Oh WordPress
And your innumerable
Rising stars,
How can I please
Your, oh so, fickle heart?
Perhaps, it is folly to even try.
And one should only make art
To satisfied the I,
Seeking purely the joy
Of creating it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Flowers grow wild
And free and succulent
On the forest floor’s
Delicious nutrient.
They ‘are’
Without a single thought.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In to my phone
I look
As if there was
A life
Held magically inside,
A world
Interesting and full
Of images
And lives lived
So fast
And so newsworthy
And so,
Ever so, momentarily brief.
My eye
Caught for but an instant
Before the
Next colourful thing
Arrives in
An excited flickering
And is
Gone with the very next.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
These days
It’s as short as this poem.
No really,
It’s just easier that way: with less to digest and more to magazine!
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
There are no words to describe
the sky’s deep blue intention,
the free thoughts of clouds,
the trees’ monochrome assertion.
Only an image
conveys the actuality of its imagery
and unburdens itself as it’s seen.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image http://www.theochalmers.com
In the beginning I was sharp:
Hewn and fractured and split.
And there I lay in the elements for an
Eternity, in flicker of night and day.
Little by little I slid, slipped
And was washed to the river
Where I clattered: my edges
Blunted, broken and dulled.
After eons I found the reassuring sea,
Its salt brine sanctuary,
And was drawn in to wave grind
And the constant draw and push
Of each surge and counter rush:
The rolling swish of a billion
Touching stones caressed in fluid
Musicality and thrown high upon the
Tide line, to lie as almost perfect
Spheres; shaped, refined, defined
And rounded to the soothing curves
Of a microcosmic world reflected.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The angles on which the eyes rest
offer us a glance of visionary
rightness, like the cool smoothness
of a pebble, millennia milled, yet
contrived by the hand of man.
They please us for they follow the
inward form and geometry of soul
and its archetypes expressed to the
world.
They reassure like the mathematics of
a flower or the formation of a star or
music’s mysterious harmonics, and
sooth our hearts with natural
symmetry.
They remind us of who we are: that
we are born to this whole and cannot
be separated.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I don’t require an alarm clock to wake me in the morning. I rise with the eagerness of a child and the first twittering of birds. You know, there is nothing as fine as the dew sweet hours and no light so heavenly as the first born moment cresting deliciously: I am surely new with each turn of the world. My father toiled on this plot of Italian earth for fifty years or more. Those days were not good for winemakers. But for me it is joyous. Hard work, of course but I am greatly more for each moments focus. My land, strung with vines and decorated with Cyprus is the single most important place upon the earth. I walk it, each delightful day, noticing the minucia, the seasons play and the plants considered response. I do believe they are happy in their growth, flush with greenliness and health for all my careful tending and my gentle approach to the matter of their feeling: I greatly enjoy their being with this glad, succulent heart of mine. I wonder, am I rooted to this place, for I would not leave its ever calling pull upon my soul’s domain and would likely yearn with each terrible footstep into misadventure’s far away? I wonder too, if we are joined, my humanity yoked to the richness of this soil and all that is drawn so willingly? This is my home, among the vines: father to their needs, recipient of their riches, lover of the being we have become.
And the wine? Could it it be less the true wonderment, or measure less than joy, or be less than divinity made earthly? Well, I shall not tell what only a taste can convey.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
To the damaged and oppressed
It lays its gentle hand, its gentle
breath, and asks for nothing.
To the wronged and dispossessed
It understands with a kindly hand
And be’s there without a sound.
To the despised and those dismissed
It offers its warm hand to temper
Loneliness, washing the mind clean
And bringing all to the light of wholeness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Something in the heart of the
gardener is drawn to create worlds
in patches of light and shade’s cool pools.
Something calls to make
billowing folds, pockets
and patchworks of flowers, floral
coverings and scented seas
for the lucky summer breeze.
Something calls for the bees and
their burrowing, smothering search
for bliss. Something calls. Something
calls. Something calls.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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