular live acoustic sets that can reach into your soul and shake you to the core.

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Filed under Passing Thoughts

Grade School

The small Catholic school I attended didn’t have a gym back then and consequently when it was raining and cold outside we were allowed to stay indoors during the lunch hour and play records.  The record player was one of those industrial strength units, kind of like a little suitcase, with a built-in speaker.  Every week or so, I’d make my way over to the local music and art supply store, check the weekly CKLG Top 30 Hitlist and spend most of my allowance on a 45 RPM single. 


I was probably in Grade Three or Four when I forked out my dollar for Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones.

It was, and still is, a great song and so it got a lot of time in the lunchtime rotation.  But after we had pretty much worn through the grooves I decided to change things up and flipped it over.  The B Side was “Let’s Spend the Night Together”.

I slipped it onto the turntable and lowered the needle.  We enjoyed the new tune for a minute or so until Sister Mary Francis rushed over, eyes blazing, the wrath of God on her side.  “Who put this awful record on?” she demanded.  “I did, sister” I replied, wondering what was so wrong but nervously aware that something proverbial had just hit the fan.  Before I knew it I had been sent home for the day, along with the offending record.  As I trudged home in the drizzle I couldn’t help but wonder to myself what all the fuss was about somebody just wanting a sleep-over.





Filed under Musical Vignettes


Heroes go above and beyond

My heroes are single moms

Who wake up early

Get their kids to school

Figure out ways to pay the never-ending bills

Are there for homework

Or just to toss a ball around

My heroes are the single moms

Who wake up early

Go to bed late

Who listen carefully

To fragile hopes and heartfelt prayers

Even as their own hopes fade into a forgotten

Shadow of neverwere

My heroes are the single moms

Who are singular

Worthy of applause

From the rest of us

But who never hear it

My heroes rock

And deserve so much more

My heroes

Are your mothers


David Trudel   ©  2012

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Filed under Poetry


Funny, isn’t it

How negative emotions

Strong feelings

Become adrenaline fueled body rushes

Which have the power to turn digits

Into wild animals that crawl over the keyboard

Like skittering scattering cockroaches

My breath gets shallow as a sports fan’s mind at playoff time

I try to regain control like a swami

But I’m no eastern mystic

Some buttons can’t be unpushed

Those cockroaches need to crawl back

To their dark corners

Before tranquility returns


David Trudel  ©  2012


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Filed under Poetry



Words cascade like flowing lava

Tumbling in a red hot fireglow

Out of a parade of mouths that strain




Subvert and shock,

Not that anyone here

Shocks easily, this room resists tectonic movement

These poems come crammed full of ideas


Inner truths

Self-loathing and


These words spill out overflowing

Like a broken levee spilling turgid water onto sodden streets

The more the better

Jam packed

Into impossibly long poems read from a single page

And I think that the font must be pretty fucking small

And their eyesight must be damned sharp

For one page to contain this jambalaya of wordfeast

While what I set down on my pages is sparse and spartan

Graphically arranged

Where phrases and words all need their space

And the space between the spaces informs the composition

While these chatterbox beat fiends fly paper kites in the light of the moon

Powered by the breath of a muse

These poems arrive in rhythmic cadences delivered

Naturally as a vaginal birth

Or pulled protesting from the womb in c-sectioned blood

While dilated irises betray the nervousness and fear

That shake fingers clutching just too tightly to a page

These lines explode over our heads like fireworks on a summer night

Briefly illuminating our dark thoughts and secret places

Synapses firing like bullets over Damascus

Punctuated by gentle heckling and raucous rebel yells

Roaring applause

Snapping fingers

Table thumping

While the red hot stream congeals into rock

A rock that will be mined and crushed and used for

Ornamental landscapes



Recalling the fluid past when rock was molten

Flowing in tongues of fire from the crater into the night

David Trudel  ©  2012


Filed under Poetry

35 Hours

35 hours

Down a long road

Is what I’d need to cure this pain

Across the water

Through the rainforest

Rolling hills

Mountain passes


Careening down divided highways

Bridging this great divide

Stopping only for fuel, food

Sleeping at cheap motels that hum

With the throb of 18 wheelers

35 hours of swallowing miles

To swallow my heart

Which seems to be in my throat

Or on my sleeve

This condition won’t respond to ace inhibitors

But needs a laying on of hands

To cure

Hands that are

35 long hours away


David Trudel   ©  2012



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Filed under Poetry

Long Horizon

There is a long horizon

Under the waxing moon

Pale rising

Over the city beneath me


Amber lit avenues

Gridscape through the trees

Ten thousand points of light

Prick the darkening gloom

While I search that long horizon

For a straight line

To you

David Trudel  ©  2012




Filed under Poetry