Spring calls Genies
From Horse Chestnut branches
As buds split
And New leafy hands
Grasp for light’s urgency,
And haul themselves forward
And on.
From nothing they come
As if Big Bangs
Were our greatest fallacy
And called forms
Were drawn
By loving expansion alone.
Life emerging in endless renewal,
The mysterious reborn in magical leaf,
Flower and fruit, expressed year
After year, filling to full all the futures
Thought possible and granting each
Spring a bountiful wish.© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Author: distilledvoice
February sunshine
As snowdrops polyp
To first pure light
I ponder on the feeling
Of sunshine in its newness,
Its pleasure upon my face
And its gentle touch of warmth
Upon the tentative ground.
All the sleeping things beneath,
bound to bulb and dormant root:
Life’s energies encapsulate.
Universes yet to be and
To-yet unfold. Every single one
Expectantly vibrating.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
They
At the dinner table
The conversation shifts to shortfalls
And the failings of politics,
And the heated words there born
Look for solution in argument
And find it finally in blames comfortable assignment.
They – are responsible.
If only They did this or did that, were this or we’re not that.
They who are a people or a race or a colour or an ethnic strain. They who are a name disembodied and unreal, floating somewhere in the minds distracted imagining. They who take the blame and become darkened with each blemish we brand upon their surface, who become that much more accountable with each evil made upon their skin. They who are repository for what we will not ourselves own. They who conveniently engender what we deem darkness. They who are insufferable and unclean.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Big Tipper
In a flutter of pink fifties
He cascades,
Tipping from the fat bundle of concealed leaves
So that all the world are his children
And come scurrying
For his fatherly beneficence.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 