Sometimes
I reach for the beautiful pen
Wanting
Loops
And graceful turns
Of poetry
To please the page
But find
My fingers fat as sausages
And the pen,
A cactus.
And my heart
Pumping sand
Through the plaque
Congealed
Narrowness
Of my veins
And so I write
The wrongness
So it might
Shift
From staid
And stillness
To the curves
Of energy flow,
The hopeful pen
Smooth on inky magic,
And once again imprinted
With tenderness untroubled.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
We argue
As to the flower’s
Divine conception
Or arrival through
Random chance.
Yet there it is
Manifest despite our thoughts,
Unarguably apparent
To the miracle
Of our eyes.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Red throat invitation
To late harvest.
Autumnal fade
To sun stretched yellow.
Leaves freckled
And close
To golden
Old age
And the thin skinned
Invisibility
Before crisp release
And disappearance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Like lights
Jeweling city sprawl
Below the sky borne plane,
Flowers
Are various
In their
Luminous display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Nearly all
Are coaxed
To fall
And join
The swallowing ground
And its earthly convey.
Yet
Some things
Are still
Opening.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Somewhere between
The infinite
And the minuscule
Globes quiver
In skin
Spherical and lensing
Chlorophyll light:
Every one
In pert tension,
Succouring
To leaf
In mist cleanse and refreshment.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Cold as condensing night
Shadows permit
The dew plump air
Burden’s respite
In perfect spheres
Scattered release
On every magnified
Leaf top, crevice and edge
So the garden is justly jewelled
And each strand or stalk
Or equal cobweb,
Gilded silver light,
Is for a moment
Raised from damp
-To king-
And robed in crested finery
And majestic, sparkling transience.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Before the fall,
A flash
Of red chemistry
In the streak
Of autumn’s
Dying blaze.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The Autumnal gold
Of a faraway sun
Attunes perfectly
With the leaf litter
Strewn loose
And curled tan
In brown banks
Of crisp exsanguination.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
For sake
Of beauty
I turn to the pen
To scrawl the music
And the word
And the rhythm’s verse
In gliding ink,
And trace
The shapes
Of worlds,
Following their forms
Like a child
Whose love
Is absolute
And brimming
With what perception
Endlessly births,
In riches unfolded
To the mind’s eye.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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