From Soil

February mizzle wets

The lights

Of snowdrop, crocus

And eager daffodil,

Soothes and lubricates

Their birth

Through soil

Mulched humus rich

And frangranced sweet

With spore’s mycelium.

To think,

Some slander this complexity,

Call it dirt and mud

Overlooking the quantum truth

Of gardeners’ gold,

Both foundation

And sustenance

For all.

The Two Lookings Of Me

Always, and first-off, I reach for mind,

Spewing story forward

Or back in time.

Invariably Imaginative,

I dwell in the colourful imagery

Of that dull and flat land,

Wishing for more,

Ever, ever more.

Later, I speak the words: “I am”

And feel the colourful future

Withdraw from absent lands,

While the past retreats into me,

Coalesces where I be,

Ever and always myself.

And here, the colour is love

Where fictions are impotent

And the warm smile of being

Dissolves all but itself.

The Path

In the ever present now

We find ourselves

Expanding

In knowing –

That we are infinite being

At the crisp edge

Of happening:

Becoming ourselves

In the unfolding of the universe.

And sometimes we forget,

Dawdle lazy

On the road

Of our making:

Obstacles scattered

By our own hand

That make the journey

Seem tiresome and long

And effortful.

And sometimes we remember

The ever present now,

And step inside ourselves

And the universe,

And the being

That we always were,

And see

We too are always infinite,

And the road

And its obstacles

Are but illusions

On an illusionary path.

Idea number one hundred and fifty-two: Hold Firm

The limited one

Who’s listened and learned

And thought

In all manner of spiralling pathways,

Listing reason, rejection, and facts

And one hundred and fifty failures,

Leading to failure

Number one hundred and fifty-one,

Says: you’re just not good enough.

And chatters, chatters, chatters on.

Yet, the one unlimited,

Says: speak

For your voice

Is a voice to be heard.

Go on always forward.

Write with the wind behind your pen,

Unleashing genius upon the page.

Let your life flow in ink

For the joy

Of ideas metamorphosed,

Ideas grasped from realms ethereal,

Buzzing alive in your head

And conducted

Into the matter of the book

That will be read

If you but put your whole mind behind

The creation of it,

Knowing the limited one

To be a friend enlisted,

His chatter a misused tool

Not a hindrance,

His ideas, gold,

If only directed,

His creative urge

Your own wand

Through which the magic unfolds,

Emboldening your life

And the script you must be

To be wholly yourself,

Holding firm to the pen that you love.

Awareness

When he speaks from Source

His heart is whole in his chest

And fears do not trouble his thoughts.

Even his troubles are untroublesome

For the Source holds all,

Sees all with beautiful clarity.

With time and memory absorbed,

There is but the now to behold,

A now of infinite plenty

Where he is alive,

Alive with innermost energy,

New as a universal birth.

When he speaks from Source

He stands at the expanding edge of the

Universe, singing the song he is,

Being none other than himself,

None but he who sees:

The very wellspring of reality.

Way Home

There is a scented trail

Waiting upon the breeze,

That, like a dog

You must follow.

For the scent is a smooth ribbon

Of being,

A substance made of love

That calls you by name

And feeds your every need

Until there is only wellbeing.

Kindness flows upon this cord,

Energy to hold your hand

And lead you to effortless life,

A voice breathing away your fears

And calling you to your self,

Your voice,

Calling you homeward bound.

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