Summer breeze
Gentle in the leaf tips,
Rustling silver in the sun,
Playful as the lovers
Whose bough-bodies bend
And flex below:
Their hair too
Is wind tussled.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
art
Late Afternoon At The Beach
Late afternoon
Refracts and alters
The sea from blue-scape
Of cool, dark wandering,
To a surface of captured sea-light,
Spliced by wave flux
To an oscillating multitude
Of angles:
And from it rises haze
In subtle smudge
And salt puff,
Driven above the surge,
Ascending as the outer edge
Of the visible wave,
To high spirit
And fine distillate
Of seawater ether,
Energised beyond
Dense form
And made buoyant
On air’s
Much lighter,
Transitory
Substance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Delicate Grass
Delicate species:
So light and feathery
In the air
With filamentous thoughts
To touch the breeze
And call from it music
And the swishing
Of sibilant verse:
Its delicate fingers
To the wind’s instrument,
To feel and disperse
And cast its seed-spec progeny.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Dedicated to Emma Bullet https://emmabullet.wordpress.com
Receiver Of Poems
I don’t know how to write poems.
I only know the place where they emerge,
As urges clothed in the form of words.
And there in a sacred place
I collect the words like ripe apples
Plucked straight from the tree:
Gifts I have neither planted nor tended,
Just simply received.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
And What Are Friends?
And what are friends,
But those
To share the journey.
Some,
Of place and time,
Of chance encounter
And camaraderie
Of fellow travellers.
But the best
Are those of mind
And the deeper touch
Of understanding shared,
When gut felt home
Is spied
In their excitement
At being alive,
At seeing you,
At seeing them.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
When I Look At Art
When I look at art
I’m looking
For the gliding truth
To slice the mediocrity of life
And expose
The pure, clear moment,
The glowing wow,
The real thing,
The something said,
The revelation in my head,
The satisfaction, soul deep,
As I understand
And see
The thing
As it was meant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Poem For Poets
The poet
Can risk exposure
Of the naked heart,
For his voice speaks
In dreams of magic,
And no closer words
Are so thinly clothed
Than in the music
Of his being
And the being of his life.
And so he must
Speak his truth
In the written word
And carve
From feelings felt,
Self portraits
Of metamorphosed art,
And tell
The world
Of his only life,
As only he can tell it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Artists Are One
So many yearning
For the artists life,
Each and every one of us
Posting our dreams
To the greater dream
In the outer dream of the internet.
But I am roused.
I am roused for I am one in many
As you are one in many.
We speak the same language
And slip stream on the same energy,
Surf the lip of love
That curls endlessly on.
We will not drown in clamour.
There are not too many
For we are the many in the mind
And the mind is one.
And the one
Is wellpool
Of richness, integrity
And Infinity anew:
Anew
As each one of us
Lives closer
To the who
We really are.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Irresistible
Light
Beams
Irresistibly.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Writer’s Block
At first
It’s hard as metal.
Or is it
More like hard cheese
Or maybe butter
Straight from the fridge.
No,
It was left in the sun
And now
As silky oil,
Runs in rivulets,
Clarified and melted
To the yellow-shine
Of a different entropic state.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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