Peach Of Plenty

Breathe upon

The subtle scent,

Allow your lips to linger

On its soft flesh,

Then,

Take a bite,

Chew the sweetness

And swallow the juices running freely:

Feel the plenty

Absorbed and nourishing,

Sustaining your life.

Look again,

For the peach is whole,

Untarnished, unbitten,

Perfect in its entirety.

Breathe upon

The subtle scent,

Take a bite,

Shortage was just a dream

For the peach is infinite

And you may take all you need.

Feast upon the ever-giving gift

And eat whenever you are hungry:

The peach of plenty

Is always yours.

Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020

Stumble Of Words

From the stumble of words
Comes the fall,
The pen stuttering,
Tripped,
Flung forward
Unnerved by the slip
And in-breath,
Drawn quick,
As the writing
First leaps
And then flies:
The body
Flailing in space,
Skipping
Like a heartbeat
Freed and alive.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

The Writer’s Heart

The lusty heart
strains and fills to full,
pumps for the pen,
swells with the voice,
reaches through the hand’s device:
unburdens oratory cascade
in reams of white sheets impressed
with the ink of its desire to be,
and speak of what it feels
and finds upon the page.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

For All My Muses

Upon your mortal flesh
my eyes, excited to new seeing,
find windows
in which the script
unravels like quicksilver ink
heart-fast across the page,
and sees off
the mood mundane
written boring in to static fact
of joyless unbecoming,
and instead
thrills the moments in their chain,
and makes them
stones for stepping,
and feet, light for skipping,
as if life, after all,
were not ceaseless, aggravated toil
but flight, free upon the wing.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Photograph

image

My father used to recount
The story of a green flash
Seen at sea when the
Sun slipped below the horizon.

As I watch the sun set
I find his story on my lips,
As though the flash were imprinted
As surely as if I’d seen it myself.

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

 

Facebook Terrorist

image

Every holiday snap
Is a slap
Right across your face,
Dear reader, watcher, liker,
Cos I’m the smug vacation maker
Whose wall you’ve reluctantly
Signed to yours.
And if you were here
I’d bore you to tears
But as you’re not
I’ll just smack you across the chops
With how lovely a time
I’m having
Under the smug sun
Next to the smug water
In the smug dream
That stinks
Of all the self importance
I could manageably conjure.

 

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice