To the tight
To the tearless
To the dried
And desiccated
To the dead
Who still inhabit

I wish
The hot breath
Of Aslam
The gentle touch
Of Jesus Christ
The Buddha’s smile
Mohammad’s light
And the unsung strength
Of every mother
Who loved their child
And the fathers
Who stood
Strong and watchful.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Siblings In Mind

For all of us
Who write
There is kinship
In the pen
And a pleasing
Camaraderie of spirit.

Yet such
Are the plethora
Of minds
That being this
Is like belonging
To a wide
And diverse continent.

The best
Is when understanding
Traverses time
And space,
And a bond
Of likeness

In selfness
Like looking in to the mirror
And seeing the real
Of a brother
Or a sister,
Newly found.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Father Greenseed And His Work

He travels in the secret of the night,

moving on moon beams

and star sent messages.

On the wind too, he walks.

As he moves he rustles

as if he plays the breeze with his fingertips.

And those digits

are woody and knotted

yet supple as the curling vine.


His face is verge of mischief

and the unkept beard,

a hedgerow masterpiece

whiskered with unruly grass.

If his eyes were a conker’s shine

he would own a chestnut glance

but much more,

for they are shooting

surely as when spring inspires

their energies

to break the woody carapace,

and yet there is a green tinge

to the white wonder of his seeing;

Oh yes, oh yes there really is!


His bark laugh is the humorous same

as his quick eyes

and just as warm

as the mammalian heart,

though the sap is not viscous hot

but cool sweet honey dew.

Did I mention his hair?

The willow would be shamed

though his is not weeping but platted:

but still the wind plays,

and those low branches

dangle quite mysterious

so he must sweep aside

once in a storm filled while.


If ever there was a cloak

then he wears it:

and the moon might lose itself

in its forest folds,

and the vale too might be snuggled

as it’s creatures scurrying

on a blackberry and foxglove floor.


And now to his work,

for this be his reason and magic:

his green fingered love of seasons told.


First the winter – dead of earth:

where he waters and plans.


And then to the spring:

where he stoops to each friend

and coaxes the bud delicate.

And to this he breathes

his loam breath

and whispers succulence

to pale leaf-lets

in their parasol and first yawning.


And then summer:

where his nights are short and warm

and sometimes scent filled,

where he stands proud and bold,

wide eyed and watchful

as any owl,

admiring each of his delightful flowers.


And then the rich autumn:

where his desires and dreams

are a seed pod in multitude.

For when he walks there is a scattering,

and fertile sparks come off him

in droppings and ricochets,

as if the night contained

the whole of something

and much more beyond time’s now.

And as he strides the land,

his mischief smile somehow commands

his bough arms and his finger tips,

to spit and flick

the pips of newness

in every direction:

his delight and charm in one,

that he might hide the seeds of his creation,

plant wherever so he shouldn’t,

obey the only rule

worth a leaf’s weight

and cast hither and thither

the riddle of the rampant plant,

that knows no bounds

and tries and hopes

in every crevice to the world there found.


And so, too his intended:

to germinate and split

the kernel or the nut or the seed

and free the cornucopian light,

release it to the unwitting world,

like his life

and his evergreen smile.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Importance Of Swallows

What is more important

Than summer swallows,

Blue on the wing

Hot on the lifting air

Fulfilled by rising insects

Swarming on scents

And invisible particulates:

The blooms of the sky

The language written hieroglyph

And aerodynamic,

And perfectly attuned

To being –              – almost weightless?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.


Just saying the word
Is enough to quell
Its worrisome opposite.

You appear
To have swelled in breath
And buoyancy

Around the chest.
And more,
Your face is full

And your eyes
Are lit,
And your smile

Has spread
So a yellow sunrise

And the summer
And you

As much
As you reflect.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

For Mima

And The Mother Said

And the mother said
You can turn on my earth
And in a trice
My children
Will be upon
The glistening clods
To do their colonising
And consoling work.

And you may desert
The plentiful place
And turn it bland
With monoculture,
The flourishing
With chemical
And beings augmented
And superior

All the while
Dashing yourself down.
But I will love you nevertheless.

And you may
Stricken the fertile
And the life giving,
Blemish it,
Injure it
And put it
To dust
And stone

And I will scar
For your learned eye
And then turn beautiful
With rest
And time
Fallow and forgiving.

And you may
Use me
Like your own heart used
And cut me
As your own blood flows
And deny me
As your own
Loneliness is made

In the crucible of your intention
And I will love you still
And whole

And love you
As only the land,
In its richness can

For killing is not mine
My children’s

And as the world turns
I will be
As I have been;

The force
The spirit
The energy

The lick of love
The empty space
The possibility

The lift
Behind it all,

The reason
And creativity

Rolling on, and endlessly on.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.