artist

Master Artist Of The World

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

Now, right now

I dwell in future doom

In which

What could be

Sprawls out

As a dismal landscape.

I’m in pain,

A heaviness rides upon my back

The now

Is a polluted stream

With no hope

Or respite from darkness.

–

For some time

I believe this truth,

The fact darkening the now,

Which I think must be endless.

Then, I wonder,

I query this “truth”

Threatening to pull me asunder,

And lift the curling edge

Of my feeling,

Glimpsing a flicker of light.

–

Could this feeling really be

But the consequence of thought,

My thought

Projected out

And so colouring

The whole world?

Could this world

Be but a blank canvas

And my thought

The paint on the pallet

And the brush in my hand?

Could it really be

That I am master artist

Applying tint

And shade

To all I see,

Reality fluxing before my eyes

As thoughts

Conjure feelings

Morphing under the spell of my eye

And dancing to my every preconception?

–

And if so,

What does that mean for truth

And a “real world” out there,

And the me

Who thought himself buffeted

By forces beyond

And things

Other than himself?

Photographer

~ distilledvoice ~ 4 Comments

In the moistened autumn air

Morning time is late,

Shuffling from the lengthening night

Through swathes of disintegrating leaves

Let loose the life that gripped

So urgent and productive

To branches now revealed.






Rooks craw in skeletal beech





Where only a smattering of bronze





Tenacious leaf, still reluctant





In the wind, cling jewel-like





And fluttering. And other birds





Pick at the glut of berries





With the needle of their song.










Somewhere in this,





Where the sky morphs





And reveals and holds





The whole landscape,





Walks the photographer,





Drinking in the all that he perceives,





Almost convulsing





With each perspective seen,





Almost pained by the utter beauty





Unfolding in fleeting perfections,





That even if time were his to own,





He could never hope to capture.






			

	


				
					


	

			
Idea number one hundred and fifty-two: Hold Firm
		

				

						 ~ distilledvoice			 ~ 6 Comments					

				

		

The limited one





Who’s listened and learned





And thought





In all manner of spiralling pathways,





Listing reason, rejection, and facts





And one hundred and fifty failures,





Leading to failure





Number one hundred and fifty-one,





Says: you’re just not good enough.





And chatters, chatters, chatters on.





–





Yet, the one unlimited,





Says: speak





For your voice





Is a voice to be heard.





Go on always forward.





Write with the wind behind your pen,





Unleashing genius upon the page.





Let your life flow in ink





For the joy





Of ideas metamorphosed,





Ideas grasped from realms ethereal,





Buzzing alive in your head





And conducted





Into the matter of the book





That will be read





If you but put your whole mind behind





The creation of it,





Knowing the limited one





To be a friend enlisted,





His chatter a misused tool





Not a hindrance,





His ideas, gold,





If only directed,





His creative urge





Your own wand





Through which the magic unfolds,





Emboldening your life





And the script you must be





To be wholly yourself,





Holding firm to the pen that you love.

			

	


				
					


	

			
Coming Home
		

				

						 ~ distilledvoice			 ~ Leave a comment					

				

		
is when being away from yourself is no crime, and where wrongdoings are smiled upon, attracting no shame. 


it’s when Ill thought is not made Ill with thought, but allowed to be but thought in the cosmos of your being. 


it’s where there is no requirement for change, for already you are whole, and where need itself is looked upon with equanimity, and even calming is calm beyond calm. 


it is when being is simply seeing what is being, and when warmth is all there is or could ever be. 

			

	


				
					


	

			
Fragrant Rose
		

				

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Fragrant rose


Destroy me with weapon of your scent 


Until I am laid bare


And broken into pieces


With but one sense left


And one breath 


To offer you wholly. 


Then let me die 


In your folds,


Loosened from the world, 


Myself thrown 


Headlong into the softness 


Of your beauty. 

			

	


				
					


				
					


				
					


	

			
August Morn
		

				

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Dawn slides oblique

Between the flat shadows

Of night’s quiet layering,

Piques the corn-ripe air

Spiriting earth musk

From the damp leave’s

Cool-blooded undergrowth.


A chill hint

Of vapour in the breath,

Bumble bees slow

And sleepy,

Bird twitter in the bush,

The west leaf in day light’s tilt,

The east leaf, still suckling

In dim pockets

And grottos half shut.


© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

			

	


				
					


	

			
Symbiosis
		

				

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From dirt springs complexity

In the structure of flowers.

And to these

Come the elequance of bees,

Symbiotically bound

To the promiscuity

Of the plant’s future needs,

Yet self-serving on nectar’s

Seeping generosity

And suckling on plenty’s summer day

And its eternal rotations,

Both diurnal

And the season’s sleep

And interludes of wakefulness,

Through which the sun arouses

Generations of dormant seeds.

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice

			

	


				
					


	

			
Wind Chimes
		

				

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Stirring in the gentlest breeze

Wind chimes

Bob soundless:

I hear in their silence

The near fountain

Tappling cool in many droplets

To the pool’s perturbed rest

Of bubbles swayed

By concentric rippling

And breaths in pulsing evenness.


© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016