By hapless chance
Or fine design
Bees are miraculous.
In the scheme of being,
Created Nevertheless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
creativity
Where The Poem Is Found
In the flutter-eyed trance
Of scent moods,
And in the gland of salivation
And sensation:
Like snake-tongued
Understanding of the air around,
The taste of unseen elements
From beyond the earthly realm:
To the hither of the after-ever
And where-ever
Of information in its purest form,
Sensed in electricity
Or a substance
Quite like it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Receiver Of Poems
I don’t know how to write poems.
I only know the place where they emerge,
As urges clothed in the form of words.
And there in a sacred place
I collect the words like ripe apples
Plucked straight from the tree:
Gifts I have neither planted nor tended,
Just simply received.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Writer’s Block
At first
It’s hard as metal.
Or is it
More like hard cheese
Or maybe butter
Straight from the fridge.
No,
It was left in the sun
And now
As silky oil,
Runs in rivulets,
Clarified and melted
To the yellow-shine
Of a different entropic state.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Wand Of Choice
What more
For needs met
Than lift
Of soul
Buoyed and self held
In deepest respect.
The harming hand
Changed
From ill will
To loving intent,
And energy accepted
As gift
Of freedom sent
And shift in mind
To wind of happiness
Free about the body.
The only reality
Is the wand of choice
And liberation
Of abundant spirit.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Much Like Lust
Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Freshly Pressed
Nothing as delicious
As the idea’s arrival
At the pen scratch
And nib of newly unfolded time.
Here is creativity
At its cutting edge.
New and fresh as dew
At risen light,
As momentary
And transitorily alive,
For a spell’s duration,
Before soon subsided
And dimmed by
Pristine light’s creation
And the joy of thoughts,
Freshly Pressed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The Blogger Plant
Like creepers
And tangled vines
Urging for the high light,
Bloggers speak out
With leaves of thought,
Search for every photon dealt,
Yearning daily taller
In appreciation’s height
For sunshine on the face
Of their creation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Virus Of News
In our reality
Thoughts shape the space
Of our dream.
A news item,
A Facebook outrage,
A horror,
Flares like guilt in the brain
And an abdominal twist of pain.
These are the food of nightmares.
Are they facts?
Possibly,
Probably,
Perhaps not.
For all the circled world is but a myth
Of savoured and soured dreams,
Where truths
Are malleable
And thoughts are bent
And perception
Is first machined by bias,
Changed by the colour of memory.
Our facts
Are not the solid stones we think
But slippery fish
With faces in multitude.
Not facts at all
But tellings and stories,
Mixed fictions and truths,
Happenings and imaginings,
Wishes and fears both,
Reported as the proper news
But perhaps not news at all,
Just the incessant re-posting of a viral fantasy.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Divinity
Not in the stone
Or the frame of the flowers,
Not in the lawn or the trees
Or the generous borders.
Only in the eye
Who perceives,
The I
Who perceives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 