The Edge

The outside is full of lines, like a fold up paper box, one I am in and also am
standing outside of.
Like moving squiggles of a cartoon that define the horizon and its depth,
I watch the lines fold and unfold all around me, a dance both bright and dark.

Time wraps itself around shadows the lines amuse themselves with,
as I push the box as far as it will go, with a sound like hissing summer grass.
Where will the lines take me, how will I know if I will get there at all?

Some journeys we take all alone, no matter how many seem to tag along.
Once or twice I thought I saw the road uphill not too far from where the lines became a star,
but I think I was just dreaming, I should have by now have reached that point.

Inside the lines are softer and have warm colours to ease my mind.
Might as well relax, I am not getting out of here, without a cracked line
running alongside the cracks in my whistle and my song.



Trudi Ralston.
December 27th, 2017.

The Roar

There is a roar outside my window, one of ebb and tide,
though no ocean is near me, the rhythm and cadence cannot be denied.
Summer, winter, it surrounds me, whether it be day or night,
all I can do is absorb it and wonder at its stamina and might.

There was a time when outside my window, bird and frog song were
all my ears would be amused with, there was no roaring monster anywhere around.
Yet the roar is not unpleasant, like a hypnotic beat asking me to join.
The only problem is I am happy with my birds and my frogs.

There are times the roar does annoy me, as I question its demands,
would that times were less somber, I see the trees stoic silence
and the sky's hazy sighs, time is marching forward, but who is
its master giving the commands?

I listen to my flowers and to the grass beneath my feet,
I delight at silence's wonders and their key to my heart and its path.
There is a roar outside my window, one of ebb and tide,
though no ocean is near me, the rhythm and cadence cannot be denied.

Would the roar was a drumbeat, full of hope, passion and delight,
one that leads us through the forest to where beauty, kindness and clan
were given to prosperity for all, not just for a few with steel and teeth in their eyes.

There is a roar outside my window, one of ebb and tide,
and on certain days it sounds like music, leaving fresh salt for my thirsty mind.


Trudi Ralston.
for Nicholas.
December 21st, 2016. 

Sugar Plum Reverie

Soft snow on the ground, fluffy, bright to the eye's delight,
as night turns to day, and the snow's palette adds a touch of cheer
to the grey clouds above.

Christmas lights sparkle gold and clear, red candles fragrant with cinnamon
and pomegranate scent, stockings hung by a cozy fire, presents teasing underneath
the tree heavy with sparkling ornaments of all kind, dolphins, starfish, smiling snowmen.

Music gently wrapping itself around my heart, " I'll be home for Christmas, ...
if only in my dreams..." reaches my mood and I see you, so far away in the spirit world.
Are you okay, are you sad? I miss you still and wonder why you never let us know
the way you were pushed aside. Your silence haunts me.



I remember the sugar plum fairy's dance and song, sweet to my child's innocent view,
warm and safe we were always with you, and now my home here is warm and safe, too.
I know you are pleased with that, we just never knew the sugar had  salt mixed in with it,
as children we could not see the shadows cast around the sweetness of the treats.

You were given a raw deal, the queen of your heart made sure of that.
A king without a kingdom, betrayed and left, the stage set for your tragedy,
Lear a beautiful name for such sadness and lonely misery.


May your heart and soul find solace way up there where the stars shine beyond the sleeping trees.
I know your sorrow will always stay with me.
Merry Christmas, papa, you are welcome here.


Trudi Ralston.
December 19th, 2016.

Game Over

Nimble, smooth, soft, fast, keys on the digital highway across borders and time.
Hello, good- bye, be safe, take care, sleep well, talk to you soon, see you, for sure.
Pictures shared, jokes and laughs, it was almost like being there,
and almost like you meant you would be here since you talked about it for
the entirety of the years the digital piper played its tune.

I pushed back the shadows I hesitated to see, the questions that still bother me.
But the game was on, fast, light, slick, fun, hey, what could possibly go wrong
in this virtual make belief friendship of ours?
You did not notice I was tired of the game, tired of the empty illusion
that something real of a long ago past could be retrieved.

I was your emotional mannequin, that you could haul around your computer screen,
and you never saw it coming, how tired I was of the repetitive make belief.
You liked the fake more than the real, the two dimensional flat illusion more
appealing to you than the real three- D me in all its undeniable complexity.
Game over. Deleted. Nothing left but an empty space where you supposedly had been.

Relief is what I feel, not sadness like you might believe or dream; there is nothing left
but the vague memory of  a naive wish that you were more than you turned out to be.


Trudi Ralston.
December 7th, 2016.
... " And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love
but a net cast forth : and only the unprofitable is caught... " :
Kahlil Gibran,  " The Prophet "  ( 1923).


In memoriam," c. d. "