Category Archives: Poetry

dark

it’s dark on the hill

even though city lights peel away secrets

below where I stand lonely

listening to urban din hammered into songs

remembering to look up

scanning for planes diving across memories

picking out constellations as cop cars provide the horns

I remember that insectalien rising out of the floor

planetarium lights dimming

a sonorous sky guide

and highbacked reclining chairs

modern as open the pod bay doors, Hal

open the pod bay doors

remembering to look down

looking for secrets in polished glass

burnished metal and an artillery of light bulbs

now its dark

now there is no up

now the past is the hunter

on the hill in the dark

remembering the loneliness

there is between each of us

 

 

David Trudel           © 2015

 

 

 

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unknowable

when I wake with fog draped all around

the view drawn close

mysteries emerge from shadows

magic flickers

spirits rub up against me

I wonder if the sun will burn away promises

like kicking covers off of a warm bed

or if this is a day for embracing

what we can’t see

holding onto feelings that never begin or end in clarity

but dissolve from or into a place that’s always just out of reach

unknowable as your thoughts when I reach out my hand

unknowable as any tomorrow

 

 

David Trudel         © 2015

 

 

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Sonnet 29, a 21st century remix

 

when I’m depressed and feeling crappy

and been unfriended by those who know me

if there was a god I’d pray to him or her

but since there isn’t I wallow in my despair

I dream of winning the lottery

becoming a one percenter chased by paparazzi

a superstar walking life’s red carpet

receiving honours that make the news at six

but I’m no paragon, I’m nowhere near

self-loathing sends me into a depression

when by lucky chance I think of you

and like a tweet gone viral in a flash

I shake away the blues to sing your tune

since your sweet love is all I need, not volatile assets

 

 

David Trudel     © 2015

 

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backseat windows

as a child I would lock eyes with other kids

captive in the back seats of station wagons

hurtling down freeways

or slowrolling through clogged streets

 

I would lock eyes

 

trying for some kind of psychic connection

anticipating a future meeting

hoping that decades later

our eyes would remember a moment held between us

briefly as a hummingbird’s visit and just as sweet

 

when we were young it was easy for me

 

seeing the world from inside the safety glass of the family car

innocence was as easy as unlocked doors

knowing who lived in each house on the block

and who’s mother made the best cookies

 

I thought that everyone else was as safe as I was

in those days before I knew about torture

about abuse and cruelty

punches that split skin

and the weight of undeserved guilt

 

perversions frequent as autumn rain

for too many, too young

too terrible

 

now, in this future of punched out walls

I wonder what happened to them

I try to recollect those faces

dredged images from ripped memories

some of those eyes must have been shrieking in their silence

calling for sympathy or salvation

locked in rolling hells

moving closer to the next indignity

while I worried about a music lesson I hadn’t practiced for

if I could return to those moments

I wouldn’t challenge fragile eyes with directness

I‘d look at you obliquely and offer you my passing tears

I’d applaud you for carrying on

holding your head up as you looked out at a world

that held more sins than miracles

 

I would unlock my eyes from the illusion

I would try to see your truth

not mine

 

 

 

David Trudel     © 2015

 

 

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sepia toned

we woke up sepia toned

not drained of colour but transformed into shimmers

 

light lays flat

yellowed as yesterday’s bloodied sun

slipped sideways on a once upon

 

we call each other asking

“do you see it too?”

and words like apocalypse

like endtimes, like otherworldly

fill our mouths as the sky fills our thoughts

 

later, waiting for the ferry

I walk the beach up to and under the dock

crosshatched shadows feed the noontime reek of creosote

triggering memories of campfires

then all I smell is the smoke of a carbon sink

a million trees candled in the wind

a burning world

riding thermals down every seaward valley on the coast

until each wave pushes another dragon under

 

we try to laugh about how strange it looks

as the sun reddens its shroud

 

today is marked in black

this is the year when winter thins its cool

no matter how golden the sky seems right now

or how wonderful splintered light appears slipping through ashfall

this is no celebration

this is not the same as other years

when autumn slashpiles streamed pendants

 

today is amber

a moment to hold long enough to remember

how startled we once were

 

 

 

David Trudel     © 2015

 

 

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In Memoriam

now it’s forty

and there are no words

each one I reach for collapses

each memory dead ends

 

this anniversary is an excavation of memory

a miserable celebration of our past

that point in time when your future disappeared

into a dark wormhole

 

now, in this bitter today

we keep fragments of your passing

smiling at the rose-coloured glasses you wore

holding back a tear at the laughter you provoked

holding on to shadows in the middle of the night

 

I do not try to forgive myself the guilt

remembering the anger I felt

when you stood me up for lunch

not knowing you were morgued beyond appetite

 

an empty stage is all that’s left

holding echoes that no one hears

except those of us who loved you

which was everyone you touched

 

 

David Trudel         © 2014

 

 

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looking for the aurora

toes curl

gripping rock through shoe and moss

pressing brief bones against a plunge of denseness

my tongue tastes endurance

more feeling than looking

then up, inevitably

up into the great whatever

not into riddles or faded histories of starlight

catching yesterday’s plasma

high flies

against the big black fullness

high flies

rippling daggers slice the empty

 

this point a singularity

 

under it all

holding on to nothing

holding nothing in

until the next point is less than something

nothing is left

but the rock

the sky

and me

 

 

David Trudel       © 2014

 

 

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