I miss you
In the corner of my eye:
A shape in my periphery,
The you
Who dwelt
In the near regions
Of my world.
You have passed
Leaving
Just an echo
And a shadow
And a wound
Where the life
Once burned.
Your goneness
Is the distance between
My missing part
And the grip
Of my heart
That holds the past
Of you still being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sometimes
Just the simplicity
Of blue air
And the golden
Ripening in to it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When he manifest
He chose
A chestnut vest
And trousers
Laddered in hues
Of orange, yellow and black.
And for a hat,
He took the best
In finest elysium gold.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
In the purple world
Beetles congregate
To Perform
Minuscule ablutions,
Perhaps hold
Precise insect conversations,
Behave
As if they knew
Exactly what to do
With their lives.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Our paths
Seem so solid,
Yet with the seasons
Even the most meagre
Stone strewn soil
Grows vast
With fertile grasses,
And weeds
Rampantly colonising.
Our roads
Are temporarily cuts
In the swathes
Of verdant magic,
That will one day
Draw closed
To absorb our footprints
In the luscious gloom beneath,
As if the soil
Was never once
Touched or trodden
Or even impacted
By the swish
And speed
Of our passing by.
.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Sometimes
Things just burn
So vivid
With spectrum
Energy,
Almost more
Than the very light.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
There are worlds
Within the world
Spheres within spheres
Expressions expressing
Fractals in patterns
Again and again
More and more
In the deepening
In the depth
In the giving
In the breadth
In the repetition
Of real realness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
What is more important
Than summer swallows,
Blue on the wing
Hot on the lifting air
Fulfilled by rising insects
Swarming on scents
And invisible particulates:
The blooms of the sky
The language written hieroglyph
And aerodynamic,
And perfectly attuned
To being – – almost weightless?
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Just saying the word
Is enough to quell
Its worrisome opposite.
You appear
To have swelled in breath
And buoyancy
Around the chest.
And more,
Your face is full
And your eyes
Are lit,
And your smile
Has spread
So a yellow sunrise
Wells
And the summer
Crests,
And you
Absorb
As much
As you reflect.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
For Mima
And the mother said
You can turn on my earth
And in a trice
My children
Will be upon
The glistening clods
To do their colonising
And consoling work.
And you may desert
The plentiful place
And turn it bland
With monoculture,
Dampen
The flourishing
With chemical
And beings augmented
And superior
All the while
Dashing yourself down.
But I will love you nevertheless.
And you may
Stricken the fertile
And the life giving,
Blemish it,
Injure it
And put it
To dust
And stone
And I will scar
For your learned eye
And then turn beautiful
With rest
And time
Fallow and forgiving.
And you may
Use me
Like your own heart used
And cut me
As your own blood flows
And deny me
As your own
Loneliness is made
In the crucible of your intention
And I will love you still
And whole
And love you
As only the land,
In its richness can
For killing is not mine
Nor
My children’s
And as the world turns
I will be
As I have been;
The force
The spirit
The energy
The lick of love
The empty space
The possibility
The lift
Behind it all,
The reason
And creativity
Rolling on, and endlessly on.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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