Good Morning

The morning is sweet

With the bird’s high ether,

Trill, and as full

As their abandon.

The air is warm and fragrant,

Infiltrated with wood smoke

And the earth’s low savour.

In a faraway glance,

The distance fades in to mist.

The morning in the breath is sweet.

A Traveller’s Sweet Moment

All the various people toing and froing with bags pause as heads tilt to orange lights capitalising arrivals, departures, long lists of destinations, or mill about waiting to board.

A deisel thrums, fuming up the place, and a tannoy mumbles. The sun shines, diffused through skylights stained with pigeon droppings.

And in this intersecting place which is no real destination, I find happiness in the happening of reality unfolding, suddenly miraculous as if the being in me, my heart, had melted like butter in the dish next to the half eaten croissant disintegrating on a plate.

And as the guard blows a whistle my insides break from something solid to a free flowing fluid made of nothing but lightness and space and the joy of dying, where all paradoxes balloon inside until my skin seems a transitory coating, a boarder and yet an open door, a bubble’s width transparency, in which, and through the world I momentarily glide.

In The Aching Out

In the aching out

Of separation from the Source,

In that desperation

Of the body without,

Energy in that fraught moment

Disbelieved

And transformed into a mind robbing truth,

The inner sun eclipsed

Until all is gripped anxiety

And the thieving hunger

Drawn from soul

Reluctant in the giving.

In that moment,

In the knowing of that bitter biting absence,

That disconnected fatigue

And adrenal drift of dept,

Caffeine flowing

In the pressured veins,

In that moment

Of seeing the truth of untruth

And the untruth of lovelessness,

The love to flood the self is found,

And all that was

Is warmed

And looked upon

With tender eyes

That seed no malignancy,

Only the simple need

That needs

Parenting

By the blessed touch of grace.

Immigrant

In chill October England
the African waits incongruous
by the grey concrete divide
of a duel carriageway.

He wears a leopard skin hat
and the curly white beard of
an old man. In his hand,
a tool dangles like a nonchalant

machete. He has bare feet
and baggy shorts and has
come from the woods,
filled with cool heartbeats

of high latitudes. He hears
as he heard in his homeland:
the voices are different
but still voices, greener

and more tidal, sleeping
for half the year at least.
Yet his heart beats as full
of blood as when his calloused

feet scuffed red, dry earth,
and though all through his
eyes is a paler brother,
less rich, quelled

rather than vibrant,
the murmurings he feels
through his soles
are so similar in vibration

he cannot help but
accept the meek light
as home, and breathe in
the arrival of happiness.

 

copyright distilledvoice & Ben Truesdale

Anticipation

 

FullSizeRender.jpg
Slow on dormant
Short day
And soil
Chilled stasis,
Yet latched
To the axis
Of the earth
That will
With solstice turn,
Unwind with light
And spiral out,
First shoot,
Then leaf,
Then the flower’s magnitude,
Until
In swelling apex
And full, green flush
Of potential’s plumpness,
All the tangible world
Expresses its ripeness
And rests gladly
In energy’s hands.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015