The flower of my heart
Blooms on a stem
Of gossamer energy,
Upsurging from the world
Behind the world,
The space that is formless.
My heart smiles on me
As the heart behind the heart smiles,
As love comes
Like a river from the source:
Like a river from the source
Provided endlessly.
New air,
The first in the world
And light as spirit imbibed,
Holds the scent of morning.
And there is twittering
Of innumerable birds,
Joyous as the magnolia buds
In voluptuous opening.
For all things are expressing
Their being in timeless rebirth,
The song of spring
Once more alive.
With but a look
I am entranced,
Sucked inside the screen
And away
From my body,
Away from the world.
With but a look
I am inside the flurry of images,
And away from outward stimulus,
And for a moment
Or an hour
Or a day,
That physical place
I call the outside
Ceases to exist at all.
Lone cloud
In nothing but blue elation.
Copyright 2016 Ben Truesdale & distilledvoice
To the tight
To the tearless
To the dried
And desiccated
To the dead
Who still inhabit
I wish
The hot breath
Of Aslam
The gentle touch
Of Jesus Christ
The Buddha’s smile
Mohammad’s light
And the unsung strength
Of every mother
Who loved their child
And the fathers
Who stood
Strong and watchful.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Just saying the word
Is enough to quell
Its worrisome opposite.
You appear
To have swelled in breath
And buoyancy
Around the chest.
And more,
Your face is full
And your eyes
Are lit,
And your smile
Has spread
So a yellow sunrise
Wells
And the summer
Crests,
And you
Absorb
As much
As you reflect.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
For Mima
Lavender,
In silvery swathes
Of purple spires,
Marks midsummer
With every scented
Brush-past.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Sometimes I just want to write
something beautiful: to conjure the
mood, to call the feeling, to be the
beautiful pen as it translates the
energy of self and brings something
new to my world, and the wealth
found in being it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
She finds the dream
On spring days, in old villages,
In gardens and in flowers.
Something happens
As if reacting to the sun
For she shines like yellow petals
And smiles, her face upturned
And her eyes closed.
She absorbs
And then offers back her radiance.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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