Last, withdrawing light
Caught in a mirror of sand
Sheened with molecule wetness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Horizon
A sea wind
Strafes the land
With sun scold
And cloud shadow,
And skylarks hunker,
Warbling in the low gorse,
And bluebells weather
On the seaward slope,
And foxgloves sturdy in the verge
Allow bees their leeward staircase.
The sea is to the full horizon.
And beyond, there is likely
More for thought, for the nothing
In the globe’s curve holds the eyes
To distant possibility: and to the mind
bestows its ponderous question mark.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Earth’s Gullet
From the earth’s gullet
Gurgles a spring:
A damp throated chuckle
And breath
As moist as love
Seeps and clings
And an echo
Finds the nook
To be homely shadow.
A grotto of green
Coating beings,
A mist of epiphytes,
Sponge dwelling moss
And primordial simpleness,
Cups droplets clean
To reflect and magnify,
And hold spherical worlds
On silver, meniscal skin.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Egotism
With his mad mirror
Man goes in to the world
To find and make wonder
As if the wonder did not first exist
And he, not God,
Was creator of it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sea Air
Touched by the algal roll
Of clump and de-clump,
Slosh and surge,
And imbalance
Wet wishing for flat rightness,
And then again
And again
In wave formed turbulence
And the swirling instabilities.
The air
Is sea trained and tainted,
Salt kissed
And matter coated,
Ozoned and flecked
With crest alighted bubble
Of brown spume
And froth.
It’s almost greasy to the touch
And heavy on the breath,
And fresh
For it is
Of sky
And horizon’s depth
And leagues made:
Palette painted with tumultuous storm
And the quietness of sublime calm,
And all the colours there between.
I receive it
With face seaward seeing
And the fingers of a tussle
At the ringlets of my fringe,
And a wide, wide thought
Of emptiness,
Where Seagulls
Glow in sunbeams
And dare the fickle cliffs,
And dive for wild fish
If only for the joyful plunge of it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Cliche?
Is it cliche
To love
The crowd pleasing moment
Of a sunrise or sunset,
Or just proof
That our hearts
And our minds
Feel the same
Connected dreamscape
And be
In the very
Same way?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Mostly Nothingness
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.
Sexual Significance
Fronds of coraline and sweet,
Tender wands disseminating
Flume flower and myth
And decadence:
The flush festooned,
Plush push
Of sap transformed
To nectar’s heady
Significance of sex
And desirous fertility
Expressed in petal perfect
Symmetry and wantonness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
First
Explorer ponders
The journey ahead:
Someone must take the first step.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
My iPhone And The Cloud
In to the phone’s world
I look,
So varied
So shiny
So new.
In to this
I download my memory,
My images,
My thoughts.
And all the questions
I might ask myself,
Both profound
And mundane,
Away I merrily Google.
The world
In one way widened,
And yet
One way closed
As life shifts
Ever nearer,
Ever closer
To the outside mind
Of the irresistible cloud.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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