Mood Of Flowers

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A mood of flowers
Blooms upon the village
As if an agreement
Had been drafted
Between last years seeds
And every verge
Offering to couch botanic.
And ever crevice
Containing a crumb of soil
Or even a puff of dust
Lends its dampness
To root indulgence florid,
Borrowing mid-day heat
Radiated from old stone walls.

And the gardens?
Well, they have burst their borders
And splurged to soften
The corners of the village
With lilac drifts
And wisteria trained to show
The fullness of a May day.
And iris tongues
Loll and flounce
And poppies are prominent
Atop the walls,
And all the other
Bells and beauties
Claim the air with scent
And the space
With perennial buttresses
Of stalks and spikes
And overarching species,
Daubing brickwork
With exuberant flourishes
Like the flair of the artist’s mood.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

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

 

Southern French Village

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The boulangerie
Opens its sleepy eye
To the bird tweeting village
And looks upon
A once neat boulevard
Aged to a trunk lumpy
Old woman, clucking
Pleasantries as she ambles
With white crusty bread
To her shutter clad dwelling
Limp on its hinges
But crookedly beautiful
With time.

Her garden is put to work:
A crop of gnarled tomatoes
Fruiting in pastel lanterns,
Grapes yellowing
And freckled on the vine
And a font
Where honey oozes
Through the faucets
Of voluptuous figs,
Loosened and falling
As purses unclasped
And relaxing
Amid the gravel
In which herbs muster volatile
In air sweetened
To Provençal notes
And excited to fragrance
By a brush past
Or even the sun
Hot in the radiating stones.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The Dream Of The Balancelle

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En Francais
Il es une balancelle

In English
A swinging chair

Hung in the languid air
Shaded by the rustling oaks

And caressed
By a honeyed breeze

In to which
The birds twitter

So the mind
Is temperate

As the perfect afternoon
And thoughts

Are spaced
As the young apple

And the quince tree
In the orchard

And time
Is the lolling arm

Let loose
From a snooze

And the comfortable rocking,
Gently to and fro,

Dans le reve
De la balancelle.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015