art

Penfriend

~ distilledvoice ~ 1 Comment

Through the window of your pen
Come words flitting
On the breath of memory,
Their heart beat
Rich on wings of poetry
And love’s prospecting reach
In to the unknown.

I watch the corner of your world
From the corner of mine,
And find there, similarity
In the mind’s agile tool:
Your eye open
As mine too is seeing.

There remains now
Only the conveyance
Via electrons and emanating light,
As I touch individual finger prints
To the keypads of a screen
And hear your soft keying
Responding in kind tapping
From another far continent.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

 

Old Boat

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

image

Half a boat
Long ago dragged
To moulder on the tide line,
Relaxes in splinters
Shed like bark.

One day
They’ll be but bevelled plank
Jutting from the sand
And a fibrous thought
Left in the memory

Or perhaps
Another wreck
Lent sideways
And slack upon its keel,
Fading in the inevitable time.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Mirror

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

image

From the sand
Sprout tubular mangrove,
Dusty and leaf stripped
To the bare essential frame.

An idle bike, left to the sand’s Abrasion somehow mirrors their
Natural form, as if all were equal
Within the shade, beneath the sun.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Sun Beings

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

image

They could be beings
Stepping from the light,
Holidaying where their world
Is burned on the beach
And paved upon the water
Like an avenue
To the sun’s blinding portal.
They could be water nymphs
Drawn by the pathway
Polished on the boundary
Between aqueous
And the air’s
More transient mix.
They could be boys
Doused in gold,
In sheen of salt water sweat
And light guilded fringes,
Frolicking in shimmering skins,
Oiled to perfect
Frictionless cartwheels
Found in the fluid
Of each childish leap
And featureless silhouette.

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Intense Concentration

~ distilledvoice ~ 4 Comments

image

Beneath the succulent leaves,
In the shadow cast
Where harsh sun
Fragments
To a gentle dappling,
Proboscis flowers
Scent the musty undergrowth
With sweetness derived
From intense concentration.
Like the artist
Who dedicates the hours
To find a pure manifestation,
The flower too
Is single minded
In its delicate craft
And delights in its creation.

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Artist Flower

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

image

From the medium
In which the leaf reclines
And absorbs
Warm solar muse,
Pure art
Forms as the perfect
Opening flower
And blessed
Replication of the sun:
A depiction
Of the source
From which
All lives spawn

And irrevocably come.

 

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & Distilledvoice

Poem Photographer

~ distilledvoice ~ 6 Comments

 

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Sometimes
She searches for poems,
Roves over
Innumerable things
With a hope
Her eye might catch
A suchness
And florescence
Glowing real
In the edges
Of interest.

And so to the woods
For knot, bird and lichen
Hosted in the crenellations
Of ecosystems’ burgeoning.
And to the city streets,
Angular in architectural
Masterpieces and rhombus
Network’s crystalline form.
And to the face of child,
Old man and worn woman
Storytelling in wrinkles
And light shining eyes.

But sometimes,
Caught unawares,
She finds the thing
In the corner of her eye,
Like an insistent child
Demanding attention,
A nugget gleaming treasureful
In the open hand
Of the high carat sand
And the riverbed of imagery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

For Melinda https://thepoetryofphotography.wordpress.com

And all the other talented photographers I follow.

 

For Whom This Poem?

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

Words wrought
Only for the images
Caused in the self
Called you,
Where writer
Cradles reader
As mother tends her child
And selfless watches
Reader grow.

Or

For pure self indulgence
Of words formed
In the pleasure
Of the pen,
Where writer
Carves the meaning
As close to likeness
As their inner kin,
No matter what the shape of it.

Or

In earthly paradox
Where self bridges
Selfishness to selfless gene,
And floats indifferent
Mid way between,
Unswayed by argument,
Just joyful
In creativity’s
Spontaneous emergence.

A Year In The Chalk Stone Village

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

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In the chalk stone village
Flint glints metamorphic
In shards of black sunlight
Mortared in the strata
Of a time when much
Was constructed from spare
Thoughts left lying around.

In the spring
Fledgling wisteria,
Delicate on the woody vine,
Take to the sky on pale green wings,
And garlands dangle voluptuous
Above each cottage door
And homely window frame.

And in the summer
Swallows spit and daub
Their dwellings under eaves
And flit the pink sky
Scoring invisible patterns
Of impermanence etched
With high swooping cries.

And in the autumn
The plants give up
The flush of summer’s
Vital light, let go the link
For approaching torpid night
And release their fruits
To future’s fertile cornucopia.

And in the winter,
The shabby season’s end,
Expectant bulbs await the sign
To push their green nibs
Beyond the hugging ground
And light the new year
Just as the last was so conjured.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Muse

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

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