Spring Dance Of Freedom

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The earth turns
In incremental light.

The day expands
In millimetre shoots,

A green touch
Like lovers’ skin

Mirroring pale light
And new sun contours.

Each bulb nestles
In the mother’s pulse,

Follows exact
Circadian match:

The beautiful dance
Of closest partners.

Like all living things
In sweet, earthy bondage,

Not one strays
Nor splits disobedient

From irrefutable law
And physical fact

Of freedom
To be absolved,

And to shadow
First, ethereal footsteps.

 

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Solvent Self

In a vat of solvent self
Dissolve
The misodgynists,
The sexists,
The feminists,
The chauvinists,
The racists
And the belief in race.

Come clean
Of factions
And clothes born
Of woven ideas.

Come clean
Of rightness certainty
When wrongness dwells ugly
In the world,
Despised in the eyes despising.

Dissolve all but the body
So every baggaged word
And every loaded thought
Washes clean
Of the child skin
And perception uncluttered.

Now, arise O beautiful
Painted epidermal rainbow:
Matter not your fine colour
Or your sex
Or the changing whims
Of thoughts
On their long journey
Through conundrum unraveling.

Anchor in the free form
Of love instead
And hold each tight conviction
As if it were loose
In the hand,
Without limpet fear protection
Bandaged to its health.

Arise O beautiful life,
Undecided in thought
Like the open eyed babe
Who once entered
This world,
But forgot –
With each brick wall decision,
Layered in the constructed self
– that he was free,
Without encumbrance
And the useful/useless adherence
To the painful past.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Religion Of War

 

If religion were expunged
Our ripe blood hearts
And fanatical brains
Would conjure
The sword wet
Dichotomy
Of feuding
Once more
And once again,
And we’d war
For sake of differing
And march
Beneath some other
Banner, flag
Or hot thought
Incendiary
In its desire
To strike out
And baptise
New recruits
In the endless
Cycle of violence.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice

Both

In your opponents face,
In the coin toss –
You won
He lost,
He won
You lost

– You wear each others masks,
Feel the flip side feeling,
Touch
The sharing self,

Feel one side –
North
Or connected south –

Reservoir of sameness
Joined and spinning fast,

Bullyvictim psychology
Yoked like binary stars
In gravity entrapment,

Not two distinct,
But one swirling
Entity of both,

Like the coin flickering
Through its duplicity,
Showing
Its alternate pulsar sides.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The End Of The Written Word

If voice
Were sky blue,
Without a word
To clutter the music,
Poetry would find
Its end
In ink’s redundancy,
The written word
Consigned
To beyond memory’s
Grasping hand.
Voice
Would become movement
Of soul through energy
And energy intern
Through the body of the man.
And happening
Would happen only in the instant
And not either side of now.
And thus time itself
Would wink from existence
And yet stretch out
In forever’s eternal flow.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Glass Cage

The heart
Wrapped
In the glass cage,

Separate
From the body,
Separate from the world,

Isolated
From synapse touch,
From neurone being:

Yet still
The mind watches
From behind the glass,

Seeing everything,
Un-blinkered,
Unblinking.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The Way We Behave

As if
The mind
Were idle fascination,
Full of dreams,
Full of inconsiquencial
Speculation
And non-participation
In the formation
Of the physical world.

As if
Our behaviour
Were cut loose,
Let loose
Unrestricted,
To roam free
Upon the earth
Without ownership
To count
The scores
Of futures conceived.

As if
We were vagrants
Who’s vagrant belief
Were not owned
In the body
But put out
To all visible peers
In blames
Savage hand
And life’s
Absent redundancy.

As if
The mind
Were not
Conceiving machine,
Coating every idea
In touchable cloak,
Transmuting
Idea’s ethereal stream
From unseen secret
To the solid matter
Of the corporeal.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015