Tag Archives: death

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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39 years later

Ed03539 years later you look out at me

framed time holds that moment

you were sitting in my car’s backseat

long hair haloed by the sun

full of tomorrows

 

caught midwink

your eyes are oddly unbalanced

one much larger than the other

 

you panached that pince nez

that rides your aquiline nose

it was never silly when you wore it

it didn’t matter that you had 20/20 vision

you liked its appearance

the costume value of a minimalist mask

you knew the kind of looks it would provoke

 

your unlined face never did get wrinkled

you still have all your hair

in the moments that I keep you alive

a few images and memories

you remain caught in our youth

 

I carry you forward

into the now of 39 years later

your hair reduced to a fringe

your face a roadmap of the intensity of your passions

still ready with a wink and a smile

bearing memories of never weres

and premonitions of yet to be

 

but that vision fades

I’m left with a black and white photo

and a hole in my heart

punched through with the same force

that bullets punched through yours

in the middle of the night

gunned down

another guiltless bystander

another crime statistic

one more unfulfilled promise

that diminishes this reality

into less than it should have been

less than it should have been

 

 

David Trudel    ©  2013

Photo by Art McLeod

 

 

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Healing Time

We get wounded just by being, here

On this plane where we never know quite what the other thinks

So we dream words into imagined conversations

Then forget they weren’t real

Until our fantasies are shown up by reality

Our thin skins sliced open with razor-wired passive aggression

We get wounded because we’re human

Subject to gravity

But we forget we can’t fly so we fall

We believe in the magic that surrounds us

Until the spells no longer work

Leaving us open to what we call accidents

Usually the inevitable consequence of careless actions

Since we’re human

We are subject to disease

Carried internally or randomly caught

We get wounded by our bodies and onslaughts of germs

Microbes and infections take their toll

So that good health just means dying as slowly as possible

And when time heals

As it sometimes does

Sometimes the prescription is simply death

Transcendence from here to there instead of some miraculous repair

But time does move for us

And moves us from one state to another

Even if change isn’t exactly healing

We learn to live with our scars and amputations

Our reduced capacity and limitations

But what if time itself is sick and needs healing time

Does time heal its own wounds I wonder

Or is there some other soporific that puts time to sleep

Into a zone where rules no longer hold sway

Where timedreams shimmer like northern lights skydancing

Where metronomes lose their precision

And fluidly count the beat of nothingness in the void of eternity

Sinking into the interminable stretch of hospital time

Where minutes and hours co-exist in some quantum contradiction

Providing healing time for time

At least temporarily

Since time is its own chronic condition

 

 

David Trudel  ©  2013

 

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Shrouded and Cloaked

This is the kind of day

Shrouded and cloaked in clouds and showers

A day with no exclamation marks

This is the kind of day when he would have called

To share a groaner of a pun

Match calendars for lunch

Or just to see if I was still alive

Which of course he isn’t

Some ghosts linger longer than others

I’ve had my share of losses over a lifetime

Sometimes it isn’t the pain of the loss as much

As it’s empathy with the bereaved

Like the time a classmate’s younger brother

Was struck down in a traffic accident

I will always be haunted by the memory of his mother’s eyes

Noticed obliquely a few months later when I was over at their house

Her eyes shiny as polished chrome but full of grief’s infinity

Some ghosts seem bound to places

Where they passed or where we shared a moment

Or maybe a song will shuffle its way into a tendril

Of sweet remembrance

A recollection of spectral intensity

This is the kind of day

When spirits walk beside me

Shrouded and cloaked

In clouds and showers

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

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For Ed

Your blood congealed and dried up 38 years ago

My heart’s been bleeding ever since

 

There are no stains left to mark where you fell

Just a handful of shadowed souls

Who mourn forlornly, evermore

Remembering your meteoric presence

Brilliance of a caustic wit

Depth of your great soul

Cut short

Cut down

In a moment’s violence

Your suffering was brief

Ours continues

 

My old and unaged friend

I water your grave with my tears

Like you misted your boston ferns

Moistly spreading such care

Freshening each desiccated frond

With love

 

 

David Trudel   © 2012

 

 

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Caregiving

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

Life

Or the absence of it

Tonight

 

 

David Trudel  © 2012

 

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