Tag Archives: words

threads

each word dangles like a loose thread

from a well-worn sweater

I pull

it unravels

until there is just a pile of rawness

 

 

David Trudel   © 2014

 

 

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Indescribable

My Cain and Abel are my words

Battling for the give and take of perception

They circle themselves

Poised to lash out or swiftly defend

I have used words as shields

I have hidden behind their illusion

Used the ambiguity of meaning and intent

To prevaricate and dissemble

Not from deviousness

But unconsciously

Or to mask my own fear and insecurity

 

Yet I find great joy in words

They are my playground and delight

Dancing meaning into dialogue

Reinventing clouds into rain

Or mining seams of elemental truth

I turn words into bouquets

Or scrawl them on signposts and sidewalks

Like some mad tagger

Illuminating the gray sameness

Of blank canvasses at midnight

 

Eventually the words turn me

Into a question

That I cannot answer

Feeling walled in

By the discreteness of each definition

Stamped out by our shared accommodation of

Conventional language

Which isn’t drunken shouts of expense account delegates

But a common delusion

That we can trade perceptions

Without trading our inner selves

Uncentering from each private strand of individuality

Into some union of sameness

Believing that words can be shared with exactitude

Forgetting the magical glow of transitory sunsets

And how impossible it is to grasp that moment

Let alone use words to describe the indescribable

 

 

David Trudel    © 2013

 

 

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Unwords

Maybe the words will return

Born of ideas half formed between dreams

Ideas that perhaps weren’t ideas at all

Or complete thoughts

But random images surfacing from a saturated consciousness

Spilling over edges like a foamy head of beer on a frosted glass

Leaving a damp awareness of untasted pleasure

 

Words, paled by shadows and non-exposure

Barely able to hold a meaning

Whether a particular sense or intention

Or an unkind lack of generosity

Still, for a while they caught me with their elegance and truth

Until they collapsed into letters unbound by exactitude

Into sounds that resonated with emotion not meaning

 

Maybe the words will return but they will be different

They will travel in a different direction

Than the compassless flight of a thought at dawn

Words to bandaid dripping cuts of consciousness

As night becomes dawn becomes day

And brilliance is no longer a beacon but a surrounding

Words forming and reforming into truths and tales

Carrying on and carrying through whatever thoughts are waiting

For those words searching for expression

Releasing the grasp of possessive acquisition

Into poetry

 

 

David Trudel       © 2013

 

 

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Lake

Still water reflecting infinity

I use its surface for my page

Tracing words that become ripples

Submerging each thought

Into the wellspring beneath

 

 

David Trudel  ©  2013

 

 

 

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Approximations

These are not the right words

Write words

These are just approximations

These are consignment store words

Worn by others and cast away

A little threadbare and faded

The words I’d like to use don’t exist

I need to cut new cloth and stitch them together

But the closest thing to an atelier in my mind

Is memory

So I take the easy way and use these indicators

To proxy my feelings and perceptions

Instead of inventing new words

New language

To transmit the feelings that flow through and over me

Or the look in your eyes when we’re nose to nose

A blink away from eternity

I can’t capture a sunset or a surprise

Not that I’d want the responsibility of taking prisoners

I prefer wild freedoms to careful domesticity

So I use wrong words for write reasons

Approximations of shadows rounded up or down

Calculated words that hold a caricature of truth

Approximations of what I’d like to say

 

 

David Trudel    ©  2013

 

 

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My Words

My words are fragile as periwinkle stalks

Snapping apart when I grab them

My words are bubbles of gas that ascend from depths

To burst upon the revelation of surface plane

My words are leaves in the canopy I see overhead

Until they desiccate and float back down to earth

My words are proxies for the vote I’ve yet to make

Signed over in a blind trust to otherness

My words shuffle, stumble and fall

Homeless as the crazy-eyed binner that no one stares at directly

My words approach but never quite arrive

Never make it past the lobby to where they aren’t authorized

My words feed vending machines like a handful of change

Dispensing instant gratification if the price is right

My words are signposts to a destination

A mapless place positioned beyond terrestrial coordinates

My words are a journey and a joy

Carrying their burdens in a caravan of mystery

My words are just words like anyone’s

Trying to get the mind’s inside outside for once

My words are everything and nothing

Emblematic and ephemeral as graffiti in a back alley

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

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