god

Endlessly Refreshing

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The air in me

Is not mine.

The bone and the flesh,

And deeper defined –

The vessels, the nerves, the cells,

And deeper still – the molecules bound,

Are not me or mine,

But companions

In a movement of time.

Am I the river, a stream?

Am I the wind,

Am I the rain?

Together we are something

And nothing.

But alive is

This dance of form expressing,

Unfolding, degrading, re-expressing,

For this world is but a wondrous garment,

Worn and tore down

Worn and torn down

Worn and torn down,

Endlessly refreshing.

The Warmth

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Bathe in the warm sea

Of universal light,

For it is near,

As near as your body.

You can reach for it,

Ask for it to warm your heart,

For it is as close to you

As your famished thoughts.

You can have it.

It is yours and always was,

You just turned away

For the briefest everlasting moment.

Prayer

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I wish plenty on my enemy.

I wish him the whole world.

I wish him strength

And vitality,

Happy times,

Fulfilment of his desires

And speed in their unfold

So he does not wait or want

Or hunger or thirst.

I wish plenty on my enemy

And that he finds love in his heart

For friends and family,

For his beautiful children,

And all the folk

In his immediate familiarity.

I wish him warmth

So he might sit comfortable

Within his body,

His mind dipping

In the infinite flow of love,

His cells infused

With wealth

And wonder at it all;

His mind wishing plenty upon his enemy.

Multiverse

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Some peer for heaven’s star-load,
Grappling with infinite mathematics
And paradox strewn colourful
Beyond the impossible reach of the mind.

And yet others peer close as home
And find the universe layered
In unending planes, thick with reality
In which life forms inhabit.

To look is to exclude the rest,
Understanding found in the narrowing
Of the pin point eye, alive on the observed
But unconscious of other and else.

What dwells where we cannot see,
Where our minds have yet to examine,
Where are backs are turned
And worlds are yet to be seen?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Worship

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It’s as if the spirit,
Pale green and new,

Brushed our realm
For the briefest instant,

Igniting the cool magnitude
Wrapped in guts of plants

So all are suddenly aware
And blinking and charged

And rolling on in lattices
And internal xylem flows,

Abandoned to their task
To raise the sexual forms

Of flowers in to the high air,
Burgeoning with all the winged

Busyness and assistance
Brought by the sun’s worship.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Myths Of Zealots

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

In the myth of science
there are all the beautiful stories
you could ever wish to contrive.

In the religion of science
there are the stiffly clasped
doctrines of zealots.

In the science of science
there are symbols, and arguments
over the meanings of things.

But we are still the people
as we were the people before,
hearing fragments and rumours,

pasting them in to the pastiche
of our fears, our dreams
and the myths we’ve believed.

Yet another relentless turn of the age
sees misunderstandings told,
preached as the truth,

our power deflected from self
and put to Gods of numbers
and statistics, pushed away

from the heart’s human yolk
that weeps to discern truth
from confusion’s intellectual maelstrom.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Magus

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We are world
of lost magicians,
forgetting
the alchemy of our hands.
But look at the gardener
who with wands for fingers
summons the sweet ethers
of seasons
and coaxes lush forms
from the fine architecture
of mind, planting ideas
in soil’s enchantment
under the sun’s command.
Is he not creator above and beyond,
shaping reality to match
the deep archetypes
of his green heart’s desires:
a God, as any on high,
for in perpetuity he reins
among the beauty
of his earth bound legumes
and gifts of highfalutin flowers?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

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

Drift Dive On A Coral Wall

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A fan worm spreads out its feathery tentacles to collect the plentiful nutrient.

Coral polyps reach in to the current
and grab minuscule particles, while in symbiosis with the sun, they feel green algal blood oxygenate their livelihood.

Palatial sponges sift and gulp
vast quantities of the plankton soup.

Encrusting species cling to every
projection, cliff face and under hang, ever tasting blue movement.

Flecks of fish in sinosoidal pulse
weave and dance on the constant
flow, and shoal in bodies of mirroring.

Anemones and soft corals loose in
the waft, put up their ploom and
await sustenance borne upon the
liquid conveyor.

And more fish flutter in plethora of
colour and swim like May cherry petals fall.

One might infer trust, if a thought
were at all buoyant on the coral wall but thoughts aren’t currency
underwater, and to think is to divide from the source of it all. Yet the coral wall endures as ever it has. And millimetre coral growth spans perfect meters in a statement of enrichment sustained.

Only man conceptualises a synario in opposition to what the corals and the fish simply know.

 

copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice