Last years
Sodden relic
Browns in decrepitude
And skeletal memory.
Next years
Tightly packed,
Protected shoot
Waits in green expectancy.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Self Indulgent Poem
for pure indulgence
of the word
on the white plate:
–
the way it works,
tempting
my mouth to salivate.
–
it’s a freshly cooked crab
still incapsulated red
but crackable
–
and meat sweet juicy
as carnal love
and oysters’ tide
–
and drunkenness
in the self indulgence
of the body’s desires.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Woman
Blousy white
and as pure as skin
silken and finely woven
from a pure thought
–
the flower bleeds
jasmin scent
as the purfume bleeds
its distillate
–
and blossoming
is mind and body
arriving to the flush
of a sweet capturing
–
mood, alight
the breath of being
and the forceful pulse
Of the procreational moon.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice
Mistake
The mind
Tantalised by terror’s
Excitement,
Rubber stamps
Every violence,
Every incident,
And brands
Every normal madness
As terrorism
Born to our physical place.
And to the runaway dream
We add our angers,
And we rage
To do something against
The foe
Clothed
And created,
The anti image
Of our own
Disassociated face:
A glad enemy
Summoned
For us to fight.
And so we go
Hot headed,
The blood
Of foes
Desperate
To be let,
Our minds coalesced
In agreement’s
Blind conditioning
To go
Triumphant
And enthusiastic
To the next
Terrible war
Of mistakes.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Religion Of War
If religion were expunged
Our ripe blood hearts
And fanatical brains
Would conjure
The sword wet
Dichotomy
Of feuding
Once more
And once again,
And we’d war
For sake of differing
And march
Beneath some other
Banner, flag
Or hot thought
Incendiary
In its desire
To strike out
And baptise
New recruits
In the endless
Cycle of violence.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice
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
The News
To the screen we look,
Consuming the fast food
Of news and media’s
Rumour fat fact.
We’re obese on it.
It’s thick in our blood,
Congealed arterial,
Congealed – congested.
If you asked us to change,
Try a different diet
– Thoughts healthy and positive –
We’d agree to affirmation
Then tiptoe in the secret night
To feast on 24 hour rolling junk.
We’d munch like we’re addicted
And smile the innocent lie
Each light day, remaining unchanged
As we had intended. Our need to live
In fear, the foodstuff from which our lives
Spread out in concentric rings.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Both
In your opponents face,
In the coin toss –
You won
He lost,
He won
You lost
– You wear each others masks,
Feel the flip side feeling,
Touch
The sharing self,
Feel one side –
North
Or connected south –
Reservoir of sameness
Joined and spinning fast,
Bullyvictim psychology
Yoked like binary stars
In gravity entrapment,
Not two distinct,
But one swirling
Entity of both,
Like the coin flickering
Through its duplicity,
Showing
Its alternate pulsar sides.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Bracken Brown
Swathe of
Bracken brown
Entanglement
Stitched through
With Bramble.
A burr enmeshed,
Stalks
In camouflaged web
Lie limp,
Draped seasonal.
A winter tree,
Like a thistle head
Hooking
Loose threads
And dry tendril.
Ground-sink
Draws matter
In degraded death
To fall soil-ward
In depth autumnal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Canvas
Clouds,
Gale grey
And hasty
Full of
Wind-thrift
And mischief,
Steal leaves
And flick
Them
Rotational
And tumbling,
Gimballed on gust
And inconsistency
Tremulous in the trees
Bare branch
And sway
And creak
And core wood
Straining in root-sap
Xylem tendons,
Dormant and slow
But rope strong,
Green strong
Foundation
To the earth’s
Sound clag
And sucking
Cohesive force
To hold the winter
Skeletal
And disrobed,
And canvas blank
For next year’s newness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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