The Cottage Garden Calls


Something in the heart of the
gardener is drawn to create worlds
in patches of light and shade’s cool pools.
Something calls to make
billowing folds, pockets
and patchworks of flowers, floral
coverings and scented seas
for the lucky summer breeze.
Something calls for the bees and
their burrowing, smothering search
for bliss. Something calls. Something
calls. Something calls.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

As If The Brain

As if the brain
Could know the computations
Of the Universe:
The sum of all
Somehow divined.
The infinite equation
Of all things,
All actions,
All time,
And the web upon web of
Interactions between,
Somehow catalogued and counted!

This is control:
The thought of the petty tyrant.
The madness of the expert
Who pretends to know
But waits to to be dethroned.
The modern mind
Floating untethered from the
Grounded nuance
That to be human
Is to float untethered on love:
In the nothing that is everything,
In the space that is filled,
In the unknowing that is trust.

The complicated brain understands nothing.
Yet the simple heart knows it need only understand itself.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.