A breath rippling
In the shimmer
Of water found trees,
Like monet-colour
Stippled in flecks
Of light,
Half way between
The indistinguishable
And the brush stroke real.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
art
Matters Arising
The heart burns
With molten love
Disintegrates
All matters arising.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Pottering In Identity
He strolls
Among his trees,
Pushing the barrow
Before him:
Work neither heavy
Nor light
But on the balance
Of his good shoulders
And measured
Equal to the pace
Of an afternoon
With wind
Constant in the pines
And sunshine
Inching the hours,
Shadows dialling
The length of the day.
There is deep satisfaction
In knowing his land:
The microclimate at the far end
Where a puddle makes a winter stream.
The row of oak
Marking the boundary
Is no less his own,
Nor the gentle slope
Not other
Than his home.
There is something primal
In his ownership,
A regal spirit
Felt deep in his guts
And through the soles
Of his feet,
An energy felt
As though the ground
Itself could speak
And claim
The man,
Just as the man
Claims the land
As his identity.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Flawless
Clouds
So touched
By sunlight
And it’s setting
In the west
That they might
Harbour cherubs
In soft folds
And angels blushing orange
Upon the gilded edge.
In vapour robes
Of salmon pinks,
Moist in cirrus’s
Spiritual clothes
And cumulus draped
Upon their bodies
Like light
And sky blue complexions
To make their face
And eye depth
Flawless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Simplicity
Sometimes
Just the simplicity
Of blue air
And the golden
Ripening in to it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Dawn Of The Blood Red Moon
Summer mist collects
In pools beneath the trees,
Seeps and infiltrates
The copse,
Coats and clings
Like breath to the river bank,
Disappears things
To the cool substance
Of dreams.
The ephemeral magic
Of the unseen
Dampens
Yet holds the scents
Of ripening crop
And the soil’s loam
And the must
Of summer grass
Sweetened and distilled
To perfume
Annotating the earthen land
Below the moon
Glowing waxy
And vast
And so low and close
And red with the blood
Of myths.
And for just a moment
Man’s potential
Drifts in the red possibility
Of the clouds
And the moon is a heart
And the mind is rich
In seeing,
And any question
Brought to the lips
Finds its home
In the instant
It manifests,
In satisfaction’s pale light
And the full lunar fact
Of wisdom’s beholding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Why I Write
Because I am barren land:
And though
I can hold the pen,
I have but sand
In my hand,
For thoughts are angular
Without the yolk
Of the inner whisper.
And then
In the desert,
The sudden
Incomprehensible
Pale green shoot,
Come from nowhere,
Cracking the carapace
And shielded exterior,
Breaking ground.
And there,
Blood
To the lips
Of the stone
And all is shifted
To flows of liquid,
And the hand
Joins thoughts
And the leafs unfold,
Becoming one
In the curling letters
And the writing’s sound,
And the circular forms
Of life
Encountered
And rising
To the mind’s
Beautiful fore.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Beauty Happens
Time
Comforts us
With its work
In sweeping curves
And the pebbles
Refined
To grain equality,
Sorted
In gradual conformity
To the long shore laws
Of water physical
And air scouring
And light,
Daily ultra violet.
As the globe spins
On smooth mathematics
And physics
Impregnated with a spark
Of living light
Beauty
Just
Happens.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Beautiful Snail
Expressed in whorls
And soft tissue encased
And the fluid foot
In muscular reach,
Elegant as any
So long limbed
And herbivorous.
And what a beautiful
Tactile face
To sense
Moisture’s
Slick vehicle
And slide in silver grace:
The known world tasted
Through a moving salivation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
To The Deep Blue
I yearn
For deeper blue
Of fathoms deep
And bottomless,
To which my thirsty skin
Might imbibe
The cool
And my heart
Might drink it in,
As if it were an oxygen,
Aqueous and limitless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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