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
The earth turns
In incremental light.
The day expands
In millimetre shoots,
A green touch
Like lovers’ skin
Mirroring pale light
And new sun contours.
Each bulb nestles
In the mother’s pulse,
Follows exact
Circadian match:
The beautiful dance
Of closest partners.
Like all living things
In sweet, earthy bondage,
Not one strays
Nor splits disobedient
From irrefutable law
And physical fact
Of freedom
To be absolved,
And to shadow
First, ethereal footsteps.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
From the ragged beauty
Of the season,
Genetics speculate
A hope
In rose flower,
Half crippled,
Half pert lip
Of summer love,
Sent to test
The possibility
Of love’s emergence
And early awakening
To the surge of imminent spring.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice
Perfection
In light’s revelation,
In the leaves’
Dying pyre,
In their fall
To the sodden ground
Or in the river’s
Swift transition.
Perfection
In the tree trunk,
In its conforming shape
Wound around
The order of being:
Beauty in naturalness
And spontaneities arrival
In art’s perfect work.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
© image Ann Truesdale, 2015
Jasmine,
Brought in from the cold
Stirs sexual
In subtle flowers’
Glowing filaments.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Winter jasmine
Impossible on the branch,
Juxtaposes against
The season’s hour,
Flowers in contrast
And yellow distinction.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Under blue-grey clouds
Red kites find
Effortless updrafts
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
He sleeps
Through millennia:
The days and years
Indistinguishable.
His body
Wrapped in a mottle skin coat
Weathers enduring seasons.
Elements
In their raw state,
Abrasive and unforgiving,
Fracture his skin
To cleaved splinters
Sloughed clattering
In scree slips,
Through which
Sparse plants
Eke meagre.
This is how it is
Upon his slumber-back dormancy,
Where heather and bracken
Strewn wirey-wild
Flower purple
And unfurl
In fronded reach,
In nooks
And boggy patches
Between white cataracts
And the slow lichen roses
Tattooed
On every blemished slab and edifice.
Through this
He sleeps,
As time
Flows unnoticed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Like a water droplet
It buds, bulges
And balloons.
But unlike the split
And silver rivulet
Dashed to multiples
The bud
Breaks its silence,
Stands tall
And reveals.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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