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Mostly Nothingness

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

IMG_1649

Blue beyond
With wisp cirrus,
Transitory, fleeting:
The smouldering wake
Of sun demise
At horizon’s boiling ebb.

A thankful thought:

For all we have done
We are still mostly nothingness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Spheres Of Being

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

This poem was inspired by a photo by Steven Schwartzman.

https://portraitsofwildflowers.wordpress.com

As if
We needed more proof
Than this
For worldly significance
Of the microcosm
In the macrocosm

And the fractal maps
That return again
And yet again
To the shapes in our eyes.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

In The Realm Beyond Our Bodies

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

In the ether of our dream
We meet on the streams
Of our being,

Find each other In the light,
And like stars in the night
We burn

As heart songs
Forever Sung,

Collecting
On the togetherness of intention.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

I Would Be An Artist – A Wish

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

In a room filled with light
I would find my art
In the murmurings
Of my feelings
Introspect and widening.

I would take the time, and with it
Fashion a beautiful gift, spin the light
To fabricate a tapestry of seeing, in which I
Might gaze and find things as yet
Unformed in my understanding.

There would be so much light
And so much time. And my looking
Would both absorb and bring forth
The art of my living. I would live to the
Fullest I could live, happy in the dream
Of ever finding.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Wealth In Self

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

Sometimes I just want to write
something beautiful: to conjure the
mood, to call the feeling, to be the
beautiful pen as it translates the
energy of self and brings something
new to my world, and the wealth
found in being it.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Rain Has Come

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

The rain has come to change the
world, submerging with wetting
breath, all to humid flux of delightful
moistness. Only here do plants
fluoresce in emboldened realness,
vivid as green stars, flushed and
plump as turgid cells drunk to their
fullest.

And though the sky is grey and
misted hazy close, to this speak the
scents of May flowers: all their
headiness poured forth, all their
potent force to the fluid of the air, all
their sweetened voice given: as if
their beings were vaster than the
boarders of their bodies.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.