Summer breeze
Gentle in the leaf tips,
Rustling silver in the sun,
Playful as the lovers
Whose bough-bodies bend
And flex below:
Their hair too
Is wind tussled.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Author: distilledvoice
Late Afternoon At The Beach
Late afternoon
Refracts and alters
The sea from blue-scape
Of cool, dark wandering,
To a surface of captured sea-light,
Spliced by wave flux
To an oscillating multitude
Of angles:
And from it rises haze
In subtle smudge
And salt puff,
Driven above the surge,
Ascending as the outer edge
Of the visible wave,
To high spirit
And fine distillate
Of seawater ether,
Energised beyond
Dense form
And made buoyant
On air’s
Much lighter,
Transitory
Substance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Bees On Lavender
To each fine
Ripe strand
And purple
Crowning wand,
Alight the
Balance of bees,
In gentle weight
And measurement,
As stalks bow reverent
In ease.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Night After Sunshine
I walk barefoot
And feel the sun’s memory
In kiss of warm concrete.
And then to the cool grass
To which I feel the earth’s body,
Lumpy and imperfect
But encompassing
The gentlest hug.
And there
I perceive personality
In night-sweet
And night-flush,
The scently gush of roses
Dripping the pollen of their love,
Feeding nocturnal bug and drab
Moth alike, just as butterflies of day’s
Light take their nourishment.
For the dark is full of giving
And the rose seeks no commitment
But gives
To all those wishing
To sip the nectar of its life,
Knowing them as equals
In the wholeness
Of the wholesome day and night.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Delicate Grass
Delicate species:
So light and feathery
In the air
With filamentous thoughts
To touch the breeze
And call from it music
And the swishing
Of sibilant verse:
Its delicate fingers
To the wind’s instrument,
To feel and disperse
And cast its seed-spec progeny.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Dedicated to Emma Bullet https://emmabullet.wordpress.com
Where The Poem Is Found
In the flutter-eyed trance
Of scent moods,
And in the gland of salivation
And sensation:
Like snake-tongued
Understanding of the air around,
The taste of unseen elements
From beyond the earthly realm:
To the hither of the after-ever
And where-ever
Of information in its purest form,
Sensed in electricity
Or a substance
Quite like it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Summer Lavender
Lavender,
In silvery swathes
Of purple spires,
Marks midsummer
With every scented
Brush-past.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Receiver Of Poems
I don’t know how to write poems.
I only know the place where they emerge,
As urges clothed in the form of words.
And there in a sacred place
I collect the words like ripe apples
Plucked straight from the tree:
Gifts I have neither planted nor tended,
Just simply received.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
If Only I
If only I
Could grasp
The ineffable spirit,
Harness in all the times
Of my life.
If only I
Were buoyant bright
In every instant
Of my being.
If only I
Could alight
The serendipitous mood
And be there
With its lucky light,
Never once outside
Its kindly,
Luminescent beam.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Despite The Tumult
Despite the tumult
Of the clouds,
The erratic moods,
The distractions
And the cauldron of emotions
Fitful and bubbling,
There dwells always the sun
And the blue sky,
Fresh as warmth upon your skin
And a summer morning’s in-breath,
Waiting, behind it all
For your homeward bound
Acknowledgement.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
