Symbiosis

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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

Worship

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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

Thoughtless Pollinating

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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

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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

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