Receptaculum

Blanc et clair comme cette nuit brilliante
d'etoiles.
Doux et fort comme cette eau coulante entre
mes doigts.
Chaud et profond comme ce frisson
que cet espoir me donne.

Tu nages dans ces couloirs
des cascades de mes mots,
soie et silence, cri et soupire. 



Tu visites la mer ou voyagent
les bateaux de mes poemes.
Sur, discret, tu me suis
a distance, comme un 
Neptune genereux, prudent avec moi,
sirene sauvage.


C'est toi qui recuperes les lettres muettes
du sable sonore, pourque ma voix
trouve la musique   
pour tous ces mots en route vers
la page suivante d'un de mes livres.  


Trudi Ralston.
January 1st, 2016.
Pour D.O. 
   

Dragonfly Eyes

It is wonderful to see in all directions
at the same time, free to see past the
bluest of skies, the darkest of nights.

The breeze sweet on my wings,
the air sheer and strong,
I can go wherever my sight allows.

The only thing that is a concern
is that no other compound eyes
are around, I can't seem to find
my fellow mosaic patterned friends
anywhere in light or storm.

It is what happens when you travel
so many shores with just one ticket
to come and go, and silence's flute
the one companion that does not
flinch in rest or flight.

Dragonfly eyes taking me wherever I go,
brilliant and deep, no stopping
the colours and movement they show.
How marvelous the perspective,
how unique the show that keeps me
wondering out here mesmerized, amazed
and always so far away from any familiar shore.  


Trudi Ralston.
December 23th, 2015.

Inner Pocket

Deep under the ground
down deep below where only
I can go.

There where it is bright and warm
where no harsh wind can blow
no ice can reach my heart.

Rolled tight in scented blankets
of wool and care, soft and safe
that is where my soul hangs out.

Far away from all cares, all noise
and fear, far away from harshness
and far away from pain.

Deep, deep under the ground
down where maybe you too can go
I will keep a sweet place
and there forever more we will belong.


Trudi Ralston.
December 17th, 2015.

Clary Sage

It is winter outside, but never you mind,
I will be alright.
As long as there is a single drop of moisture
out in the air, I will pull it into my soul
and survive, oh yes, I will.

The ground may be dry and my roots may be weary
but never you mind, they will hang on.
One more drop of sweet water, one more
soothing breeze of wind to my heart,
and I will shine, bright and green, you will see.


Sweet as honey on a summer's night,
soft as the grass I dream beneath my feet,
I will pull that water drop to my soul,
and keep the song of my dreams alive.
You will see, I will survive.

Never you mind the cold outside,
never you mind the brittle dirt
between my toes, I will go on,
that road is only as hard as it seems.
Oh, sweet clouds above, don't you give up
on me now.

Trudi Ralston.
December 15th, 2015. 

Souffle de Mandarine

Un espoir rouge me suit comme une chanson joyeuse
et la lumiere du jour chasse ses nuages gris de mes yeux.

Ce souffle parfume de mandarines touche mon sourire
avec des ailes de soie comme des petits echos mouilles et chauds.

Un eclat d'etoile m'echappe du soupire delicieux qui suit
l'ombre de mes pas aujourd'hui.

Comme est doux le toucher de ton amitie a l'autre bout du monde.
Que m'importe que tu es si loin, quand ton coeur bat autour du mien,
que ce soit la nuit dans un reve ou le jour quand la pluie danse ses refrains.

Que ce soit esprit de camarade ou illusion ephimere dans ma tete,
ce bel espoir rouge me suit comme une fee qui peint
de couleurs brilliants mon monde; je suis contente comme une enfant aimee.


Ton soleil brille sur mon visage, sur ma vie qui, avec ton amitie
jouit de cette isle chaude et discrete ou vivent mes poemes et mes contes
loin du froid tuant de mes chaines mordantes. 


Trudi Ralston.
December 11th, 2015.
pour D.O.
Une seule etoile fait briller la plus noire des nuits.

Les Cailloux

Si  j'avais un chemin que je pourrais traverser silenceusement
la ou tu reves et respires, je mettrais des souliers blancs et legers.

Je mettrais un chapeuau rouge et des gants de laine, un manteau nouveau
et je me mettrais en route avec ma valise pleine de papillons et oiseaux joyeux.

Si j'arriverais a temps pour voir la lumiere dans ta maison
je me mettrais a trouver des petits cailloux lis et discrets.

Comme une enfant desesperee et devenue impatiente, je jettrais
mes petits cailloux dans ma poche dechiree vers ta fenetre.

Une petite musique d'un ritme insistent danserait son retour
dans l'herbe muette et ma main bavarde.

Et peut - etre, la musique des petits cailloux impertinents
te reveilles, et ton sourire m'invite de laisser dehors mon jeu
avec les etoiles et les illusions de la nuit, et tu me pardonnes
mes soucis et mes questions et je sais que tu vas bien.


Trudi Ralston.
November 30th, 2015.
Pour D. O. 

Gathering Flowers

When I turned 18, my parents commissioned a painting for me by the local Gent area artist Raoul Vanden Heede. I chose a gypsy as the subject and it turned out to be as much a self portrait as it was wishful thinking about a group of people I always felt very drawn to. I left Belgium at age 19, and have felt like an outsider, much like a gypsy, in many ways, socially, culturally, intellectually and linguistically. Two nights ago I had a dream that Raoul, who is deceased now, and who was a close friend of my parents for many years, was bringing me flowers, simple flowers of the field. He told me to not get discouraged, to keep writing, to keep making my tapestries. His plea was very emotional and left an impression on me that lasted into the waking hours of the next days. While Raoul was talking to me, bringing me several bouquets of field flowers, I noticed there was a huge tree, towering at at least 50 feet, with many strong branches and roots, but bare of leaves. My husband walked up to it and started planting the flowers Raoul Vanden Heede was bringing me. That was interesting enough, but what was unsettling was that the huge tree was missing a big chunk out of its left side, like someone had taken a very large chainsaw and removed a sizable chunk that gave the  mighty looking giant a hurt and diminished look. My husband seemed undaunted by the enormous scar on the tree, and I remember staring at him and the flowers he was planting and the hurt tree, puzzled, concerned. I woke up not being able to shake the image, wondering how it connected to Raoul's admonition not to give up. I felt like the dream was giving me a glimpse of something I was supposed to understand, but so far its meaning eludes me... I do believe the dream was telling me that my quiet husband is supportive of my efforts, and that the presence of a now deceased artist friend from many years ago, who had to struggle to establish respect and success as an artist, is a hopeful sign. Perhaps the scarred tree is a symbol for the tree of life, my life, that has wounds in, that are significant, but not big enough to keep the tree from surviving, albeit it with some difficulty. My husband planting the flowers Raoul gave me is a sign I think that all beauty is worth preserving, that my efforts should be continued even though it may seem I am going it alone. I am not, says the dream, your husband is right there by your side. It may take time to understand all the dream has to offer, but what it does give up so far is loving and hopeful.