Intent on the new leaf
They hunt
By gliding night,
Sensing every
Quivering first bud,
Every glimpse
Of a shoot
Emerging
From the earth’s
Protective coat.
And in slow,
Slow pounce
They are voracious
In their work
And in their appetite,
Stripping their prey
To the tattered
And skeletal
Ragged flags
Of a former glory.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Foremost
Is the tidal law,
For it is ever commanding
And in some ways stronger
Than the day’s diurnal yaw
And opening and closing eye.
Half his time
In soporific muse
And daydream,
With his cheek
Wet to the grey glutin
Of sediments
And the cool sulphur stink
Of mud layered greasy.
There are birds in his daydream;
Seagulls and waders patterning
The slick shiny surfaces
With criss cross footprints.
If only he could raise himself up!
But his body is limp to the rock
And deflated on the mud flat.
But then on the turning tide:
First joy to his lifted toe tips,
In salt water push.
And then to his green weed calves,
And then his body
And his weighty sargasso clothes.
Soon the daydreams seep away
And all is bluegreen oxygen
And the free thoughts
Of kelp
Suspended in the water column.
He is fully awake
When his bladder rack fringe
Lifts from his barnacle face
And shimmers and depicts
The current flow
And the playfulness
Of water’s irregularity.
Now he breathes
His water-lung
Saltwater full,
And is bright in his octopus eye,
Excited in saline energy,
Full as the moon,
Full as Equinox:
His mind
Teaming with ideas
Of fish
And aquatic snails
And colourful sponge
And the jewels of anemones,
And the bright eyed shrimp
And the lobster’s wariness
And the majestic conger eel,
And the multitude nameless
Who peak tentative from beneath:
All of which he collects
With silver brown hands
And algal finger-leaves,
Adhering them
To his stone skin
And the nooks and crevices therein,
Making himself beautiful
And decorative.
The under-garden home,
His living benthic cloak,
Gathered up
And to the underworld
Unfurled,
Given
To his legacy
And grandchildren,
In wet plethora
And numerous cold blooded.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
https://distilledvoice.com/2015/07/20/father-greenseed-and-his-work/
Drunk in the thistle head,
Bees become
Comforted
In the leisure
Of the drug
Emitted like scent
And colour.
No longer
The wary leg
Raised
And body tilted
In defensive
‘Keep away’
For heads
Burrow deep
As forgetting.
And what was happy work
Is just the blissful dream
Of being
Carefree and abundant,
And being so very drunk
On the utter taste of love.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Inspired and for la petite maison bijoux http://grahy.fr
When he manifest
He chose
A chestnut vest
And trousers
Laddered in hues
Of orange, yellow and black.
And for a hat,
He took the best
In finest elysium gold.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the purple world
Beetles congregate
To Perform
Minuscule ablutions,
Perhaps hold
Precise insect conversations,
Behave
As if they knew
Exactly what to do
With their lives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the air around
In her warm breath
In her aura.
In the space
That she owns,
Crossed by no other.
In her own land,
The country
Of her soul’s endeavour
There are butterflies
In swarms,
In every multicolour
And species creed.
They are
The myth of her lightness,
For on invisible strings
She is anchored
To every flutter
And delicate wingbeat,
And held aloft
As any lucky cloud
Is mystical
In the wind’s drift
And by the sky delivered.
It’s as if
They were part of her
And her body
Were just food stuff
On which the insects
Come to fill and feast:
Her heart
– A chalice –
Nectar deep,
The sweet centre
Of a spirit flower
That she is
In the ether-other
Beyond the solid and tangible
Regulations of the
World we live.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Our paths
Seem so solid,
Yet with the seasons
Even the most meagre
Stone strewn soil
Grows vast
With fertile grasses,
And weeds
Rampantly colonising.
Our roads
Are temporarily cuts
In the swathes
Of verdant magic,
That will one day
Draw closed
To absorb our footprints
In the luscious gloom beneath,
As if the soil
Was never once
Touched or trodden
Or even impacted
By the swish
And speed
Of our passing by.
.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Time
Comforts us
With its work
In sweeping curves
And the pebbles
Refined
To grain equality,
Sorted
In gradual conformity
To the long shore laws
Of water physical
And air scouring
And light,
Daily ultra violet.
As the globe spins
On smooth mathematics
And physics
Impregnated with a spark
Of living light
Beauty
Just
Happens.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sometimes
Things just burn
So vivid
With spectrum
Energy,
Almost more
Than the very light.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
He travels in the secret of the night,
moving on moon beams
and star sent messages.
On the wind too, he walks.
As he moves he rustles
as if he plays the breeze with his fingertips.
And those digits
are woody and knotted
yet supple as the curling vine.
🌾
His face is verge of mischief
and the unkept beard,
a hedgerow masterpiece
whiskered with unruly grass.
If his eyes were a conker’s shine
he would own a chestnut glance
but much more,
for they are shooting
surely as when spring inspires
their energies
to break the woody carapace,
and yet there is a green tinge
to the white wonder of his seeing;
Oh yes, oh yes there really is!
🌾
His bark laugh is the humorous same
as his quick eyes
and just as warm
as the mammalian heart,
though the sap is not viscous hot
but cool sweet honey dew.
Did I mention his hair?
The willow would be shamed
though his is not weeping but platted:
but still the wind plays,
and those low branches
dangle quite mysterious
so he must sweep aside
once in a storm filled while.
🌾
If ever there was a cloak
then he wears it:
and the moon might lose itself
in its forest folds,
and the vale too might be snuggled
as it’s creatures scurrying
on a blackberry and foxglove floor.
🌾
And now to his work,
for this be his reason and magic:
his green fingered love of seasons told.
🌾
First the winter – dead of earth:
where he waters and plans.
🌾
And then to the spring:
where he stoops to each friend
and coaxes the bud delicate.
And to this he breathes
his loam breath
and whispers succulence
to pale leaf-lets
in their parasol and first yawning.
🌾
And then summer:
where his nights are short and warm
and sometimes scent filled,
where he stands proud and bold,
wide eyed and watchful
as any owl,
admiring each of his delightful flowers.
🌾
And then the rich autumn:
where his desires and dreams
are a seed pod in multitude.
For when he walks there is a scattering,
and fertile sparks come off him
in droppings and ricochets,
as if the night contained
the whole of something
and much more beyond time’s now.
And as he strides the land,
his mischief smile somehow commands
his bough arms and his finger tips,
to spit and flick
the pips of newness
in every direction:
his delight and charm in one,
that he might hide the seeds of his creation,
plant wherever so he shouldn’t,
obey the only rule
worth a leaf’s weight
and cast hither and thither
the riddle of the rampant plant,
that knows no bounds
and tries and hopes
in every crevice to the world there found.
🌾
And so, too his intended:
to germinate and split
the kernel or the nut or the seed
and free the cornucopian light,
release it to the unwitting world,
like his life
and his evergreen smile.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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