If Only I

If only I
Could grasp
The ineffable spirit,
Harness in all the times
Of my life.
If only I
Were buoyant bright
In every instant
Of my being.
If only I
Could alight
The serendipitous mood
And be there
With its lucky light,
Never once outside
Its kindly,
Luminescent beam.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Despite The Tumult


Despite the tumult
Of the clouds,
The erratic moods,
The distractions
And the cauldron of emotions
Fitful and bubbling,
There dwells always the sun
And the blue sky,
Fresh as warmth upon your skin
And a summer morning’s in-breath,

Waiting, behind it all
For your homeward bound

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

And What Are Friends?

And what are friends,
But those
To share the journey.
Of place and time,
Of chance encounter
And camaraderie
Of fellow travellers.
But the best
Are those of mind
And the deeper touch
Of understanding shared,
When gut felt home
Is spied
In their excitement
At being alive,

At seeing you,

At seeing them.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

When I Look At Art

When I look at art
I’m looking
For the gliding truth
To slice the mediocrity of life
And expose
The pure, clear moment,
The glowing wow,
The real thing,
The something said,
The revelation in my head,
The satisfaction, soul deep,

As I understand

And see

The thing

As it was meant.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Sympathy For The Sorry Self

I offer sympathy
To the sorry,
Lonely self
Who burned the bridges
To the wider self,
Severing from his larger entity,
To go solo and hurting
With a wound
Of self reducing,
And isolation
In the mind
Restricted from the universe,

That could be his
If only he could recognise
The wideness of his nature’s truth
And Accept his home
Beyond the reaches of his skin.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Poem For Poets

The poet
Can risk exposure
Of the naked heart,
For his voice speaks
In dreams of magic,
And no closer words
Are so thinly clothed
Than in the music
Of his being
And the being of his life.

And so he must
Speak his truth
In the written word
And carve
From feelings felt,
Self portraits
Of metamorphosed art,
And tell
The world
Of his only life,
As only he can tell it.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Artists Are One

So many yearning
For the artists life,
Each and every one of us
Posting our dreams
To the greater dream
In the outer dream of the internet.

But I am roused.
I am roused for I am one in many
As you are one in many.
We speak the same language
And slip stream on the same energy,
Surf the lip of love
That curls endlessly on.

We will not drown in clamour.
There are not too many
For we are the many in the mind
And the mind is one.

And the one
Is wellpool
Of richness, integrity
And Infinity anew:

As each one of us
Lives closer
To the who

We really are.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Writer’s Block

At first
It’s hard as metal.

Or is it
More like hard cheese

Or maybe butter
Straight from the fridge.

It was left in the sun

And now
As silky oil,

Runs in rivulets,
Clarified and melted

To the yellow-shine
Of a different entropic state.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Wand Of Choice

What more
For needs met
Than lift
Of soul
Buoyed and self held
In deepest respect.
The harming hand
From ill will
To loving intent,
And energy accepted
As gift
Of freedom sent
And shift in mind
To wind of happiness
Free about the body.

The only reality
Is the wand of choice
And liberation
Of abundant spirit.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.