Always Here

You are always here.

Sometimes, I turn away,

Riding the maelstrom of my thoughts

Until I’m dizzy,

But you are always here.

And Sometimes my mind strays

Convoluted paths

To past and futures imaginary,

But still you are always here.

I remember when I thought you were not,

Couldn’t even imagine

A way out of the bubble of my loneliness,

Seeing only glimpses to highlight

My misery at being so lost;

But you were always here.

If you are self or God,

Or even make believe,

I am glad that you are always here

Because you are always here.

Share The Light

I have drunk

From the standpipe

Of sour belief,

Constricted and miserly,

Gripping every drop

In an effort to control preciousness,

Becoming a gaunt shadow

Because of it,

For I am a man of this world.

Oh but the world urges to flow outward,

And the standpipe,

Rusty and dripping poverty,

Is but the mind’s eagerness

To hold love down.

For there are some

Whose eyes see beyond the standpipe

To the infinite source,

A waterfall

In which all need

Is foiled in an everlasting deluge.

And for others there is no standpipe

Denying the flow,

Only the mind

Constructing a fictional valve,

Dispensing injustice

And such a limited view.

For energy is free for all,

And you may drink your fill

Until you are full and wholesome

And ready to share

All the light in the world,

Knowing there is no end to it.

Stain Of Hatred

Daubed on skin
And words alike:

All the shades
So coloured.

Hued by burning finger
And anger’s pointed flame:

Projection hurled
As flying wounds inflicted.

The stain: not on pure black skin
Or brown, or pink, or lily white

But on the eye
And on the mind,

On the filter
Through which we look

At the world
In its richness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Immigrant

In chill October England
the African waits incongruous
by the grey concrete divide
of a duel carriageway.

He wears a leopard skin hat
and the curly white beard of
an old man. In his hand,
a tool dangles like a nonchalant

machete. He has bare feet
and baggy shorts and has
come from the woods,
filled with cool heartbeats

of high latitudes. He hears
as he heard in his homeland:
the voices are different
but still voices, greener

and more tidal, sleeping
for half the year at least.
Yet his heart beats as full
of blood as when his calloused

feet scuffed red, dry earth,
and though all through his
eyes is a paler brother,
less rich, quelled

rather than vibrant,
the murmurings he feels
through his soles
are so similar in vibration

he cannot help but
accept the meek light
as home, and breathe in
the arrival of happiness.

 

copyright distilledvoice & Ben Truesdale

Fruiting Bodies

FullSizeRender

Fruiting bodies
Like fleshy fingers
Examining the other world,
Of air and light.

And beneath
In the thready net,
Mycelium reach
Through the body

Of the earth
Drawing nutrient
From the discarded clothes
Of everything

Let loose
And shed.
The raw components
Once more

Spent
In transition
Of beneficence
Reinvigorated.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015