The Wealth

Not one of us

Upon the earth

Is anything less

Than the whole sun

Shining in being,

Illuminated in the endless wealth

Emerging from the formless realm,

The nothing and the nameless,

Our infinite self

Ever at our finger tips,

Infinitely Infinite and infinitely free.

It is only our crowded thoughts,

Straight-jacketing us rigid.

Gripping us to an idea

Of a drought-ridden self,

Stiff within our skin

And so hopelessly lonely,

That thinks us

Thought-severed from the Source,

And made bleak as a separate entity.

And yet, those thoughts separating

Are but tenacious thoughts,

Combined, conjoined, layered,

Believed, stiffened, judged

And felt solid enough to be real,

Each one hiding us from the truth:

That universal love

Is the absolute fundament of our nature:

The life force propelling,

Filling us up,

Upholding the fleeting entities

We call our selves,

Buoying us

Even when we deny we out buoyed.

Not one of us

Is anything less

Than the soul

That is all,

The one,

The only one,

The love emanating from Source

Becoming something,

Ever unfolding as the form-ful manifest.

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

When We Share

When we share

The truth

That we are free,

We are borne upon the moment

The real-time

Ever-opening moment

Of the universe’s

Outwardly expanding edge:

And there,

We are lifted and thrust

And propelled into the infinite,

Yoked whole

And joined

To who we really are.

Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020

Perspective

Whilst watering the garden pots

In the stilling dusk

I turn

And look,

Take in an unexpected perspective,

An angle from which I have not perceived,

And suddenly my breath

Is swept from my chest

By the beauty of the rush

Of plants propelled springward

And joyously becoming

Their exponential selves.

And in that gathering moment

My heart swells

For their vividness,

For the life sweet in their being,

For their entwining and wondering reach

Into spaciousness,

And for the bud of a poem

Born on the sap-surge

Of my lip,

And giddy with the prospect of flowering.

ⓒBen Truesdale 2020

Spring Morning

I step into absolute stillness.

On the horizon

Mist shifts in ethereal veils.

The houses on the hill disrobe

Slipping from their misty dreams

As the sun begins in the East.

I step into absolute stillness.

The oranges of early morning

Warm my cheek and raise

A fresh scent from the succulents

As they absorb the first light.

The stillness pervades

Holding all things:

Beauty arises

In all that is worldly,

Both natural and made

Are vivid in the same way,

Reality seems to have a texture I can taste,

One which my eyes drink in.

I breathe a luxurious breath.

I exist

And I step into absolute stillness.

Ⓒ Ben Truesdale 2020

Alive

I breath in

I breathe out

I feel my lungs full

I feel my lungs empty

I feel the life move in

I feel the life move out

I feel my lungs irrigated

With freshness

New as the spring bathed leaves

Are vivid

Spacious as the spring air

Is light

I breathe in

I breathe out

Life is within me

Life is without

I breathe in

I breathe out

I value the life of my being

I value the presence of my life

I breathe in

I breathe out

Life in its essence is simple

I love the simple essence of life

I breathe in

I breathe out

I am alive in existence

Existence is alive in my life

I breathe in

I breathe out

I breathe in

I breathe out

Coming Home

is when being away from yourself is no crime, and where wrongdoings are smiled upon, attracting no shame.

it’s when Ill thought is not made Ill with thought, but allowed to be but thought in the cosmos of your being.

it’s where there is no requirement for change, for already you are whole, and where need itself is looked upon with equanimity, and even calming is calm beyond calm.

it is when being is simply seeing what is being, and when warmth is all there is or could ever be.

Connection

How would our world be different

If when need arose

We’d but call upon God

To ask for what our hearts required?

How would we change

If this was more

Than fanciful belief

Or a hope derived from pain.

What certitude

Would such a connection make,

Our needs satisfied

Way before they became malignant?

Who would we be

With love’s channel open,

The answers flowing out

As if from an infinite spring?