New air,
The first in the world
And light as spirit imbibed,
Holds the scent of morning.
And there is twittering
Of innumerable birds,
Joyous as the magnolia buds
In voluptuous opening.
For all things are expressing
Their being in timeless rebirth,
The song of spring
Once more alive.
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.
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.
Like a tide
Or the first sun-rays spilling
On the turning earth
At morning’s leading edge,
Warmth comes upon the famished
The starved,
The bankrupt
And the deprieved,
Changing them wholly,
Altering them irrevocably,
Illuminating
As they are witnessed.
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
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
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
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
To the tight
To the tearless
To the dried
And desiccated
To the dead
Who still inhabit
I wish
The hot breath
Of Aslam
The gentle touch
Of Jesus Christ
The Buddha’s smile
Mohammad’s light
And the unsung strength
Of every mother
Who loved their child
And the fathers
Who stood
Strong and watchful.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Man’s Detritus
Cast high
With crisp seaweed
Under the bleaching sun.
All is soluble
In the end,
For the solvent
Washes twice a day
And more
In salt air
Corrosion.
Metal is eaten
Mottled bite
By rust smudge
And leafy fragmentation,
And plastic twine
Frays and becomes powdery.
The plastic bottle too
Loses integrity,
Degraded by the claiming sea,
Scrubbing every edge
To the smooth curve of bays
And roundish pebbles consistency:
Perhaps mocking us
For our solid forms
And legacies,
Our memories
Held aloft and alive –
To never die:
Or perhaps treating us
As equals on the path
To unbecoming
And the endless tide
Of things passed
And passing
To the voluminous being:
Then from dissolution
And constituents floating,
Reformation
Of something new and free.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 