Just saying the word
Is enough to quell
Its worrisome opposite.

You appear
To have swelled in breath
And buoyancy

Around the chest.
And more,
Your face is full

And your eyes
Are lit,
And your smile

Has spread
So a yellow sunrise

And the summer
And you

As much
As you reflect.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

For Mima


Man’s Detritus
Cast high
With crisp seaweed
Under the bleaching sun.
All is soluble
In the end,
For the solvent
Washes twice a day
And more
In salt air
Metal is eaten
Mottled bite
By rust smudge
And leafy fragmentation,
And plastic twine
Frays and becomes powdery.
The plastic bottle too
Loses integrity,
Degraded by the claiming sea,
Scrubbing every edge
To the smooth curve of bays
And roundish pebbles consistency:
Perhaps mocking us
For our solid forms
And legacies,
Our memories
Held aloft and alive –
To never die:
Or perhaps treating us
As equals on the path
To unbecoming
And the endless tide
Of things passed
And passing
To the voluminous being:

Then from dissolution

And constituents floating,

Of something new and free.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

In The Meniscus


In the meniscus
The whole reflected world.

Even in the shine
Of the pebbles,
Glossed wet,
There are mirrors
Two fold:

In the painted light
And in the seeing.


And In the sheen
Of the sea’s damp hold

Stones gleam transformed.
Surfaces everywhere

Like shields,
Like barriers
To hold the selves
Of things,
Make them impervious
And themselves

Stones are whole
Behind their skin,
Behind the thin film
And that,
Reflected on its surface.

And the sea too
Is deep
Below it’s meniscus.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

From Blueness


Sea born rhythms
Arrive in blueness pulse
After blueness pulse,
And where the shallows
Show in pale shoals
And the globes of stones
Glow egg-like and shimmering,
The waves rise troubled
And breathe the air
To the new azure
Of their turbulent lungs,
Curling and introvert
In their wet work
Until the almost perfect
Curve of the rolling surf
Slips from the form and balance
Of its clothes
And seeks abandon
In bubble
And white water surge:
All its energy fragmented
And absorbed
In the froth and melee
Of interface.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.