Share The Light

I have drunk

From the standpipe

Of sour belief,

Constricted and miserly,

Gripping every drop

In an effort to control preciousness,

Becoming a gaunt shadow

Because of it,

For I am a man of this world.

Oh but the world urges to flow outward,

And the standpipe,

Rusty and dripping poverty,

Is but the mind’s eagerness

To hold love down.

For there are some

Whose eyes see beyond the standpipe

To the infinite source,

A waterfall

In which all need

Is foiled in an everlasting deluge.

And for others there is no standpipe

Denying the flow,

Only the mind

Constructing a fictional valve,

Dispensing injustice

And such a limited view.

For energy is free for all,

And you may drink your fill

Until you are full and wholesome

And ready to share

All the light in the world,

Knowing there is no end to it.

Being

Moving in the garden

My body is free

As new expectant air,

Mellow in the coming.

The push of bulbs

Rises through my limbs,

The sap called by the source

To come and become.

Is there better than being,

Just being?

The gnats know,

Ascribing their wisdom

In choreography

Written on the breeze

Where the afternoon is nothing

But a pale yellow light.

Prayer

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.

Future in Source

The future is warm
Ripe with possibility.

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What world could we conceive
If we held the hand of Source?
You’re right atheists
The dogma of religion doesn’t work,
It’s corrupted.
But Source is different,
Warmer, and emanating spectral energy
In wisps drawn ever down.
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What world could we conceive
In limitless energy?
What world
When all are infused,
Our hearts awash with love,
Our bodies safe
And our fears released
So the weapon in our hand
Becomes the relic
Of an age surpassed,
So we may rise
And be the sun
On the very first dawn,
As we begin again
To work the world
With our hands
That are clean of brutality,
Empty of hateful past,
Naked like the child
Who comes unfettered
And glowing whole
To our doorsteps.

Stumble Of Words

From the stumble of words
Comes the fall,
The pen stuttering,
Tripped,
Flung forward
Unnerved by the slip
And in-breath,
Drawn quick,
As the writing
First leaps
And then flies:
The body
Flailing in space,
Skipping
Like a heartbeat
Freed and alive.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2017

For All My Muses

Upon your mortal flesh
my eyes, excited to new seeing,
find windows
in which the script
unravels like quicksilver ink
heart-fast across the page,
and sees off
the mood mundane
written boring in to static fact
of joyless unbecoming,
and instead
thrills the moments in their chain,
and makes them
stones for stepping,
and feet, light for skipping,
as if life, after all,
were not ceaseless, aggravated toil
but flight, free upon the wing.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Muse

I do not know you
Though
For your eyes
And your mind
I pen
What thought and beauty
I can find
Right here.

And I wish it
Sent upon the wind
Or voyaged on promises kept
And letters sent,
A union conveyed
Upon a word,
Upon the thought,
Upon a sentiment,

One
That we might share
In mind
Of distant togetherness.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015