May’s ether
Expressing in tussle and tumble
Of pale yellowgreen light
And the falling
Which is cascade
Of movement and stillness,
The half way point
Between gravity
And levity’s upward lift,
The plane
In which we manifest
And come to know its beauty.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
All the energies of man
In cold swirling maelstrom:
Chosen fast to power’s grip.
All the energies of man
In warm loving expansion:
Choosing now freedom’s release.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Mid May cow parsley
Dematerialises in the lightest points
Of its flowers,
Alters reality with Hubris cologne,
Reaches with molecules:
Heaps and loads
The air
With sex,
Sweetens and fills
Sweetens and fills,
Purfumes to intoxicated mix
Of heady, pungent scentliness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Oh WordPress
And your innumerable
Rising stars,
How can I please
Your, oh so, fickle heart?
Perhaps, it is folly to even try.
And one should only make art
To satisfied the I,
Seeking purely the joy
Of creating it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Flowers grow wild
And free and succulent
On the forest floor’s
Delicious nutrient.
They ‘are’
Without a single thought.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In to my phone
I look
As if there was
A life
Held magically inside,
A world
Interesting and full
Of images
And lives lived
So fast
And so newsworthy
And so,
Ever so, momentarily brief.
My eye
Caught for but an instant
Before the
Next colourful thing
Arrives in
An excited flickering
And is
Gone with the very next.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
These days
It’s as short as this poem.
No really,
It’s just easier that way: with less to digest and more to magazine!
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
There are no words to describe
the sky’s deep blue intention,
the free thoughts of clouds,
the trees’ monochrome assertion.
Only an image
conveys the actuality of its imagery
and unburdens itself as it’s seen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image http://www.theochalmers.com
In the beginning I was sharp:
Hewn and fractured and split.
And there I lay in the elements for an
Eternity, in flicker of night and day.
Little by little I slid, slipped
And was washed to the river
Where I clattered: my edges
Blunted, broken and dulled.
After eons I found the reassuring sea,
Its salt brine sanctuary,
And was drawn in to wave grind
And the constant draw and push
Of each surge and counter rush:
The rolling swish of a billion
Touching stones caressed in fluid
Musicality and thrown high upon the
Tide line, to lie as almost perfect
Spheres; shaped, refined, defined
And rounded to the soothing curves
Of a microcosmic world reflected.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The angles on which the eyes rest
offer us a glance of visionary
rightness, like the cool smoothness
of a pebble, millennia milled, yet
contrived by the hand of man.
They please us for they follow the
inward form and geometry of soul
and its archetypes expressed to the
world.
They reassure like the mathematics of
a flower or the formation of a star or
music’s mysterious harmonics, and
sooth our hearts with natural
symmetry.
They remind us of who we are: that
we are born to this whole and cannot
be separated.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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