gift

In Your Subtle Magic

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

In your subtle magic

I feel the breeze of God

Blow fresh upon my face,

As though my heart were dipped in you

And open to receive

The gift of love

In its dreamy magnitude.

Oh, but this is just poetry

And the facts of your warm breath

Are the melting

In the melting,

The dissolution of the self

As one salt drop becomes the sea,

Where worry is made redundant

By the loving,

And fears

Are turned to whispered nothings,

And the heart reins full

And beautiful,

Seeing beyond the body’s boundaries,

Smiling upon the mind

And the thoughts

And the self importance,

Utterly disintegrated.

For You

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I would give you the warmth of my heart,

Let it out free

So we might sit

In the joy of togetherness,

Knowing that the warmth is neither you

Or me, being wholly unowned

And untouched by our mind’s dabbling.

I would give you the warmth of my heart,

To know the warmth of my heart

And because

This is how it was meant to be,

You and I friends,

Free in our being,

Happy because we are.

I would give you the warmth of my heart,

For the gift is ours

Only in its giving,

And I am tired of the old ways

Of a scant life attempted

In the absence of love.

Moss World Within The Gift

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In millennial silence
beings conceived at the very beginnings
unfold as they have timeless
known revolutions diurnal
and the cyclic swing of earth
in its year long voyage
in praise of wisdom
gifted by the star sol.

To know a billion years unaltered
and be in generation’s span
of always true to sun –
receiving the endless flow
of time’s nourishment
and the gracious matter
felt by every quivering leaf
as heat’s warm bosom
and light’s so gentle hand

– is first and only truth
within the kingdom
of father in heavens certainty.
To flourish is birthright
upon the world’s good earth;
and moss, guiltless in the whole,
takes its rightful place
among the children,
and thoughtless absorbs elation
as it was so lovingly sent.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Gifted – A Future

~ distilledvoice ~ Leave a comment

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