This poem is easy to digest
And doesn’t require you to invest
Beyond five lines of effortfulness.
It’s a snack to wet your appetite,
Tide you over till the main meal.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
beauty
Summer Breeze
Summer breeze
Gentle in the leaf tips,
Rustling silver in the sun,
Playful as the lovers
Whose bough-bodies bend
And flex below:
Their hair too
Is wind tussled.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Much Like Lust
Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Carbon Footprint
Branches burned black
to silhouette
of a carbon footprint.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
© Image by Ann Truesdale
In The Summer Dusk
In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.
And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.
What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.
A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Light’s Equality
The bridge, the cloud, the sand
And the mirror of the tide,
Burnished bronze in light’s equality.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In The Muted Blues
In the muted blues
And metal greys
Of sea and skyscape ranging
Wide and windless rippled,
Purple flowers
Strew the tussock,
Guiding light footsteps
Through the hummock greens
To the ways of the coastal path.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Stone Is Stone
Stone is stone
To the snail and the lichen:
A road and a home.
Only we
Go beyond the obvious,
Dedicating towers
To our gods
And philosophies.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
It Is Given
There but a breath from here
Flows the ever stream
Of loveliness.
There in the body
Flows its warm mist,
Delightful as spring energy.
It says without words.
It says
If listened to or ignored.
It says nevertheless
And cares not for being heard
Or even acknowledged.
It is gift
For it is given without clause,
No distinction
Is Required, demanded or extorted.
It is a gift for all,
Without division
Or judgement imposed.
All may quench their thirst:
Worthy or unworthy
Good or bad as they come.
It just comes
For it is given to all.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
May’s Ether
May’s ether
Expressing in tussle and tumble
Of pale yellowgreen light
And the falling
Which is cascade
Of movement and stillness,
The half way point
Between gravity
And levity’s upward lift,
The plane
In which we manifest
And come to know its beauty.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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