In The Foreground And Beyond – A Photograph

An overflowing bin blazoned
with a colourful advert,

an up turned ice cream cone
on a clipped lawn,

slabs of concrete paving,

a cast iron fence with shrubs
overflowing and intertwined,

a vine creeping over and on,

bushes expanding,

a row of mature Scots pine
red against the skyline,

the brooding clouds, plump
and heavy eyed, sullen
with imminent rain,

fleeting blue between, high
and shifting.

A gull rides the buffeting
and for a moment glows white as
gold with the touch of the five o’clock
sun gilding is wing tips

then drops away, plummets to

leaves only
a cold burnt image
indelible on the retinal sky

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

WordPress And My Mind

Each time I Press
I take a step
And reach out
Far in to the mists

Of the unknown.
For Me it feels
As though the cutting edge
Of art arrives

And happens now
As I reach
In to the mists of mind
And bring back

All that I find there.
And then I Press again,
And wait.
And just like the mind

Beautiful things emerge,
Personalities materialise,
Worlds unfold,
And I realise

The myriad forms
The myriad souls
The myriad stars,
A billion hidden constellations

Out there,
Awaiting discovery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

As If The Brain

As if the brain
Could know the computations
Of the Universe:
The sum of all
Somehow divined.
The infinite equation
Of all things,
All actions,
All time,
And the web upon web of
Interactions between,
Somehow catalogued and counted!

This is control:
The thought of the petty tyrant.
The madness of the expert
Who pretends to know
But waits to to be dethroned.
The modern mind
Floating untethered from the
Grounded nuance
That to be human
Is to float untethered on love:
In the nothing that is everything,
In the space that is filled,
In the unknowing that is trust.

The complicated brain understands nothing.
Yet the simple heart knows it need only understand itself.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

I Have Seen Your Face Before

I have seen your face before,
over plump and pumped in places
with fillers glossy and wishfully
young: meant to forget every mark
and memory of the life preceding,
meant to fight the foe of time.

Worn by so many women, fifty
something and reaching for youth’s
fashionably bland facsimile, whose
disappointing truth is mask as lifeless
as any purchased latex version of the
self: a faces see-through window
made so clumsily
in to a tinted wall.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Risen Early

Risen early with spring dawn;
Light is at the perfect golden angle
And the air is newly formed.

Footsteps on the cool, dew touched
Lawn and ears filled with bird chatter
And twittering: a wood pigeon cooing
With sweetening purr.

Where the sun has made a glade
Among buddlia foliage a hover fly
Alights a leaf and basks for a delicate
Moment: then again to the
Shimmering air.

God is near
Not in the far flung heavens.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Leaf and Twig (a poem for wordpress blog, Leaf and Twig)

It is good because it offers only the witnessing. It sees something beautiful and sees it. And like the soul, passively observes with no thought beyond to control or complicate. It seeks nothing from you but offers wholly its world.

There is its simple purity. It speaks without words. It does not tell.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.