Inspired by mind

Beachcomber

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

FullSizeRender

His is the barefooted
Sand grain press
And cushion, cool toes
In the lapping edge.

And where brine falls away
He looks
To find treasures
Brought on tide

And by the sea’s means,
Things cast high
And left bleached.
His is the measure

Of time in waves,
Regular draw
And curl forward,
And again

The pulse
Of far ocean
Felt in an oscillation.
And through the night

His ears
Hear the surf clap
And crash
In white frothing excitation

Yet his eyes
Are to the black sky,
Spattered in constellation
And celestial bodies

Glimmering as the
Phosphorescent beings
That light
The universal sea

At his toe tip reach
And in the fluid ocean,
And in the intertidal furls
In which he lives:

The light years he perceives
So close
He can nearly
Touch them.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Delight

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

FullSizeRender
Delight in liquid sea-green,
Washing pebbles
In transparent equality.
Solvent clear as air

And cool
To bathe the blood
And salve the sun,
Hot on the body.

Perhaps a metaphor
For transition
To other energy:
The ever blue

When we
Were nothing
In the seamless
Beginnings

When freedom
Was our own,
As was
Fluent, weightless buoyancy.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Fruiting Bodies

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

FullSizeRender

Fruiting bodies
Like fleshy fingers
Examining the other world,
Of air and light.

And beneath
In the thready net,
Mycelium reach
Through the body

Of the earth
Drawing nutrient
From the discarded clothes
Of everything

Let loose
And shed.
The raw components
Once more

Spent
In transition
Of beneficence
Reinvigorated.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Root Question

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

FullSizeRender
No less
The channelled stream,
Roots
Pool slowly
Over a hundred years.

To our fast eyes
They seem still.
But to the stone
Looking on,
They are a mass
Of writhing tentacles,
Searching water source
Like whiskered mole’s
Thirsty earthward
Push and burrowing.

Are these living pipes
And strands of cellulose
The captors of water’s
Slip and silver
Or are the trees
The means
By which water
Yearns to alter state,
Transpirate
To lighter, airy
Agitation?

Are my eyes
But liquid desire
To see,
In beauties reflection,
The flow
Working through
The All
And everything?
Am I served
Or do I serve
The blood
Of the fluid earth?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Blue Amnion

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

FullSizeRender
In to liquid
I slip sensual,

My skin
To the blue meniscus

Dipped and coated
And consumed

Until forgetting
Of boarders.

My being
Whole blended

In blue amnion
Aquiver

With silver light
And beams

Of aqua marine
Shimmering in electric fathoms.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Highlights

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

She has highlights in her hair,
The butter kiss
Of summer light
And fragrant breeze
Painted there.

But it’s her thoughts
That wear
The gold
Of lifted mood
And tussle
Beautiful

In halcyon
Of lofty space
And blue sky
Incantation,
Where shine
Is gloss
Upon the body

And soul
Is spirit
Reaching through matter.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Thoughtless Pollinating

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

FullSizeRender

When it wakes
It hears the flowers
Call in scents.
It desires
The ultra violet
Of colours
And the deep
Well of love
In which nectar pools
And collects.
When it wakes
It thinks of nothing else
But the warmth on the wing
And the burrowing head
Thoughtless in the dream
Of pollinating.
When it wakes
It be itself
And thinks
Not a thought
Outside of its being.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Pottering In Identity

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

He strolls
Among his trees,
Pushing the barrow
Before him:
Work neither heavy
Nor light
But on the balance
Of his good shoulders
And measured
Equal to the pace
Of an afternoon
With wind
Constant in the pines
And sunshine
Inching the hours,
Shadows dialling
The length of the day.
There is deep satisfaction
In knowing his land:
The microclimate at the far end
Where a puddle makes a winter stream.
The row of oak
Marking the boundary
Is no less his own,
Nor the gentle slope
Not other
Than his home.
There is something primal
In his ownership,
A regal spirit
Felt deep in his guts
And through the soles
Of his feet,
An energy felt
As though the ground
Itself could speak
And claim
The man,
Just as the man
Claims the land
As his identity.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Loss

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

I miss you
In the corner of my eye:
A shape in my periphery,
The you
Who dwelt
In the near regions
Of my world.

You have passed
Leaving
Just an echo
And a shadow
And a wound
Where the life
Once burned.

Your goneness
Is the distance between
My missing part
And the grip
Of my heart
That holds the past
Of you still being.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015