Through white noise
My lines
Find your eyes,
And for an instant
Our minds touch,
Bridging
Inconceivable distance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
expression
For Sake Of Beauty
For sake
Of beauty
I turn to the pen
To scrawl the music
And the word
And the rhythm’s verse
In gliding ink,
And trace
The shapes
Of worlds,
Following their forms
Like a child
Whose love
Is absolute
And brimming
With what perception
Endlessly births,
In riches unfolded
To the mind’s eye.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Nib
The mind
In the nib
Of the pen
Is the light
Switched on,
The wire
In electrical flood,
The synapse of seeing
Open eyed
And transposing
Ideas
Directly
In ink
As if
Their true form
Were black marks
Made upon the page
And not images
Wrapped in similes
And metaphors
Translating the link.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Pointless Poem
This poem
Has no point
But
For the pleasure
In the curvature of words
And the feeling of forms
So malleable
In the mouth.
Just writing it
Is beautiful elocution enough.
Speaking it
Is satisfyingly pointless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The Unfinished Work
Masterpieces
Lie about the house,
Unlocked
And in pieces,
Still prototypes
And foetuses,
Body parts
Without the spark
To impregnate
The seer
And bring them
To the birth
Of the clear
And pure
Idea.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The Energy
The thought of the flower,
Though unripe
Cannot be held back,
For the surge
Of magic
Invisibly
Pushes
And reaches
And strives
To be
Inexorably
And irrepressibly
Expressed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Siblings In Mind
For all of us
Who write
There is kinship
In the pen
And a pleasing
Camaraderie of spirit.
Yet such
Are the plethora
Of minds
That being this
Is like belonging
To a wide
And diverse continent.
The best
Is when understanding
Traverses time
And space,
And a bond
Of likeness
Joins
In selfness
Expressed:
Like looking in to the mirror
And seeing the real
Familiar
Of a brother
Or a sister,
Newly found.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
