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
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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Tagged as abuse, blank verse, cars, child abuse, childhood, creative writing, creativity, depression, free verse, freeways, guilt, innocence, lost innocence, peace, poetry, sadness, sexual abuse, social activism, social commentary, station wagons, truth, universal peace