It is enough
That the poem is opened
In the writing of it
And the truth
Is found and understood.
It is more
If the poem is read
For the gap is breached
As souls touch
For the briefest, beautiful instant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
A spell of introversion has settled upon the land and humans are gardeners of the heart. Human needs are met in the home, being small and easily administered to. Happiness is the peoples’ occupation and time is their friend. Space is a fluid and is known to expand. No one really travels much because of the comfort of home: so many are artists and musicians. The world is a village. There are unnumbered country roads, beautiful grottos, silent places, sanctuaries of mind, laughter filled spaces. Nature abounds in colourful denominations of kind.
Each human mind is a node of abundance and creator of wonder. This is the world’s equality. No place is the same or even different. There are just endless wellsprings and outpourings of creativity. Much is manifest and much more is left to the imagination. Wholeness is thought important beyond other principles but no one speaks of such matters of fact, as fun’s subject is more pleasing and much more interesting than that.
Every day is richer than the last. Every day understanding widens. Every day appreciation warms and grows. Everyday the sun rises and allows all the wide open eyes to see the true reality of things.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Each time I Press
I take a step
And reach out
Far in to the mists
Of the unknown.
For Me it feels
As though the cutting edge
Of art arrives
And happens now
As I reach
In to the mists of mind
And bring back
All that I find there.
And then I Press again,
And wait.
And just like the mind
Beautiful things emerge,
Personalities materialise,
Worlds unfold,
And I realise
The myriad forms
The myriad souls
The myriad stars,
A billion hidden constellations
Out there,
Awaiting discovery.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
I reach out in to the right side of my
brain, two inches back and two inches
above my right eye. I look through
that lens and call what I find to my
tongue, where I roll the matter until
vowel like and three dimensional.
Somehow my heart coats the thing
with a feeling until I can almost taste
the roundness of spoken word.
It lives for a moment in the excited
now until I cast it to the paper of the
page where, in ink, it lies back down
like a photograph or a pressed
flower’s two dimensional memory.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
distilledvoice 