The Heart Sun

The sun gives

Without question,

Pulsing with energy

In an ever outward movement,

Gifting without requirement,

Being because it is.

And we, the myriad life

In all our forms

Receive this gift,

And dance

In light transformed,

Wholly containing it.

The inner sun,

The sun of our heart

Is not different

Or a photon less

Than its heavenly reflection

Benevolent beyond our sky.

The Writer’s Heart

The lusty heart
strains and fills to full,
pumps for the pen,
swells with the voice,
reaches through the hand’s device:
unburdens oratory cascade
in reams of white sheets impressed
with the ink of its desire to be,
and speak of what it feels
and finds upon the page.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Poem For Poets

The poet
Can risk exposure
Of the naked heart,
For his voice speaks
In dreams of magic,
And no closer words
Are so thinly clothed
Than in the music
Of his being
And the being of his life.

And so he must
Speak his truth
In the written word
And carve
From feelings felt,
Self portraits
Of metamorphosed art,
And tell
The world
Of his only life,
As only he can tell it.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.