Tag Archives: truth

sunset

this day there was a choir

singing

as we approached the beach

for real

in a circle

entoning celestial voices against

moist slurps percussively

arriving

 

there was a rock

to shelter against

in the brilliant light

of cadenced winter

 

there was your face

reflecting the wind

the crows paid no attention

as they chortled their way across tideline buffets

 

manicured dogs careen along this margin

we disregard the others

absorbed

in a dialogue that dances into

yesterday

until we enter the present

capturing moments

with precision and obliqueness

 

entering into a realm where colours shift

with each tilt of the head

where land slips beneath the waves

and rocks turn into sand

beneath our feet

 

as dusk purples distant mountains

gulls cry

I look at you

thinking

that sometimes sunsets have supporting roles

 

 

David Trudel  ©  2014

 

 

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eyes

some moments are so beautiful

they melt

like I do

when you see me

like that

 

 

David Trudel  © 2014

 

 

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Dionysus for dinner

I had Dionysus over for dinner

it was a disaster

he seemed so nice on the internet

posting all these great memes with classical metaphors

we became Facebook friends

messaging back and forth with ribald wit

which should have tipped me off

I assumed he’d evolved

become a 21st century hipster

heavily invested in the wine industry

holding a controlling interest in all the Ecstacy sold at all the raves

a bankster druglord

a modern god

but no

instead, suburban calm was disrupted

to the point where the neighbours all came out to gawk

holding smartphones over their heads to record the spectacle

as Dionysus arrived by chariot

not just any chariot but one pulled by lions and tigers

roaring in frenzied exaltation

some old dude with a beard was with him

I thought it might be Willie Nelson at first

but he belched, said he was Silenus and pointed over my shoulder

I turned around

up the block came a group of half-naked hippie chicks

well, it seemed that way

right out of fucking Woodstock

flowers braided into their hair and dancing just out of reach

of a bunch of randy old goats

flashing shocked onlookers with penile magnitude

impossibly proportioned

they tore through my house

grabbed all the wine

a bottle of brandy, the gin and vermouth

even the hidden bottle of 18 year old Macallan

it all disappeared

they found my stash in the drawer upstairs

gone within seconds

boring! they chorused

they dragged me along

back out and back onto the street

they started playing a reggae tune

that I knew but had never heard before

I danced with them

shedding all self-control

partying through middleclass suburbs

subverting those who looked interesting

emptying their basement bars

sparking up herbs liberated from mancaves

freeing souls from polite restraint

until the goats had their way

the dogs began barking

as middle-aged wage slaves screamed their release

of a lifetime’s fear and repression

while we drained every bottle

until the only thing left to find

was sleep

I woke up on the front lawn

snuggling between one of the hippie chicks

and mrs smith from down the block

the paperboy was nudging me with his foot

it’s almost dawn, he said

still night for another moment

I replied, with a wink

 

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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trying to snow

tonight

runt crystals caught

by a dull beam

between sleet and a promise

hovering between states

fading wasabi fast

cold wind nibbles

like a three a.m. piss

that isn’t worth getting out of bed for

not quite snow

equivocates into memory

an arctic outflow bullies clouds along

until it is simply cold

leaving trees bare

fading into sharp slivers

of black in the night

unadorned for now

except for a premonition

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

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nightview

IMG_1290sometimes at the top of the hill

there are stories that float up

from each of those lights

signaling their revolutions

pulling me into memories of the over there

or imaginary dramas

like elderly couples planning each other’s assisted suicide

or teenagers learning the ways of rooftop exits

into rebellion in empty spaces between lights

down there life is being made

and death continues to shouldertap

 

there are sounds

that are all new but not new

each siren a grim familiar chorus

each distant shout echoing

a thousand others heard before

each thousand thousand sounds a looping track

played back randomly

played back frequently enough for familiarity

so that each sound resonates comfortably

like you’ve heard them before

just not quite like this

 

the light is never the same

tonight low clouds dance the moon

revealing glimpses of white mystery

behind gray scarves fanned like marilyn

luminescent overcast makes cameos of twisted limbs

and mosscaught raindrops glow like mithril in moonlight

as shadows shift into almost

wearing sheer nothings that you can never quite see through

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

Photo by the author

 

 

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waiting

beautiful you are

but I don’t dwell on that

or sing praises

I just drink in

tall glasses

 

I document places

with you just outside each frame

hinting through margins

and mattes

into images of preternatural beauty

 

like memories of you then

transposed against today’s moment

when the light hits

like a sucker punch

leaving me breathless

 

vainly

waiting for your touch

 

for more than today

and less than tomorrow

 

patiently

 

 

 

David Trudel     ©  2013

 

 

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patience

patience is a lonely virtue

worn thin as hand me downs

in a too large family

in a too old house

but patience is what’s required

for trust to develop

for the comfort of familiarity

waiting for acceptance

like letting birds settle

while you wait for the path to open

while you wait for the way forward

patience is a lonely virtue

requiring surreptitious repetition

gentling alarms with quiet strokes

patience is persistent non-pursuit

patience is acceptance of illusions

allowing mirages to be photo-shopped into tomorrow

waiting for that calm moment

that waits like a forest clearing 

that waits like a perfect moment

worthy of an eternity of frustration

patience is the appreciation of a possibility

and the acceptance of its loss

patience is letting now catch up with tomorrow

while the wind whistles

and cries

patience is learning to ignore the immediate

knowing that some prizes are worth the wait

David Trudel    ©  2013

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end of the world

if it was the end of the world

would you hold my hand

and pull me into you

if it was the end of the world

would you kiss me

like the fate of eternity depended on

our lips

if it was the end of the world

would you hold my head in your hands

while we hold our gazes

while we hold the end off

for a moment longer

until the end of the world

becomes inconsequential

until the end of the world

is you

me

holding on

to each other

until the end of the world

is discovery

until the end of the world

no longer matters

 

David Trudel      ©   2013

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against the current

traveling against the current

against tide travelers

gliding up and out on slick ribbons

pulled into dark forests

where green marries black

 

here, a stream shakes life into the air

with each slap of battered fighters

broaching destinies while gulls consider

their next course

 

traveling against clocks

traveling elliptically

even traveling when we arrive

until it’s all fluid

sliding tumbled into tomorrow

yesterdays lie scattered on banks and riverbottoms

 

trees, not quite full frontal

wear mossy leggings and use ferns as pasties

trailing natty beards weirdly mist woven

ferns dictating understories into vanishing ravines

reading secret landscapes from sacred scores

 

traveling fast slowly

against currents

against granite

against predation

into natural inclusion

into natural solutions

traveling against the current

 

 

David Trudel     ©  2013

 

 

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