A sieve
To strain gusts
Of leaf fall
And spore heady
Deluge
Strewn crisp
And thick
As winter snow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Author: distilledvoice
Brothers In Colour
There is something
Victorian
In his whiteness,
A correctness
Disciplining the rest
So regulation
Rules in dry doctrine.
And to his eye
His black skinned brother
Is carnal opposite
To the structure
Rigid in his self
And he fears
The hot power
Of a primitive.
And thus
The black man
Is subdued
For being
The outward heart
With body filled
With blood and vigour
And the white man
Gelds himself,
Separates from his pulse,
His inner fire,
Grows cold and stiff,
And with backstroke
Of his incising knife
Flays
His collateral brother,
So in neither
Is the life found flowing,
And in both
The cut
Equally deep.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Dance
I would speak
With you,
Entangle our words
In the salsa
Dance,
Close and breathy.
As partners in art,
In converse
Verbal
And intangibly said,
In the heat
Of closeness
And skin
Touching skin,
I would ask you
To pirouette
So you might hear
My whisper,
And smile
At my music in your head.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Muse
In your work
I find mine
For my brush
Does seek
The peacock’s flush
And strut
And flares
The more
For your
Flouncing parade,
Your fan crowning,
Colourful display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Tungsten Flare
Only the cool,
Faraway sun
Diminishes
Age
With last autumnal
Tungsten
Spectrum,
Burnishing
Dying leaves
In beautiful flare.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Earth Clock
All are called
By the clock
To conform
To the great weight
Of pendulum earth
Oscillating
In the deep groove
Of the universe.
But we’re still offered
A second or two’s grace
To find
Our own pulse
In time’s
Unwinding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Autumnal Leaves
In the trees’
Brown shedding,
Loosened in November’s
Murk
And grey clouded
Movement
Northerly,
And with the lessening,
Light falling back
In earth’s tilt
Wintery,
Gusts come
To lick the leaves,
Scurry them
If they will heap
And hurry,
Or Drive the well wrapped,
Buttoned-up shoppers,
Bluster haired
And wind blithery,
To tread them
From browns to black,
If already
Moist paper,
Mulch layering
The sticky pavement walked.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Red Pigment
Red pigment
Skeletal behind
Chlorophyll’s
Enriching shroud
Shows itself
In season’s end
And green nutrient
Departed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Blogger Friends
We are friends
Who craft
The art of
Word,
Article
Or photograph,
Offering each day
These
Mind made things
Carved from our hearts
Mused interpreting,
Presenting our work
Like the bird makes its nest
Or the tree
Falls in with the seasons:
We do what we do
Because we must.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
I Could Drink The Mist
I could drink the mist
With inward
Passage
Of breath
Cool and wholesome
To the lungs,
An air
Weighted moist
And though
Still vapour
No less fluid
Deeply quenching
Organs
In their need
To thirst.
Are we not
All sponges,
Open pored,
In-fluxed
And anointed?
Are we not
Osmosed
In love?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 