The mind
In the nib
Of the pen
Is the light
Switched on,
The wire
In electrical flood,
The synapse of seeing
Open eyed
And transposing
Ideas
Directly
In ink
As if
Their true form
Were black marks
Made upon the page
And not images
Wrapped in similes
And metaphors
Translating the link.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
This poem
Has no point
But
For the pleasure
In the curvature of words
And the feeling of forms
So malleable
In the mouth.
Just writing it
Is beautiful elocution enough.
Speaking it
Is satisfyingly pointless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Don’t forget
The beautifully cold beer,
Tipped
And glugging
To the gland
Thirsting
For pale gold
Quench
That only
Droplets condensing,
Glass sweating,
And A touch of froth
Atop an ice cold drink
Can give.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In a limestone cauldron
Narrow eying
The sea
And the whole arc
Of the sun’s duration,
In a slip
And steep crevice,
The poor dirt
Is put to the work
Of the vine.
I wondered
How such meagre soil
Might husband
The leaf, the flower, the grape
To produce magic
Must juice
From sun-trap arid scrape.
But the grapes are handsome
Clusters on the bush
And the wine
Flows.
Later
As I took cool refreshment
In the cove below
I felt the catchment
Of the cauldron
In wellspring
And flush of freshwater cold
As seepage
Of hidden river
In sweet undercurrent
To the salt water fold
And I understood
The grapes
Plush oasis
And their plump
Story of old, gnarled vines
Tap-rooted fast
To the terroir
Of this Croatian place and time.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In free form hexagons
Light finds
The beveled edge
Of momentary lenses,
Manifested
And then disintegrated
In the next
Ripple movement
Of the fluid wave.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
No less
The channelled stream,
Roots
Pool slowly
Over a hundred years.
To our fast eyes
They seem still.
But to the stone
Looking on,
They are a mass
Of writhing tentacles,
Searching water source
Like whiskered mole’s
Thirsty earthward
Push and burrowing.
Are these living pipes
And strands of cellulose
The captors of water’s
Slip and silver
Or are the trees
The means
By which water
Yearns to alter state,
Transpirate
To lighter, airy
Agitation?
Are my eyes
But liquid desire
To see,
In beauties reflection,
The flow
Working through
The All
And everything?
Am I served
Or do I serve
The blood
Of the fluid earth?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Flows
Over eons
Work stone,
Fluid polishing
And gullying
The rock,
In summer trickle
Winter lock
And spring gush,
Carving bowles
And scoops
And sockets
In edifice
So cool pools
Dwell transparent
In blueness,
And shimmer
Soda bubble fresh
Where cataracts
Endlessly burrow.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The stream breathes
Cool and damp
To the foliage hues,
Moist to the hollow
And bank,
And Shadowed
By the lateness of the hour.
Only in a patch
Of borrowed light
Do poplars glow
Golden on every leaf,
Their high thoughts fluttering
In the low angle sun.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
A breath rippling
In the shimmer
Of water found trees,
Like monet-colour
Stippled in flecks
Of light,
Half way between
The indistinguishable
And the brush stroke real.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
She has highlights in her hair,
The butter kiss
Of summer light
And fragrant breeze
Painted there.
But it’s her thoughts
That wear
The gold
Of lifted mood
And tussle
Beautiful
In halcyon
Of lofty space
And blue sky
Incantation,
Where shine
Is gloss
Upon the body
And soul
Is spirit
Reaching through matter.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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