unknowable

when I wake with fog draped all around

the view drawn close

mysteries emerge from shadows

magic flickers

spirits rub up against me

I wonder if the sun will burn away promises

like kicking covers off of a warm bed

or if this is a day for embracing

what we can’t see

holding onto feelings that never begin or end in clarity

but dissolve from or into a place that’s always just out of reach

unknowable as your thoughts when I reach out my hand

unknowable as any tomorrow

 

 

David Trudel         © 2015

 

 

worries

3:00 in the morning

 

alone in silence

it’s dark

 

I wake to worries

worries about myself and what I’m doing

and not doing

 

worries about those I love

and what’s happening to them

 

worries about those I know

but not well enough to love

and their troubles

 

in the dark it’s easy to worry

 

each small concern

unavoidable as a 3:00 a.m. heartbeat

 

it’s easy to worry in the small hours

thinking how big the problems are

how powerless I am

 

at 3:30

the dark deepens

now it’s worries about the wars

the earth

the rivers of blood

ignorant hatred

while I’m bothered by my lack of sleep

 

so at 3:45 I worry about selfishness

how my first world problems

are inconsequential but persistent as mosquitoes

 

I’m feeling guilty about worrying needlessly

but I can’t sleep

the silence is too loud

loud enough to drown out my heart

 

loud enough to echo in the dark

 

in the dark

where I lie awake

full of worries

about all the disappointed yesterdays

and fears about hopeless tomorrows

 

 

4:00 in the morning arrives full monty

in my face

as unavoidable as the seagull shit

splattered on the oversized bronze statue

of a long forgotten fool

who slept through his worries

until they called him hero

 

staring at nothing

it’s dark and quiet

at 4:15

 

my heart races itself in circles

until time doesn’t matter

 

all that’s left is everything that isn’t right

and that’s enough for one night

 

 

David Trudel   ©   2014

 

 

Haiku – January 16

in darkness I wake

to the light of your soul

illuminating mine

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2014

 

 

siren calls

sirens tear open this day

softpillowed dreams crumpled

pinned by each imagined shriek

flying up from blood soaked gurneys

remembering that we are seconds away from a 180

recalling acute pain and trauma shocked eyerolls

focusing on the ambulance ceiling

not quite able to disassociate

tethered by a thousand nerves to now

I listen to cries that I’ll never hear

feeling empathy for the agony of strangers

torn from their routines into the brightness of disaster

as I lie awakening to reverberations of machine screams

wondering about final moments

about what’s behind the next door

and if I should get out of bed

to dance with sirens

 

 

David Trudel     ©  2013

 

 

fogwalk

skykissed, the earth seems shy

muffled by a ragged net of condensed cloud

everything goes quiet

 

earlier it burned off

now it rolls in off the straits

leeching colours and shortening views

 

each drop holding a cemetery scent of early dawn

when spirits slide sideways into the melt

each drop a stitch in the shroud

 

this fog sleepwalks through empty rooms

while shadows punch slivers of distraction

into softsilvered rivers

 

each drift a tangible intangible

never quite in reach

never quite vanishing

 

floating wordlessly

with all the effort of nothing

drafting tailwinds of an idea

 

 

David Trudel   © 2013

 

 

Dreaming

Some dreams don’t matter

Beyond the skewed beauty of their inspiration

Maybe that’s why we don’t remember them

Like some midnight story

But catch fragments

When the light is just so

Memorable

Or something

That brings us back to some impossibility

That made sense in the context of

Insensate dreaming

When surrender was a condition

Of being

Where veils become wings

Walls turn into doorways that give way

To freefall diving

Wind riding

And you are conscious of

Being there and not there

In that place where matter

Doesn’t

 

 

David Trudel     © 2013

 

 

Traces

I dream of tracing your voluptuous curves

With my fingertips

Trailblazing the way for my tongue

I hear the quiet rustle of fabric

Pulled up and over

Feel the slide of silk

Downy thighs

My tongue remains tied

Eyes downcast

I fixate on your open-toed sandals

Your toes are ruby jewels I think

Nice toes, I say

With a smile

Which you return

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013

 

 

Serrated Time

Time has serrated edges today

For me

Time is ragged

Each moment ripped and torn

No clock can track the imprecision of subjective moments

I no longer wear a watch

I have no need to watch mechanical time

Because each moment is not like each other

Time isn’t to be measured

Locked into precise compartments of predictability

Creating an artificial display of flawed equality

No, time flows

Like a river around obstacles

With increasing velocity when it floods

It’s fluid

Time is subject to currents and eddies

Time is personal

My moments are strung like pearls

On a broken chain

Rolling across the floor

To rest where they may

 

 

David Trudel       ©  2013

 

 

Coming To

The unmistakable chime of a monitor echoes

Intruding into darkness

Awareness creeps up like a shy kitten

Mewling

I feel chest tubes

Painlessly weird

Opening my eyes I see the nurses’ station

So many devices and displays

It’s like an aircraft control tower

I look at the nurses

They’re looking back at me solicitously

I close my eyes

To dream of other cities and waking up there

A tour of unspoken words

I wake up in every city I’ve ever been in

Slowly drifting in and out of dreamplaces

Places that don’t quite make sense

Finally, I wake up here and I’m present

Alive

There’s less pain than I thought there’d be

But pain is present

I remember I’ve had a heart defense

Accounting for the lines attached to my body

Pings and chimes provide an otherworldy background soundtrack

A nurse comes over

Introduces herself

She shares the name Lisa with my sister

Which bodes well, I think

So did my mother she tells me later

I am extubated, the breathing tube taken out

The first unmooring of several

Breathe in, hold it, exhale

Slip slide upthroating relief slices through incipient nausea

I struggle to catch my breath

I do

Settling into consciousness I am wide awake as possible

Given the circumstances

I survey the lines and tubes attached to my body

I am unsure how many other patients there are on the ward

The man next to me is a loud talker

Voice booming out like a sideshow barker

Somehow I drift back into sleep

Until two patients across the room go into distress

One is a code blue

Gowned shapes appear, passing the foot of my bed

Until they cluster on the far side of the ward

Their ministrations succeed and the chimes stop

For a few moments there is peace

Rare peace

A time that I have come to

In this place

Where I awake

 

 

David Trudel      ©  2013

 

 

Casa De Los Sueños

It’s one of those dreams that you know is a dream

Even as you sleepwalk your way through it

There’s a park

Manicured lawns and cultured trees strategically placed

To offer dappled shade without being oppressive

I walk to the house that isn’t

At the edge, where you can see across the water to the mountains

Mountains that backdropped my childhood hundreds of miles away

A real estate sign has appeared

For Sale

It proclaims

Even though the house looks occupied

It isn’t

I’m with somebody

Or maybe I’m following someone or two in a disembodied state

It’s a dream so I’m not particular

Each detail is exquisite and unique

The house is grand but not oppressive

It has flowing lines

High ceilings

Each feature is unique

There is a massive fireplace that curves and curls

The mantle is a magnificent cedar slab that flows in genial lines

Words are carved into it that seem celestial

Yet are now as distant as any star

The luxury is impressive but not overwhelming

Whoever lived here left only moments ago

It looks lived in still

And perfectly vacant

We admire the features

Then take a catwalk

To the entranceway

Transformed, it has become a theatre

Seats arrayed in a semi-circle reminiscent of a Grecian amphitheatre

I realize that this is a public space

Separate from the rest of the house

But connected by the catwalk

I know it will be my house

I will stage dramas and performances

For the many

A select few will be invited to the inner sanctum

The sun is shining in my dream

On the marble walls of a Janus sanctuary

Reaching out of a retreat to embrace the masses

Perfectly alone in a crowd

It has become my home

I anticipate performances

Plan them

Imagine crowds coming and going

From this theatre at park’s edge

At dream’s edge

At an edge

Where anything might happen

 

 

David Trudel   ©  2013