Like creepers
And tangled vines
Urging for the high light,
Bloggers speak out
With leaves of thought,
Search for every photon dealt,
Yearning daily taller
In appreciation’s height
For sunshine on the face
Of their creation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In to the phone’s world
I look,
So varied
So shiny
So new.
In to this
I download my memory,
My images,
My thoughts.
And all the questions
I might ask myself,
Both profound
And mundane,
Away I merrily Google.
The world
In one way widened,
And yet
One way closed
As life shifts
Ever nearer,
Ever closer
To the outside mind
Of the irresistible cloud.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The sum
Of all that you are:
Your loves,
Your hurts,
Your truths, beliefs, perceptions,
All that you have learned.
Your dreams,
Your feelings,
Your heart,
And all the spanned divides.
Remember
There is no argument:
Another’s point of view
Is an equation
Unknowable as a distant star,
With strands of reason and belief
Meshed and matted
As the synapse brain
Is thus complexly wired.
There is no argument
For personal right
Is derived from what arrives
To the matter of the mind,
And in that
We are all paradoxically different
Yet siblings side by side.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
From all the world out there
I come across you.
We meet
With perhaps a word
Or even just a look.
We join for but a moment
And receive our personal gift:
That others in the world
Might understand
And share our view in this.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Oh WordPress
And your innumerable
Rising stars,
How can I please
Your, oh so, fickle heart?
Perhaps, it is folly to even try.
And one should only make art
To satisfied the I,
Seeking purely the joy
Of creating it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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.
These days
It’s as short as this poem.
No really,
It’s just easier that way: with less to digest and more to magazine!
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In a room filled with light
I would find my art
In the murmurings
Of my feelings
Introspect and widening.
I would take the time, and with it
Fashion a beautiful gift, spin the light
To fabricate a tapestry of seeing, in which I
Might gaze and find things as yet
Unformed in my understanding.
There would be so much light
And so much time. And my looking
Would both absorb and bring forth
The art of my living. I would live to the
Fullest I could live, happy in the dream
Of ever finding.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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.
Sometimes I just want to write
something beautiful: to conjure the
mood, to call the feeling, to be the
beautiful pen as it translates the
energy of self and brings something
new to my world, and the wealth
found in being it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 