art

I Would Be An Artist – A Wish

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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.

A Warm Feeling

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I am a sponge
Drinking through my porous
Skin, drinking energy.

The air, the sea, the fluid of reality
Washes through me
Like a fresh born wave.

I float. I am held. Warmth allows
Each cells place in the world,
Space for every identity.

I am a sponge, welcoming
With open arms
Life’s movement through me.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

To The Garden I Go

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To the garden I go,
To pace the concrete path
Bordered by greenery.
I examine the bud, then the tender
Shoot delicate in its unfold, changing
Each day imesaursbly. I witness the
Plant beings flush under the sun, their
Greenness quivering, their buoyancy
Mesmerised to reach for the high
Happy sky.

I step away for but a spell and to my
Returning astonishment I find a new
Garden, in place of the wonder I had
Left, yet more richly itself and bolder
In its expansive space.
The air too I breathe and find thankful
To my lungs, for the garden’s world is
Richly textual, a sensation in to which
I too unfold, as if all my wanting
Dreams of elsewhere heavens had
Been called home and yoked to the
Simple matter of a flower’s beautiful
Event.

Nymans Garden – A Picture

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Someone, a time ago, painted a
picture in the living stream of garden
beings. Their beautiful idea, via seed
and years of seasons, and the tender
touch of gardeners’, comes to me as
this:

A flush of crimson azalea.
And there a grotto in which generous
rhododendron blush and bloom in
roughs and frills.
And there peonies unclasped.
And there cherry pinks and white
petals lazily falling.
And there a dappled garden of
magnolia, like so many flamingos,
proud swans and poised egrets alight
each bough and branch.
And beneath in clusters: fritillary,
anemone and daffodils.
As if all were floating on a magical
mist of sunrise beginnings and first
dew drop breaths of times absolute
unfolding newness.

If I were an artist I might use this
fertile gift and call good thoughts
from fresh enriched wholesomeness
and wish them forward, so in a time
ahead, someone might find what I
have found and be likewise captive
and spellbound by nature’s gladness
to willingly adhere to the picture’s trellis.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

These Words Belong To Us

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These words belong to us.

As I write these words they belong to me.
As you read them they belong to you.

I write them from a long time away.
You read them from an equal distance.

I feel satisfied as understanding reveals what I didn’t know.
You feel the feelings arriving to you.

If you see light: the light belongs to you.
If you see darkness: that too is yours.

If you see beauty: you are beautiful.
If you see ugliness: you have found your troll.

In the mirror between us on which my pen rests I see my face.
In the mirror between us on which your eyes rest you see your face.

These words belong to us.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

The Wealth In Self

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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.

Now Is The Time For Poetry

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The times have changed for poets.
Long gone are the notebooks piling
high with frustrated prose and lyrics,
dust bound and irrelevant, for thought
is fleeting as the modern world and
synapses now demand the instant in
the instant.

The poem was born for this. The
living form of a moment found, both
infinitesimally small and profoundly
long lasting. The supple being that a
poem is, thriving once more, rising to
the position it was supposed to be.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

On A Cornish Cliff

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Crouching in rock gardens,
Among the hardy flowers
Strummed by the sky’s wide wind,
She finds her perfect moment
And is moved to art,

As if the moment had found her
To carry out its wish
To live beyond its simple richness:
Live once in being witnessed
And then again and again
In the paint’s still vivid kiss.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Think Of The Wonders Yet To Be

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Think of the wonders yet to be.
Think of the discoveries yet undiscovered.
Think of the possibilities not yet uncovered.
Think of the dreams unborn to our world.
Think of the cures yet still embryonic.
Think of the could be’s, the maybe’s,
the potentials not yet invented,
the time spreading out like an unending road.
Think of the hidden
and all things yet to be conceived.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

WordPress And My Mind

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Each time I Press
I take a step
And reach out
Far in to the mists

Of the unknown.
For Me it feels
As though the cutting edge
Of art arrives

And happens now
As I reach
In to the mists of mind
And bring back

All that I find there.
And then I Press again,
And wait.
And just like the mind

Beautiful things emerge,
Personalities materialise,
Worlds unfold,
And I realise

The myriad forms
The myriad souls
The myriad stars,
A billion hidden constellations

Out there,
Awaiting discovery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.