The Life In My Phone

In to my phone
I look
As if there was
A life
Held magically inside,
A world
Interesting and full
Of images
And lives lived
So fast
And so newsworthy
And so,
Ever so, momentarily brief.
My eye
Caught for but an instant
Before the
Next colourful thing
Arrives in
An excited flickering
And is
Gone with the very next.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

To The Garden I Go


To the garden I go,
To pace the concrete path
Bordered by greenery.
I examine the bud, then the tender
Shoot delicate in its unfold, changing
Each day imesaursbly. I witness the
Plant beings flush under the sun, their
Greenness quivering, their buoyancy
Mesmerised to reach for the high
Happy sky.

I step away for but a spell and to my
Returning astonishment I find a new
Garden, in place of the wonder I had
Left, yet more richly itself and bolder
In its expansive space.
The air too I breathe and find thankful
To my lungs, for the garden’s world is
Richly textual, a sensation in to which
I too unfold, as if all my wanting
Dreams of elsewhere heavens had
Been called home and yoked to the
Simple matter of a flower’s beautiful

These Words Belong To Us

These words belong to us.

As I write these words they belong to me.
As you read them they belong to you.

I write them from a long time away.
You read them from an equal distance.

I feel satisfied as understanding reveals what I didn’t know.
You feel the feelings arriving to you.

If you see light: the light belongs to you.
If you see darkness: that too is yours.

If you see beauty: you are beautiful.
If you see ugliness: you have found your troll.

In the mirror between us on which my pen rests I see my face.
In the mirror between us on which your eyes rest you see your face.

These words belong to us.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

WordPress Fisherman

I cast the net
To the deep
With but my words as bait
And a hope that I might feed my readership.

I haul in the net.
And there, a wriggling Like,
A silver excitement with a life of its own.
And next a bigger catch, a
Follower, meaty and perhaps adoring.

I am a WordPress fisherman. And I
Must write and cast the net again.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

WordPress And My Mind

Each time I Press
I take a step
And reach out
Far in to the mists

Of the unknown.
For Me it feels
As though the cutting edge
Of art arrives

And happens now
As I reach
In to the mists of mind
And bring back

All that I find there.
And then I Press again,
And wait.
And just like the mind

Beautiful things emerge,
Personalities materialise,
Worlds unfold,
And I realise

The myriad forms
The myriad souls
The myriad stars,
A billion hidden constellations

Out there,
Awaiting discovery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.