Poems
At first
It’s hard as metal.
Or is it
More like hard cheese
Or maybe butter
Straight from the fridge.
No,
It was left in the sun
And now
As silky oil,
Runs in rivulets,
Clarified and melted
To the yellow-shine
Of a different entropic state.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
What more
For needs met
Than lift
Of soul
Buoyed and self held
In deepest respect.
The harming hand
Changed
From ill will
To loving intent,
And energy accepted
As gift
Of freedom sent
And shift in mind
To wind of happiness
Free about the body.
The only reality
Is the wand of choice
And liberation
Of abundant spirit.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
No urgent image
Comes to play
And mind rests still.
With a noise
It’s draw away,
Ventures to the ears:
A bee bumping
The concept
Of a window pane,
Shrill birds
Of the near distance
Whistling heartedly,
And the muffled knockings
Of a human town
In the morning of a Saturday.
I have nothing much to say
But keep listening
To the things
Inside of me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In his finest Queen’s English,
P’s and Q’s in mind,
He eloquently states
And stiffly elaborates,
Using long words
And upright and proper sentences,
Annotating with slow voice
And seriousness,
The somber events
And flag waving celebrants,
Conscripting his yesteryear
And best BBC
To announce
With banner and bow,
Pomp and formality,
The stereotype
Crowning in the matter
Of his Englishness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Cooling sun
burns tungsten
on the clouds’ fine filament.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image by Ann Truesdale
Branches burned black
to silhouette
of a carbon footprint.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image by Ann Truesdale
For fifty years
The shining west
Broadcast the abundant dream
In films and on TV sets,
Sold their gloss of golden
Paving and streets opportune,
Livelihoods so plentifully clean:
Advertising the job lot
To the chink in the human heart
Where wishing spills out
From wanting’s germinated seed.
And now all the world desires
A piece of the unreal dream
And comes, unstoppable,
In tide of need’s imbalance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Nothing as delicious
As the idea’s arrival
At the pen scratch
And nib of newly unfolded time.
Here is creativity
At its cutting edge.
New and fresh as dew
At risen light,
As momentary
And transitorily alive,
For a spell’s duration,
Before soon subsided
And dimmed by
Pristine light’s creation
And the joy of thoughts,
Freshly Pressed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Need I use guiding word
And direction:
The thing – described, imaged,
Processed through the brain of I:
Not here
Where the boiling and molten sky
Directs without narration.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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