When he manifest
He chose
A chestnut vest
And trousers
Laddered in hues
Of orange, yellow and black.
And for a hat,
He took the best
In finest elysium gold.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Author: distilledvoice
In The Purple World
In the purple world
Beetles congregate
To Perform
Minuscule ablutions,
Perhaps hold
Precise insect conversations,
Behave
As if they knew
Exactly what to do
With their lives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In Her Butterfly Breath
In the air around
In her warm breath
In her aura.
In the space
That she owns,
Crossed by no other.
In her own land,
The country
Of her soul’s endeavour
There are butterflies
In swarms,
In every multicolour
And species creed.
They are
The myth of her lightness,
For on invisible strings
She is anchored
To every flutter
And delicate wingbeat,
And held aloft
As any lucky cloud
Is mystical
In the wind’s drift
And by the sky delivered.
It’s as if
They were part of her
And her body
Were just food stuff
On which the insects
Come to fill and feast:
Her heart
– A chalice –
Nectar deep,
The sweet centre
Of a spirit flower
That she is
In the ether-other
Beyond the solid and tangible
Regulations of the
World we live.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Why I Write
Because I am barren land:
And though
I can hold the pen,
I have but sand
In my hand,
For thoughts are angular
Without the yolk
Of the inner whisper.
And then
In the desert,
The sudden
Incomprehensible
Pale green shoot,
Come from nowhere,
Cracking the carapace
And shielded exterior,
Breaking ground.
And there,
Blood
To the lips
Of the stone
And all is shifted
To flows of liquid,
And the hand
Joins thoughts
And the leafs unfold,
Becoming one
In the curling letters
And the writing’s sound,
And the circular forms
Of life
Encountered
And rising
To the mind’s
Beautiful fore.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In The End
Our paths
Seem so solid,
Yet with the seasons
Even the most meagre
Stone strewn soil
Grows vast
With fertile grasses,
And weeds
Rampantly colonising.
Our roads
Are temporarily cuts
In the swathes
Of verdant magic,
That will one day
Draw closed
To absorb our footprints
In the luscious gloom beneath,
As if the soil
Was never once
Touched or trodden
Or even impacted
By the swish
And speed
Of our passing by.
.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Beauty Happens
Time
Comforts us
With its work
In sweeping curves
And the pebbles
Refined
To grain equality,
Sorted
In gradual conformity
To the long shore laws
Of water physical
And air scouring
And light,
Daily ultra violet.
As the globe spins
On smooth mathematics
And physics
Impregnated with a spark
Of living light
Beauty
Just
Happens.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Wish
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
Joins
In selfness
Expressed:
Like looking in to the mirror
And seeing the real
Familiar
Of a brother
Or a sister,
Newly found.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The Very Light
Sometimes
Things just burn
So vivid
With spectrum
Energy,
Almost more
Than the very light.
© 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
