For Whom This Poem?

Words wrought
Only for the images
Caused in the self
Called you,
Where writer
Cradles reader
As mother tends her child
And selfless watches
Reader grow.

Or

For pure self indulgence
Of words formed
In the pleasure
Of the pen,
Where writer
Carves the meaning
As close to likeness
As their inner kin,
No matter what the shape of it.

Or

In earthly paradox
Where self bridges
Selfishness to selfless gene,
And floats indifferent
Mid way between,
Unswayed by argument,
Just joyful
In creativity’s
Spontaneous emergence.

Muse

I do not know you
Though
For your eyes
And your mind
I pen
What thought and beauty
I can find
Right here.

And I wish it
Sent upon the wind
Or voyaged on promises kept
And letters sent,
A union conveyed
Upon a word,
Upon the thought,
Upon a sentiment,

One
That we might share
In mind
Of distant togetherness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Stiff And Staid

Sometimes
I reach for the beautiful pen
Wanting
Loops
And graceful turns
Of poetry
To please the page

But find
My fingers fat as sausages
And the pen,
A cactus.
And my heart
Pumping sand
Through the plaque
Congealed
Narrowness
Of my veins

And so I write
The wrongness
So it might
Shift
From staid
And stillness
To the curves
Of energy flow,
The hopeful pen
Smooth on inky magic,
And once again imprinted

With tenderness untroubled.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

For You Out There

The Likes
Stamped
On my offered work
Are certainly
Gratification,
But
When you,  genius friend –
Whose work
Is masterly
And touches
The substance
Of the wide eyed bridge
Between mind
And beautification,
– Like my words,
I am enthralled
With the closeness
Of creation
And I wish
Our touching
Was a friendship
In the real
Matter of the world.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015