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

Joy

Joy in the twittering birds

Alight the air,

The wingbeat uplifting;

A fleeting moment

Agrasp the twig in bud.

Joy in the first bees

Suddenly innumerable.

Joy in the fly

Sunning himself on the leaf,

Absorbing the nutrient

Of the sun.

Joy in the exuberance

Of every plant,

Plump on the moment.

Joy in the resonance

Of the wood pigeon’s throat,

The highlighting of treetops

And branching canopy.

Joy in the morning mist

Shrouding the distance,

Enrobing the far away

In a joyous dream.

Joy in the saxophone

Wafting from the neighbours garden.

Joy in the children’s voices

Lost in the their play.

Joy in the sound of a car

Thrumming up the hill.

Joy in the stink of cat shit

Enlivened by the warmth.

Joy in the body

And joy in the body of the world.

Joy in everything.

The Settling Dusk

In the slowing moments

Of the settling day

Where stillness nears its absolute,

The honeysuckle dusk

Blooms in windlessness,

Prickling the senses

Of moths.

This is dying:

The day spent,

The light away

Beyond the curvature of the world,

The night

Not yet begun.

There are sounds:

Birds chuckling in the canopies,

The swishing of cars,

A throttling motorbike,

But all belong

In the settling,

All are borne upon the air,

All are called

By the magnitude

To witness,

To witness a death

More alive than words

Could ever carry or convey.

Good Morning

The morning is sweet

With the bird’s high ether,

Trill, and as full

As their abandon.

The air is warm and fragrant,

Infiltrated with wood smoke

And the earth’s low savour.

In a faraway glance,

The distance fades in to mist.

The morning in the breath is sweet.

Sweet Spring Wonder

In the sweet spring wonder

The bud of my life opens,

Synchronised with the buds

Of the earth.

The air contains me

And the quivering bird,

Its heart broken open,

Broken into song.

Morning is beautiful,

Fresh as imbibed breath,

Acknowledged

As spirits subtle vapour.

The scent is the hawthorn

Of my childhood,

When I first saw,

When my eyes were first open.

I am here again,

Bathed in deliciousness,

Open mouthed

That I should be.

Lights Of March

 

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Softly treads March
Upon the sun-warmed earth:
A new green pallet
Strewn in daplings
Beneath trees
Still winter shod
But bearing
Blue sky and bud.
And Beneath:
A brief trumpeting
Of yellowness
Before the sky shades
With a canopy of leaf.

©Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

A Troop Of Goldfinch

A troop of goldfinch
Alight verbena,
Trapeze the bended stem
To plunder last year’s seeds
Now dry in the sheaf.

I recall last season’s butterflies
Tasting nectars,
Opening their sun drenched wing
Upon the purple heads,
And marvel now

At brotherliness:
Symbiosis motive in the world:
Investments dividend returned
In grateful harvests born
And born, and born again.

©A Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017