Flower,
Bright in sunwash,
Vibrant as the only real thing.
The rest,
Just memory
In bricks and mortar
And all that built
Misunderstanding.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Poems
Poems
Blue Elation
Lone cloud
In nothing but blue elation.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Robinson Crusoe
Palms swoop to blue utopia
And sands are refined powders
For the wave washed feet.
And sea water is full spectrum
Aqua marine, visiting every
Denomination between
Palest lagoon and deep oceanic.
And the fish are straight from Eden,
As is each paradise bird,
Paint pallet dipped to definition
By God’s own artful hand.
And from a spring, among rocks,
In the shade of ancient trees,
Sweet water froths and gurgles
To a pool in which a man
Might wash his skin
Of all the sins his choices
Have brought and indelibly marked,
And rise anew,
His face clean, his mind refreshed
As the unlearned infant child
Comes naked and without a thing
In to the clutches of this island world.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Sunset
In the last hour
When the setting sun
Elongates our shadows
And en-goldens our skin,
There is stillness
Of last long light
In the gentle stroll,
And quiet in the wavelet’s
Sodary pulse,
And timelessness
In the lulling
Of seawater swishing
Upon the cushioning sand.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Authenticity
With a face from the front cover of the National Geographic the old man carries the burden of paddy baskets with entrepreneurial spirit, balancing his load for each photographer and grinning with a toothy and well practised smile. More than anyone else, he knows the value of authenticity and clucks eagerly for the next shutter click to capture his own in the stillness of film.
copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Old Boat
Half a boat
Long ago dragged
To moulder on the tide line,
Relaxes in splinters
Shed like bark.
One day
They’ll be but bevelled plank
Jutting from the sand
And a fibrous thought
Left in the memory
Or perhaps
Another wreck
Lent sideways
And slack upon its keel,
Fading in the inevitable time.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
White Sand
In the geometry
Of blue horizons
And skirting beach
I find a boat
Paint peeling
And silvery
In the coral sand.
In the end
All things bleach:
The wooden seat,
The coral shingle,
The old man
Whose facial stubble
Grows white
As the particulate
He stands upon.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Mirror
From the sand
Sprout tubular mangrove,
Dusty and leaf stripped
To the bare essential frame.
An idle bike, left to the sand’s Abrasion somehow mirrors their
Natural form, as if all were equal
Within the shade, beneath the sun.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
Fishes
In the miraculous fish
That come again and again
Like tide to the table
Forever sustained
And always providing
A predictable nourishment,
We encounter
The earthbound principle
Of abundance
Found in habitat
The world over.
If only we could open our eyes
To the reality of the fish
And discard
All those meagre imposters
Who swim the dark waters
Of our fearful minds,
Whispering demise
Instead of flourishing
On currents
Of forever replenishing
And upwellings of bringing
That swell in offering
Despite our reluctance to see.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoive
Bougainvillea Cascade
Over most the world
She cascades,
Ever and always
Downward she falls,
And yet sometimes
In her ramblings she climbs,
With rings on every single finger
And butterflies in dreams,
Settling as momentary flowers
And garlands lifted beyond.
O she’s beautiful in her fringes
And ethereal reaches,
Beautiful in her bow
And salutation to the sun.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
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