Poems
In a war
Somewhere far away
And in the thoughts
Rained down upon the body
Something different arises,
Something fresh encroaches:
A broader, slower force
Seeps in like a summer breeze
To lift where there is heaviness,
To cool where there is heat,
To free where is entanglement.
A feeling like a mother’s hand
Gently cradling her baby’s head,
Watching benignly yet purposefully,
Administering kindness
To every need.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Nose first
And all the body
Thrust after it,
For I go
Gladly to the rose’s
Soft flesh,
Plunge myself within
To be enveloped
Wholly in petal silk
And scents of dreams,
Sweet as the loveliest
Material or lovers skin
Impregnated with sunshine,
Fine nectars, oils and essences.
For a moment I am lost,
Dipped as I am
In relaxation
Of all but the only sense in the world:
The pure thing found
In candied whorl
Of the rose’s
Delicate unwind
And fragrant shimmering.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the cool
Beneath the dappling,
Groves of wild garlic
Grow lush:
Flowers thrust
To the damp and shadow
As wanton spires
Of creamy white petal
And green, sweet scent
Speak of soil, rich
With root bound nutrient
Of the earth found hollow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Not in the stone
Or the frame of the flowers,
Not in the lawn or the trees
Or the generous borders.
Only in the eye
Who perceives,
The I
Who perceives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the muted blues
And metal greys
Of sea and skyscape ranging
Wide and windless rippled,
Purple flowers
Strew the tussock,
Guiding light footsteps
Through the hummock greens
To the ways of the coastal path.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Stone is stone
To the snail and the lichen:
A road and a home.
Only we
Go beyond the obvious,
Dedicating towers
To our gods
And philosophies.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
There but a breath from here
Flows the ever stream
Of loveliness.
There in the body
Flows its warm mist,
Delightful as spring energy.
It says without words.
It says
If listened to or ignored.
It says nevertheless
And cares not for being heard
Or even acknowledged.
It is gift
For it is given without clause,
No distinction
Is Required, demanded or extorted.
It is a gift for all,
Without division
Or judgement imposed.
All may quench their thirst:
Worthy or unworthy
Good or bad as they come.
It just comes
For it is given to all.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Our only real ownership
Is that
found in our senses:
The life owned by our eyes
The tingle on our tongue
The ear’s interpreted vibration
The dream encountered by the nose
The skin’s sensitive envelopment
And emotion’s yoking centrepiece.
All else
Beyond what is physically ours
Is but borrowing and stewardship.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
For energies to coalesce
And be somehow directed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Fresh after evening rain
snails awake
to dine on tender shoots
and all that is moist
and dew washed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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