Legacy

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We, the future
Froth upon the past,
Like lights girdering
The stanchioned and cemented rise
Of our skyward technological pride:
Apparently so different to our
Top-hatted and bonneted selves.
Yet sunk in the sump,
Our architecture founds itself
In skirts of steam empire
And Britannia
Greater than wishfulness.

I propose
The top hat to be
Present and near,
Not relinquished or pushed aside.
We are merely bareheaded
And not in the least bit changed.

©A Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

A Troop Of Goldfinch

A troop of goldfinch
Alight verbena,
Trapeze the bended stem
To plunder last year’s seeds
Now dry in the sheaf.

I recall last season’s butterflies
Tasting nectars,
Opening their sun drenched wing
Upon the purple heads,
And marvel now

At brotherliness:
Symbiosis motive in the world:
Investments dividend returned
In grateful harvests born
And born, and born again.

©A Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

Season’s Earthen Man

 

 

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The great man of seasons
Wakes at the apex of deep night
And winter’s shrunken solstice.
He tries the cracks of his eyes
In January’s skeletal underworld,
Perceives only the dormant trees
Upturned and rooted in freezing mists:
Their faraway lives in the ethers of dreams.

In February, time stretches.
The birds summon the bulbs.
Dawn steals two minutes from night
And dusk lingers, pinches two more.
By the seventh day
All the minutes of the month
Come as one welcome approach,
Snowdrops forerunning,
Outriders of the coming urge.

The earthen man stirs from slumber
In the barren mud,
Sits up in the flower bed
As a myriad of poking spears
Aimed at the newly sprung sun.
The coronations of daffodil kings
Are coming. As are the meteoric
Gear shifts of light,
And growth’s succulent mirroring
As air goes fresh to the breath
As is clean and clear to the head
In spring’s minting of newness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

 

Hermit Celebrity

Hunkered in a coat
he flees celebrity’s never failing tail:
and for a spell walks incognito,
half disguised and almost normal,
breathing hesitantly
before his fresh air
is recognised
and wonder struck eyes
paint him all sorts
but the man he is.
They’ve believed his brand
and it burns him everywhere
but in the bejewelled cells
of gin palaces and five star hotels.
In his youth he wished for this:
to be someone famous,
hoarding furtive looks
and whispers, and awe.
But the truth is a prison
of tinted Mercedes,
bundlings from clubs
and parades of intimate questions,
like hooks barbing red carpets, searching for the gutter slugs
of secrets hidden in his closets,
behind the caging,
ever encroaching walls.
Now he wishes to be sweet nobody:
free to walk and breathe and be
without a billboard face
calling stalkers and weirdos and
beautiful women in hungry hordes.
He wishes himself
rid of the image-gloss
which knocks ordinary folks
from their confidence,
turns them nervous and skittery,
and loved up and feverish:
transforms them
into starry eyed pariahs
who scour him and search
for injurious signatures
and selfies,
both thieved
and respectfully acquired.

Copyright 2017 Ben Truesdale and ditilledvoice