Le Parapluie

Il est toujours agreable de recevoir un cadeau par la poste,
plus si c'est un geste gentil d'une amie aimee,
qu'on connait depuis longtemps.

La distance des oceans jamais moins importante
que dans ces moments joyeux et encourageants,
la camaraderie plus forte que les annees et ses incertitudes.

Cette fois, tu m'as envoye un parapluie,
avec les couleurs d'un oiseau tropicale.
Vert, rouge, bleu, orange, blanc et noir.

Un sourire m' echappe en ouvrant ce parapluie
et toutes ses charmes, qui comme une tournesol eclatant
son energie et lumiere, me rapelle un parapluie de mon enfance
quand j'avais huit ans et qui etait bien trop bombaste et grand.

Ton parapluie est moderne et elegant, il a les couleurs de la terre
et de ses musiques du monde vibrant, il me peint ses dessins
et ses reves pleins d'espoir, courage et dignite.

Et voila, comme ca ton parapluie m' annonce un Nouvel An
encore une fois, et m' acompagnera sur ces jours ou le soleil se cache.
Et le courage je le rencontrai alors dans mon coeur fort et dans
le lien de notre amitie qui reste jeune et rassurante apres plus de trente ans.


Trudi Ralston.
January 4th, 2017.
Pour Catherine Bouchacourt.

Les Vents D'Hiver

C'est rare pour nous ici d'avoir des hivers ou le vent n'arrete de crier sa tyrannie,
jour et nuit.
On dirait un fantome secouant sa colere dans l'hauteur des arbres muets et blancs.

Il fait trop froid pour meme le silence qui se cache dans ce qui reste d'un ciel clair et aveuglant.

Il parait qu'il  n'y a ni anges ni diables dans cette danse feroce dont s'occupe le vent sifflant,
qui traine son haleine comme un couteau sanglant sur toutes les doutes humaines.

Les grands du monde se regardent dans leurs miroirs brises ou se refletent
leurs yeux vides sur le coucher du soleil rouge et brulant de la terre et son ame mourant.

Le futur est la chanson d'un oiseau bleu et courageux qui risque se perdre dans les nuages
et miseres d'une autre guerre mondiale et ses spectres du neant.


Trudi Ralston.
" War is the ultimate madness."
Leonardo da Vinci.
January 4th, 2017. 

 

In Praise of The Walking Dead

I have never been a fan of horror drama, but the consistent praise I heard about The Walking Dead TV show currently enthralling audiences intrigued me. My college aged son introduced me to the series, and I hesitantly checked it out, not being a fan of zombies as an aesthetic squeamish sort. My curiosity soon gently shoved aside any initial nauseous feelings I had when seeing walkers or zombies meet their unnatural state's graphic second demise. I began to notice the great acting, the very convincing cinematography, the suffocating isolation the plague forces upon the protagonists and their entourage, the sincere and powerful dilemmas the characters face. I have seen my share of dystopian movies, and many of them are entertaining and clever. The Walking Dead is in a class all its own. It is normal to develop sympathies for certain characters when watching a series over a large number of seasons, but I notice that with this show I feel like I am one of the actors, like I can choose one or various actors and put myself there as them. I think it is because these actors are all so very talented, from Danai Gurira to Norman Reedus to Andrew Lincoln, Steven Yeun, Lauren Cohan, and Chandler Riggs, Melissa McBride, Sarah Wayne Callies, Jon Bernthal, Scott Wilson , David Morrissey, Michael Rooker, and Jeffrey DeMunn, Laurie Holden, IronE Singleton. The acting is superb, because the characters they portray become part of us, in the sense that we feel their dilemmas credible, possible to our hearts and minds, were we to be in their awful positions. It is not just that an empathy develops for their excruciatingly precarious and horrific circumstances and challenges, but you feel like this is all happening to you as a viewer as well. You feel right there beside them. These actors play people that up to this point had led very ordinary lives of very little consequence or magnitude, and who find themselves delving deep into their resilience, their ability for courage, leadership, ingenuity, strength, compassion, many of them surprising and surpassing themselves. The villains too have a depth of character that is hard to dismiss or ignore, no matter how loathsome their goals and methods, we are fascinated by them. The usual clearly delineated categories of good and evil become very blurred at times, and that hesitancy, that doubt wreaks havoc and destruction, both physically and emotionally. The show asks moral questions in a brutally honest way asked by ordinary people put under mind and body breaking stress and chaos. Most of them are able to hang on to their humanity. Others fail miserably and horribly, but always with the weight and pathos of a Shakespearean character. The characters of Shane ( Jon Bernthal ) and the Governor ( David Morrissey ) are haunting, in the destruction their deranged egos create, both being monsters whose obsessions tragically impact  people's lives and deaths. The psychopathology of the ones who get lost in their delusions, like Shane and the Governor, is portrayed in great and patient and credible detail. The heroic characters are portrayed with equal depth, showing the evolution of their insight, determination and courage. Rick Grimes ( Andrew Lincoln ), Dale Horvath ( Jeffrey DeMunn ), Glenn Rhee ( Steven Yeung), Daryl Dixon  ( Norman Reedus ), Hershel Greene ( Scott Wilson ),  Carol Peletier ( Melissa McBride ), Maggie Greene ( Lauren Cohan ), the formidable Michonne ( Danai Gurira ).  All are people who found a deep core of impressive resilience, determination, intelligence, compassion and courage that perhaps under ordinary circumstances would have remained dormant. They make us believe, want us to believe we would equally rise to the occasion. They are inspiring but in an attainable, believable way. They give us hope. We may not have to deal with walking dead ( yet... ) but this stressful, unpredictable world with its many challenges socially, politically and globally gives most of us pause. The actors portraying the strong characters in The Walking Dead give us a scenario where we could make the best of very uneven odds. The writing by Frank Darabont, Robert Kirkman, Charlie Adlard and Tony Moore is brilliant. This is one comic book series that Robert Kirkman as the originator transformed into a very smart TV show that is truly impressive in every way. As one who joined The Walking Dead enthusiasts a bit late, and is only halfway season three, I am riveted and eager to catch up to the current season seven in this outstanding show.

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. "