The morning is fresh
Upon the dew soaked forms
Called to their greater love
In the body of the sun.
Everything is light
And as apparent as my condensing breath,
The world and my heart alive,
Brought by a transient glistening.
inspiration
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.
Instantaneous
When you see it,
It is there,
For your seeing is like the hand of God
Reaching out,
Touching the emptiness
And turning it golden and solid.
Hold the image in your mind’s eye
And it is done:
A thought
Realised in an instant,
Made in the moment,
In the very moment it was conceived.
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
Blue Mists Of Evening
The blue mists
Of evening’s closure
Blurs vistas
To dreams
And wending paths
Petering and smudged
Until the far hills
Clump with tree forms
To places adrift
White vapours
Plump with beginnings
And mystic spaces
In which only the shrill bird call
Punctuates.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
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
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