From dirt springs complexity
In the structure of flowers.
And to these
Come the elequance of bees,
Symbiotically bound
To the promiscuity
Of the plant’s future needs,
Yet self-serving on nectar’s
Seeping generosity
And suckling on plenty’s summer day
And its eternal rotations,
Both diurnal
And the season’s sleep
And interludes of wakefulness,
Through which the sun arouses
Generations of dormant seeds.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice
It’s as if the spirit,
Pale green and new,
Brushed our realm
For the briefest instant,
Igniting the cool magnitude
Wrapped in guts of plants
So all are suddenly aware
And blinking and charged
And rolling on in lattices
And internal xylem flows,
Abandoned to their task
To raise the sexual forms
Of flowers in to the high air,
Burgeoning with all the winged
Busyness and assistance
Brought by the sun’s worship.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
When it wakes
It hears the flowers
Call in scents.
It desires
The ultra violet
Of colours
And the deep
Well of love
In which nectar pools
And collects.
When it wakes
It thinks of nothing else
But the warmth on the wing
And the burrowing head
Thoughtless in the dream
Of pollinating.
When it wakes
It be itself
And thinks
Not a thought
Outside of its being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Drunk in the thistle head,
Bees become
Comforted
In the leisure
Of the drug
Emitted like scent
And colour.
No longer
The wary leg
Raised
And body tilted
In defensive
‘Keep away’
For heads
Burrow deep
As forgetting.
And what was happy work
Is just the blissful dream
Of being
Carefree and abundant,
And being so very drunk
On the utter taste of love.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Inspired and for la petite maison bijoux http://grahy.fr
When he manifest
He chose
A chestnut vest
And trousers
Laddered in hues
Of orange, yellow and black.
And for a hat,
He took the best
In finest elysium gold.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sometimes
Things just burn
So vivid
With spectrum
Energy,
Almost more
Than the very light.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Amid the stalks’ voice
And rustling breeze,
And upon the gently swaying stage
A perfect purple plate
Delivered
So sweetly to the need
Of butterfly, moth
And bees:
A flower for all
On which to feed
And burrow deep
Within its pleasure.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
There are worlds
Within the world
Spheres within spheres
Expressions expressing
Fractals in patterns
Again and again
More and more
In the deepening
In the depth
In the giving
In the breadth
In the repetition
Of real realness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In our madness
We would decline
The love
Of bees
Upon the land
And claim instead
Our MYOPIC
And SHORTSIGHTED
Neonicotinoid coated
Pounds and dollars.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Collectors these,
Unsteady flyers free
And amiable
In the gathering task
And work
To sip the draught
And honey heart
Of flowers
In their ripeness.
And somehow,
More the summer
For their busy
Singleminded focus
And adherence
To the well heads
Of fragrant,
Floral syrup.
And somehow,
More the flowers
As if fluoresced
In admiring presence,
For they ‘are’
For the bees,
Just
As the bees ‘are’
For the flowers.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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