Untethered

I hold my opinion

As you hold yours:

A collection of ideas

Raised on the twists and turns of our lives:

Individually accrued

And shaped into a weave

That we wear like coat:

A personality,

An identity,

Who we are, perhaps?

Can you be loose

With the luggage of the self,

This weightless stuff

Made of weightless thoughts

And thoughts amalgamated into belief?

How real it appears

How solid it seems

As if the weightless thoughts

And invisible ideas

Made something tangible,

A thing, actually there in the world.

Better to be loose

With opinion.

Better to see it

As merely a point of view

Among eight billion,

No more or less valid

Than the next,

No more or less serious

Or stupid or laughable.

Better it drift off in the wind

Better it evaporate under sunshine

Better it be like a friendly shadow

Whom you love

Despite its ignorance.

Be free unimportant opinion

Who I held so close,

Be free

Here in me,

For I see you small

And light and fragrant

And harmless,

A nothing who might alight

My indifference

And flit there unworried,

Restful for being wholly untethered.

Heaven

We walk in heaven

Barefoot on the grass

Drinking dew-cool breaths

Or we dance on the burning pavement,

Our thoughts like shards of glass

Cutting us deeply.

Yet still we are heavenly set

Upon the earth,

Our gentle or angry mother,

Goddess or foe,

Living our lives in grace

And the freedom to choose

To make this world

A heaven or a hell.

Rest Awhile

Come thought,

Dogged and persistent,

Rest awhile,

For you have laboured

And toiled and tried

Yourself weary.

Rest awhile

For there is nothing

You can do,

Nothing you can improve

Or fix or even make right.

The world is as it is

And you are small,

A child in all of this.

Rest awhile

For the thoughts you think

Only momentarily eclipse

The love

That holds you in the world.

Rest awhile

And you will see,

You will feel,

All is well,

All is as it should be.

Happiness

The heart that is no heart,

Broken yet whole,

Fluid in the nothing,

Being in the free,

Disintegrated beyond particle

And solitude,

Blended and indistinct,

Dying and alive,

Timelessly destroyed,

Obliterated,

Overwhelmed

And pounded from existence

Into existence’s open arms,

Until nameless,

Until faceless,

Until placeless.

Stumble Of Words

From the stumble of words
Comes the fall,
The pen stuttering,
Tripped,
Flung forward
Unnerved by the slip
And in-breath,
Drawn quick,
As the writing
First leaps
And then flies:
The body
Flailing in space,
Skipping
Like a heartbeat
Freed and alive.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

For All My Muses

Upon your mortal flesh
my eyes, excited to new seeing,
find windows
in which the script
unravels like quicksilver ink
heart-fast across the page,
and sees off
the mood mundane
written boring in to static fact
of joyless unbecoming,
and instead
thrills the moments in their chain,
and makes them
stones for stepping,
and feet, light for skipping,
as if life, after all,
were not ceaseless, aggravated toil
but flight, free upon the wing.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Political Correctness

Somewhere in it
There is a buried truth
But we
Who blunder through
Find our free words
Banned and restricted,
A gag
Stuffed in the mouth
As if the messenger words
Were the evil
Rather than sentiment
Expressed
Or held in prohibition’s worse
And inward secrecy.

There is much merit
In an ideal
But not one forced,
And not one
Policed by strong arm law
Of uncertain thought
In stance
And put upon the voice,
That makes us speak
With a stuttery tongue,
Unsure of what can
And can’t be said.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

The End Of The Written Word

If voice
Were sky blue,
Without a word
To clutter the music,
Poetry would find
Its end
In ink’s redundancy,
The written word
Consigned
To beyond memory’s
Grasping hand.
Voice
Would become movement
Of soul through energy
And energy intern
Through the body of the man.
And happening
Would happen only in the instant
And not either side of now.
And thus time itself
Would wink from existence
And yet stretch out
In forever’s eternal flow.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Gifted – A Future

When prisons
Are lights
And birth places
Of the newly born.
Sanctuaries
For those in need,
The digressed children
Of the world,
Patterned and learned,
Patterned and learned.

Where time spent
Is rich maturation
In the loam
Of love.
Where all who leave
Are first made whole
And go,
Full of heart
Full of blood,
Gifted all
That they would steal,
Gifted all
That was withheld,
Gifted all
That they would need.

Gifted.
They leave gifted.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015