In your work
I find mine
For my brush
Does seek
The peacock’s flush
And strut
And flares
The more
For your
Flouncing parade,
Your fan crowning,
Colourful display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
inspiration
High Thoughts
When high ideas
Condense
To reachable possibility.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In Her Butterfly Breath
In the air around
In her warm breath
In her aura.
In the space
That she owns,
Crossed by no other.
In her own land,
The country
Of her soul’s endeavour
There are butterflies
In swarms,
In every multicolour
And species creed.
They are
The myth of her lightness,
For on invisible strings
She is anchored
To every flutter
And delicate wingbeat,
And held aloft
As any lucky cloud
Is mystical
In the wind’s drift
And by the sky delivered.
It’s as if
They were part of her
And her body
Were just food stuff
On which the insects
Come to fill and feast:
Her heart
– A chalice –
Nectar deep,
The sweet centre
Of a spirit flower
That she is
In the ether-other
Beyond the solid and tangible
Regulations of the
World we live.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Why I Write
Because I am barren land:
And though
I can hold the pen,
I have but sand
In my hand,
For thoughts are angular
Without the yolk
Of the inner whisper.
And then
In the desert,
The sudden
Incomprehensible
Pale green shoot,
Come from nowhere,
Cracking the carapace
And shielded exterior,
Breaking ground.
And there,
Blood
To the lips
Of the stone
And all is shifted
To flows of liquid,
And the hand
Joins thoughts
And the leafs unfold,
Becoming one
In the curling letters
And the writing’s sound,
And the circular forms
Of life
Encountered
And rising
To the mind’s
Beautiful fore.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Night After Sunshine
I walk barefoot
And feel the sun’s memory
In kiss of warm concrete.
And then to the cool grass
To which I feel the earth’s body,
Lumpy and imperfect
But encompassing
The gentlest hug.
And there
I perceive personality
In night-sweet
And night-flush,
The scently gush of roses
Dripping the pollen of their love,
Feeding nocturnal bug and drab
Moth alike, just as butterflies of day’s
Light take their nourishment.
For the dark is full of giving
And the rose seeks no commitment
But gives
To all those wishing
To sip the nectar of its life,
Knowing them as equals
In the wholeness
Of the wholesome day and night.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Receiver Of Poems
I don’t know how to write poems.
I only know the place where they emerge,
As urges clothed in the form of words.
And there in a sacred place
I collect the words like ripe apples
Plucked straight from the tree:
Gifts I have neither planted nor tended,
Just simply received.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Much Like Lust
Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Nothing Much To Say
No urgent image
Comes to play
And mind rests still.
With a noise
It’s draw away,
Ventures to the ears:
A bee bumping
The concept
Of a window pane,
Shrill birds
Of the near distance
Whistling heartedly,
And the muffled knockings
Of a human town
In the morning of a Saturday.
I have nothing much to say
But keep listening
To the things
Inside of me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Freshly Pressed
Nothing as delicious
As the idea’s arrival
At the pen scratch
And nib of newly unfolded time.
Here is creativity
At its cutting edge.
New and fresh as dew
At risen light,
As momentary
And transitorily alive,
For a spell’s duration,
Before soon subsided
And dimmed by
Pristine light’s creation
And the joy of thoughts,
Freshly Pressed.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In The Muted Blues
In the muted blues
And metal greys
Of sea and skyscape ranging
Wide and windless rippled,
Purple flowers
Strew the tussock,
Guiding light footsteps
Through the hummock greens
To the ways of the coastal path.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 