Tag Archives: innocence

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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Retriever

Every morning she walks her dog along the beach

Alone with her thoughts

She knows what size of stick to scavenge

For the dog to retrieve

It’s become a formal ritual for them

She chooses the stick

Pretends she doesn’t like it at all

Throws it as far away as she can

The dog explodes with purpose

To get the stick and to return it

Each time she throws the stick

She releases a little tension

Gives away a worry or a fear

The dog retrieves the stick but not the worry

That’s part of the ritual

The absolution of innocence

Washes her troubles away

 

 

David Trudel       ©  2013

 

 

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Ocean Wind

Breezes fresh off the ocean

Cleanse my breath

Bringing with them a faint whiff of pineapple

Hints of cinnamon and spices

Only an echo of killing field turmoil

A guilty sniff of garbage gyre

If there is radioactive particulate matter still lingering from Fukushima

I don’t want to know

I’d prefer to think that evaporation and condensation

Across thousands of miles of ocean

Has restored innocence to the wind

But this wind doesn’t blush anymore

Having been stripped and torn asunder too many times to tell

I share each breath with all of humanity

All creatures

All living things

Breathing in

Breathing out

Recycling this invisible presence

Neither clean nor original but vital

So I fill my lungs with the belches and farts

Of a busy world

I breathe the last heavy sigh of nameless saints

Swallow the screams of the terrified

Smell fragrances of the forgotten rotting

Take in the essence of timeless past

Formless future

Exhaling into tomorrow

Invisibly connected to forever

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

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Feral

In my feral youth

I prowled unleashed

Climbed trees the size of skyscrapers

If a branch snapped I’d grab another on the way down

Not caring about the gravity of the situation

Rules only applied until we were out of sight

Property was a vague concept trumped by finder’s keepers

We weren’t afraid to use our fists in my feral youth

Trading body blows and hammerlocks fearlessly

We wore black eyes and fat lips instead of bling

In the summer I’d walk barefoot

Tom Sawyering along the riverbank

Sliding into swimming holes like bright eyed otters

Letting water run off my back in the sun

While the clean breeze of those innocent days

Was all the towel required

In my feral youth play was never supervised

Since that wouldn’t be play

Instead we’d stretch envelopes and deconstruct boxes

Aim our bows at clouds instead of targets

Playing chicken when the arrows plunged back from dot to danger

Prohibitions became challenges

Spot quizzes

So we’d incinerate aerosol cans for explosive delight

Steal cigarettes to smoke in treehouses

Pepper our conversations with salty wit

We bent, folded and mutilated

Rooted for underdogs

Cheered the counterculture

Waited expectantly for the revolution

Playing three chord rock songs on tinny transistor radios

Knowing that our moment was here

Oysterworld ripe

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

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