Both

In your opponents face,
In the coin toss –
You won
He lost,
He won
You lost

– You wear each others masks,
Feel the flip side feeling,
Touch
The sharing self,

Feel one side –
North
Or connected south –

Reservoir of sameness
Joined and spinning fast,

Bullyvictim psychology
Yoked like binary stars
In gravity entrapment,

Not two distinct,
But one swirling
Entity of both,

Like the coin flickering
Through its duplicity,
Showing
Its alternate pulsar sides.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Bracken Brown

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Swathe of
Bracken brown
Entanglement
Stitched through
With Bramble.

A burr enmeshed,
Stalks
In camouflaged web
Lie limp,
Draped seasonal.

A winter tree,
Like a thistle head
Hooking
Loose threads
And dry tendril.

Ground-sink
Draws matter
In degraded death
To fall soil-ward
In depth autumnal.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Canvas

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Clouds,
Gale grey
And hasty

Full of
Wind-thrift
And mischief,

Steal leaves
And flick
Them

Rotational
And tumbling,
Gimballed on gust

And inconsistency
Tremulous in the trees
Bare branch

And sway
And creak
And core wood

Straining in root-sap
Xylem tendons,
Dormant and slow

But rope strong,
Green strong
Foundation

To the earth’s
Sound clag
And sucking

Cohesive force
To hold the winter
Skeletal

And disrobed,
And canvas blank
For next year’s newness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Perfection

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Perfection
In light’s revelation,

In the leaves’
Dying pyre,

In their fall
To the sodden ground

Or in the river’s
Swift transition.

Perfection
In the tree trunk,

In its conforming shape
Wound around

The order of being:
Beauty in naturalness

And spontaneities arrival
In art’s perfect work.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

© image Ann Truesdale, 2015

Black Friday

We are dogs in the trap,
thoroughbreds
straining in the cage.

The doors are not yet open
but our faces
are flat against the glass.

We’re squeezed together,
shoulders knocking,
anticipation breathes

through the crowd
as one singular excited thought:
our hearts beat fast.

We can see the shop assistants
hopping from foot to nervous foot,
worry in thier downturned mouths.

They see the pack outside
with lolling tongues, wide eyes
and desire:

to buy, purchase, get
by any means: we’re all salivating,
our finger nails are sharp.

We’ll fight if we must
as it’s all for one
and one for one

in the up and coming scrum.
And if it’s a granny
who goes sprawling

then there’s one less
in the queue, one less
elbo in the eye,

one less combatant
who needs flooring
in the mad dash

to come.
Hold on,
I hear something!

Wait!  No one breathe.
It’s the shop assistant:
her hand is at the latch.

I can feel the ground swell,
the moment near unburdening,
the instant triggered

and about to explode
in claws skittering on tiles
and limbs grasping,

flailing hands
and shouts of
mine, mine, mine!

Here we go
in madness flow:
she’s opening the door.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015