Idea number one hundred and fifty-two: Hold Firm

The limited one

Who’s listened and learned

And thought

In all manner of spiralling pathways,

Listing reason, rejection, and facts

And one hundred and fifty failures,

Leading to failure

Number one hundred and fifty-one,

Says: you’re just not good enough.

And chatters, chatters, chatters on.

Yet, the one unlimited,

Says: speak

For your voice

Is a voice to be heard.

Go on always forward.

Write with the wind behind your pen,

Unleashing genius upon the page.

Let your life flow in ink

For the joy

Of ideas metamorphosed,

Ideas grasped from realms ethereal,

Buzzing alive in your head

And conducted

Into the matter of the book

That will be read

If you but put your whole mind behind

The creation of it,

Knowing the limited one

To be a friend enlisted,

His chatter a misused tool

Not a hindrance,

His ideas, gold,

If only directed,

His creative urge

Your own wand

Through which the magic unfolds,

Emboldening your life

And the script you must be

To be wholly yourself,

Holding firm to the pen that you love.

Hermit Celebrity

Hunkered in a coat
he flees celebrity’s never failing tail:
and for a spell walks incognito,
half disguised and almost normal,
breathing hesitantly
before his fresh air
is recognised
and wonder struck eyes
paint him all sorts
but the man he is.
They’ve believed his brand
and it burns him everywhere
but in the bejewelled cells
of gin palaces and five star hotels.
In his youth he wished for this:
to be someone famous,
hoarding furtive looks
and whispers, and awe.
But the truth is a prison
of tinted Mercedes,
bundlings from clubs
and parades of intimate questions,
like hooks barbing red carpets, searching for the gutter slugs
of secrets hidden in his closets,
behind the caging,
ever encroaching walls.
Now he wishes to be sweet nobody:
free to walk and breathe and be
without a billboard face
calling stalkers and weirdos and
beautiful women in hungry hordes.
He wishes himself
rid of the image-gloss
which knocks ordinary folks
from their confidence,
turns them nervous and skittery,
and loved up and feverish:
transforms them
into starry eyed pariahs
who scour him and search
for injurious signatures
and selfies,
both thieved
and respectfully acquired.

Copyright 2017 Ben Truesdale and ditilledvoice

Old Boat

image

Half a boat
Long ago dragged
To moulder on the tide line,
Relaxes in splinters
Shed like bark.

One day
They’ll be but bevelled plank
Jutting from the sand
And a fibrous thought
Left in the memory

Or perhaps
Another wreck
Lent sideways
And slack upon its keel,
Fading in the inevitable time.

 

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

Sun Beings

image

They could be beings
Stepping from the light,
Holidaying where their world
Is burned on the beach
And paved upon the water
Like an avenue
To the sun’s blinding portal.
They could be water nymphs
Drawn by the pathway
Polished on the boundary
Between aqueous
And the air’s
More transient mix.
They could be boys
Doused in gold,
In sheen of salt water sweat
And light guilded fringes,
Frolicking in shimmering skins,
Oiled to perfect
Frictionless cartwheels
Found in the fluid
Of each childish leap
And featureless silhouette.

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

French Guy

He holds the cigarette
With his lip.
As he speaks
It nods its agreement.

In his hand is a beer,
At home
Quite naturally.
An eau de vie lubricant.

In his face is a scowl,
An irritation
As if most things
Were shit

Or, he’s cool
To offer disinterest.
A shrug and a pout
In detachments shout,

Ejected from the self,
Thrown out
And projected
As the very loudest silence.

Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice

 

Poem Photographer

 

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Sometimes
She searches for poems,
Roves over
Innumerable things
With a hope
Her eye might catch
A suchness
And florescence
Glowing real
In the edges
Of interest.

And so to the woods
For knot, bird and lichen
Hosted in the crenellations
Of ecosystems’ burgeoning.
And to the city streets,
Angular in architectural
Masterpieces and rhombus
Network’s crystalline form.
And to the face of child,
Old man and worn woman
Storytelling in wrinkles
And light shining eyes.

But sometimes,
Caught unawares,
She finds the thing
In the corner of her eye,
Like an insistent child
Demanding attention,
A nugget gleaming treasureful
In the open hand
Of the high carat sand
And the riverbed of imagery.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

For Melinda https://thepoetryofphotography.wordpress.com

And all the other talented photographers I follow.

 

For Whom This Poem?

Words wrought
Only for the images
Caused in the self
Called you,
Where writer
Cradles reader
As mother tends her child
And selfless watches
Reader grow.

Or

For pure self indulgence
Of words formed
In the pleasure
Of the pen,
Where writer
Carves the meaning
As close to likeness
As their inner kin,
No matter what the shape of it.

Or

In earthly paradox
Where self bridges
Selfishness to selfless gene,
And floats indifferent
Mid way between,
Unswayed by argument,
Just joyful
In creativity’s
Spontaneous emergence.

A Year In The Chalk Stone Village

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In the chalk stone village
Flint glints metamorphic
In shards of black sunlight
Mortared in the strata
Of a time when much
Was constructed from spare
Thoughts left lying around.

In the spring
Fledgling wisteria,
Delicate on the woody vine,
Take to the sky on pale green wings,
And garlands dangle voluptuous
Above each cottage door
And homely window frame.

And in the summer
Swallows spit and daub
Their dwellings under eaves
And flit the pink sky
Scoring invisible patterns
Of impermanence etched
With high swooping cries.

And in the autumn
The plants give up
The flush of summer’s
Vital light, let go the link
For approaching torpid night
And release their fruits
To future’s fertile cornucopia.

And in the winter,
The shabby season’s end,
Expectant bulbs await the sign
To push their green nibs
Beyond the hugging ground
And light the new year
Just as the last was so conjured.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015