Don’t forget
The beautifully cold beer,
Tipped
And glugging
To the gland
Thirsting
For pale gold
Quench
That only
Droplets condensing,
Glass sweating,
And A touch of froth
Atop an ice cold drink
Can give.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
From within
Dark passageways
The full turquoise
Of salt water
Reveals itself.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In a limestone cauldron
Narrow eying
The sea
And the whole arc
Of the sun’s duration,
In a slip
And steep crevice,
The poor dirt
Is put to the work
Of the vine.
I wondered
How such meagre soil
Might husband
The leaf, the flower, the grape
To produce magic
Must juice
From sun-trap arid scrape.
But the grapes are handsome
Clusters on the bush
And the wine
Flows.
Later
As I took cool refreshment
In the cove below
I felt the catchment
Of the cauldron
In wellspring
And flush of freshwater cold
As seepage
Of hidden river
In sweet undercurrent
To the salt water fold
And I understood
The grapes
Plush oasis
And their plump
Story of old, gnarled vines
Tap-rooted fast
To the terroir
Of this Croatian place and time.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The light
In the lens
Of the Adriatic
Glows
Turquoise
As it shimmers
Aquatic.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When high ideas
Condense
To reachable possibility.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
He puffs on a cigarette
In the manner
Of the ancients
And the Native American
Smoking a peace pipe
And thus inhales
Only pure divinity.
Watching,
The one who disapproves
Inhales the self made smoke
Of an acrid thought
And breathes pure air
Laced with the power
Of negativity.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The blue earth
Hints
At curvature
Where horizon
Mists
To a dreaming
Faraway thought.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Masterpieces
Lie about the house,
Unlocked
And in pieces,
Still prototypes
And foetuses,
Body parts
Without the spark
To impregnate
The seer
And bring them
To the birth
Of the clear
And pure
Idea.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
His is the barefooted
Sand grain press
And cushion, cool toes
In the lapping edge.
And where brine falls away
He looks
To find treasures
Brought on tide
And by the sea’s means,
Things cast high
And left bleached.
His is the measure
Of time in waves,
Regular draw
And curl forward,
And again
The pulse
Of far ocean
Felt in an oscillation.
And through the night
His ears
Hear the surf clap
And crash
In white frothing excitation
Yet his eyes
Are to the black sky,
Spattered in constellation
And celestial bodies
Glimmering as the
Phosphorescent beings
That light
The universal sea
At his toe tip reach
And in the fluid ocean,
And in the intertidal furls
In which he lives:
The light years he perceives
So close
He can nearly
Touch them.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Delight in liquid sea-green,
Washing pebbles
In transparent equality.
Solvent clear as air
And cool
To bathe the blood
And salve the sun,
Hot on the body.
Perhaps a metaphor
For transition
To other energy:
The ever blue
When we
Were nothing
In the seamless
Beginnings
When freedom
Was our own,
As was
Fluent, weightless buoyancy.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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