Sometimes
You just gotta unwind,
Slouch
In to the re-cline,
Slump
In comfort’s
Loosening ground:
Belly out
And legs astride
The sound of purring.
The whole body
Relaxed
Akimbo style
And feeling the feel
Of being
Feline’s true kind.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The wider blur
Of the near world
Is unimportant.
Only the vibration
Of prey, felt in quiver
Of struggle and entanglement
Is scope enough
For the leg
Intent on the sensory line.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
We argue
As to the flower’s
Divine conception
Or arrival through
Random chance.
Yet there it is
Manifest despite our thoughts,
Unarguably apparent
To the miracle
Of our eyes.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Like lights
Jeweling city sprawl
Below the sky borne plane,
Flowers
Are various
In their
Luminous display.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Nearly all
Are coaxed
To fall
And join
The swallowing ground
And its earthly convey.
Yet
Some things
Are still
Opening.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The door
To this staircase
Is made of gravity
The conundrum
Is written
In my reflective frown
Some days
Life just seems
Impossible.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
The soldier wears his face
Expressionless; his body
The unimpassioned tool
Of a government, his self
Hidden deep, but watching
Immobile, as the rolling news
Archives refugees in their movement.
White faces wear white masks
While the multitude are naked.
If you could see the lips speak
Behind the West’s veil,
You’d hear these words:
We don’t want your disease
Or your brown, unwashed skin
Unless sanitised in servitude:
A cocktail offered by a waiter
On a faraway beach –
Given to the money flushed king,
Sweating in the midday heat.
Don’t you know:
Migration is a one way valve
And impoverishment a birthright.
Remain in your grubby seat
For you are the brown child
In the white adult’s protectorate.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Now
With reluctant light
The wet earth
Breathes at last,
Breaks its dry fast
And puts
The eager tendril
Of must and spore rot,
Conveyed in shadow-damp,
To the dismantlement.
For what falls –
The withered leaf,
The stem, no longer turgid,
The petals browning,
– Mould will impregnate
And make an earthly scent
In season rich lament
And sad fermentation
Of soil and soul bound things
Untethered and unfettered
In their sinking sleep
And matters cool release
From forms previous.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
This poem
Has no point
But
For the pleasure
In the curvature of words
And the feeling of forms
So malleable
In the mouth.
Just writing it
Is beautiful elocution enough.
Speaking it
Is satisfyingly pointless.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Autumn begins
In the leaves’ metamorphosis:
Flames’ tongue
Scorching the green retreat.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
distilledvoice 