Author: distilledvoice

The Very First Beginning

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I’ve been living in the cave of winter
and only knew it fully when spring’s
pulse flushed first in snowdrops and
buds bulging on the stems.

I’m awakened to the ground rush,
natures upsurge and levity behind
each tender shoot: the whole earth
intent to leaf and reclined to the
photon sun, its matter poured
eternally.

Like this my new garden arrives to my
eyes: a new flower gift each day, the
unexpected brought on spring wave
as herbaceous kind are called and
charmed, powerless on the tendril
energy.

With the scent of first flowers and
the colour of first butterflies, and first
bumble bees quick on the first sun
blasts, I realise the spring and wake
once more, as creatures wake from
their hibernation. All of us drawn from
the darkness to the light, new
warmness, the air crisp and perfect
as the very first beginning.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Writing Poetry

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I reach out in to the right side of my
brain, two inches back and two inches
above my right eye. I look through
that lens and call what I find to my
tongue, where I roll the matter until
vowel like and three dimensional.
Somehow my heart coats the thing
with a feeling until I can almost taste
the roundness of spoken word.
It lives for a moment in the excited
now until I cast it to the paper of the
page where, in ink, it lies back down
like a photograph or a pressed
flower’s two dimensional memory.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Evening Is Still

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The evening is still:

But for the blackbird bold on his
chimney pot promontory, his
conversation a shrill and beautiful
song.

But for the wood pigeons clumsy,
erotic flapping.

But for the silent gnats dancing in
scriptures and fine invisible writing.

But for the red setting sun behind the
silhouette of new spring trees.

But for the purr of a distant car
comfortable on the road.

But for the gurgle and murmur of a
conversation in a garden two fences
along.

But for the imperceptible growth of
plants.

But for tulips drawing closed with
nights subtle encroachment.

But for all that is happening.
But for all that is happening.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Genie

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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.

February sunshine

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

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

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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.