Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
No urgent image
Comes to play
And mind rests still.
With a noise
It’s draw away,
Ventures to the ears:
A bee bumping
The concept
Of a window pane,
Shrill birds
Of the near distance
Whistling heartedly,
And the muffled knockings
Of a human town
In the morning of a Saturday.
I have nothing much to say
But keep listening
To the things
Inside of me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Cooling sun
burns tungsten
on the clouds’ fine filament.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image by Ann Truesdale
Branches burned black
to silhouette
of a carbon footprint.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image by Ann Truesdale
Nothing as delicious
As the idea’s arrival
At the pen scratch
And nib of newly unfolded time.
Here is creativity
At its cutting edge.
New and fresh as dew
At risen light,
As momentary
And transitorily alive,
For a spell’s duration,
Before soon subsided
And dimmed by
Pristine light’s creation
And the joy of thoughts,
Freshly Pressed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Need I use guiding word
And direction:
The thing – described, imaged,
Processed through the brain of I:
Not here
Where the boiling and molten sky
Directs without narration.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.
And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.
What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.
A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Like creepers
And tangled vines
Urging for the high light,
Bloggers speak out
With leaves of thought,
Search for every photon dealt,
Yearning daily taller
In appreciation’s height
For sunshine on the face
Of their creation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Darkness shapes:
Defines green feathery fronds,
Allows light in to being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
We set off up the stream,
Beginning in sunlit glade
And shimmer of water,
Licking each golden stone.
A pair of wagtails flit bold
In their territorial patch.
The banks are meadow flanked
But soon rise to steepness.
Beech and oak find purchase,
Dappling and putting much to shadow.
A luscious gloom settles, heavy
Breath of deepest, dimmest forest.
The stream becomes primordial,
Carves bowls in stone, cups to which
Birds might sip and swallow swirls and falls
As channels form slowly deeper.
Moist darkness crouches in
Underhang and ferns as endless
Kingly crowns sprout in revelations
Upon the earthy tiers, and foxgloves
As colour pronged diviners speak
To purple heavens reaches.
Trees too die. And some span the crevice,
Long ago fallen and half rotted soft
With moisture’s seeping ingress,
Wearing a jewellery of mysterious
Polyp, their woody hearts absorbed,
Transformed to plate-like fungus.
A coat of moss clings to every
Surface: beard of the forest
Spirit, wizening to bark and stone
Alike, a mat of tendril and twisted
Whiskering leaf, bog wet and reservoir
To humid air’s closeness. And gnats,
Fast in an escaped sun beam, find their
Golden scribbling above a still pool
And with their swift speed mark the
Quantum stillness of the hollow in the
World where time flows only as the stream,
In gurgle’s timeless ever movement down.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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